The Story of Don Quixote
by Arvid Paulson, Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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Don Quixote let Sancho have his way; and when they had seen the caravan of mountebanks disappear, Sancho was happy in the thought that he had averted a great calamity for himself and his master.



They passed that night under some cork-trees, and while they were eating their supper, Sancho as usual became talkative and again gave proof of his chronic weakness for proverbs. Every phrase abounded with them. As ever, he would use them to fit the wrong case, or twist them so as to fit what he wanted them to fit. Don Quixote had to laugh at his squire's simplicity, and at the way he tried to imitate his master's manner of speaking. His words and expressions were indeed a strange mixture. One moment he would use the most abominable grammar and the next he would borrow the language of Don Quixote, repeating in stilted fashion the polite phrases he had heard Don Quixote use in his flowery discourses on knighthood and chivalry.

Soon after they had fallen asleep, Don Quixote was awakened by the sound of men's voices. He quickly rose, curious and anxious to learn who the disturbers were, and was amazed to behold a real knight, clad in full armor, dismount from his horse, while speaking words that indicated he was lovesick and in despair. Don Quixote hastened to call Sancho, who awoke to the tune of a love sonnet sung by the strange knight, and was as startled as his master had been, though, perhaps, not greatly thrilled at this promise of a new adventure in the middle of the night.

But if Don Quixote was surprised when he was awakened, what was his amazement when he suddenly heard such words as these: "O fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! Can it be possible, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? Is it not enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, the Leonese, the Tartesians, and the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La Mancha to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?"

Don Quixote took exception to this last statement in silence, knowing that his chance to correct it was at no great distance. But Sancho soon gave himself and his master away to the Knight of the Grove by becoming too talkative, and they were hailed by the knight, who greeted them in the most courteous manner, when he learned who they were.

The two knights errant soon were engaged in a friendly conversation, which Sancho could not restrain himself from breaking into; but the Knight of the Grove was quick to reprimand him, saying he never permitted his squire to open his mouth. Whereupon Sancho persuaded himself and the squire of the Grove to remove to a spot where they could talk between themselves without being overheard by their superiors, and where they might be undisturbed by any yoke of knighthood etiquette.



The two squires drank and talked most of the night, bemoaning the fate of squires in general. Before they finally fell asleep, the squire of the Grove suggested that, since they both were tired of knight-errantry, they give up the life. To this Sancho replied that he would remain in his master's service until he arrived at Saragossa, when he might decide to leave him.

In the meantime the two knights also were exchanging confidences; and the Knight of the Grove told Don Quixote of all the great and famous errants he had conquered in single combat. Don Quixote was all ear, but nearly gasped for breath when he heard the knight say that he had vanquished the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, and had made him confess that his own Casildea was more beautiful by far than the La Mancha knight's Dulcinea. Don Quixote suppressed a scornful smile that threatened to betray him, and controlled the feelings that the boasting errant's words provoked, while wondering at the braggart's audacity. He slyly expressed a doubt, however, that the valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha had let himself be vanquished by any living being. The Knight of the Grove then gave a description of Don Quixote which in every detail fitted him.

That drew Don Quixote out of his originally assumed indifference. He told the knight that he himself was no other than that famed and illustrious errant, and declared that any other one that had appeared as Don Quixote, must have been some enchanter who had disguised himself to resemble him, in order to defraud him of the honor that was rightly due to him. Then he proceeded to tell the knight how his enemy had transformed the Lady Dulcinea, and challenged the Knight of the Grove to single combat if he dared to question what Don Quixote maintained to be the truth.

To this challenge the Knight of the Grove retorted that since he had once vanquished the semblance of Don Quixote, he would now welcome the opportunity of meeting him in combat in his own proper shape. Being a cautious and cold-blooded knight, however, he suggested to Don Quixote that they should rest until the morning, when the mighty struggle could ensue in the light of day. It was further agreed that the vanquished knight should place himself at the command of the victor, to fulfill any desire of his within the bounds of chivalry.

Each one was eager to inform his own squire of what the morning was to behold, so they awoke Sancho and the squire of the Grove and told them. Sancho was scared that his master might not be the gainer, for the squire of the Grove had been feeding him with stories of his master's conquests all that night until they had fallen asleep, drunk with wine.

The squires went to get the horses ready, and on the way Sancho was aghast to learn that he would have to fight the friendly squire of the Grove in cold blood, this squire maintaining that such was a rule among knights errant. Sancho said he would rather give two pounds of wax to the church than fight with him; furthermore, he said, he could not, for he had no sword, and never had had one. Whereupon the friendly squire told him that did not matter, and proceeded to make ready two linen bags, both of the same size, saying they could fight their duel in this fashion. This was most pleasing to Sancho, until he perceived the other squire filling the bags with pebbles, when he remonstrated, saying he thought their masters could settle the whole affair without their interference. But his friend the squire insisted that they fight, even if it should be only for half an hour, and offered—if he should have any difficulty in rousing himself to the occasion—to give Sancho a few cudgels and whacks to act as an inspiration.

By this time it was beginning to dawn, and Sancho was watching the sunrise. As he looked around, the first object that he saw the sunrays strike was the nose of the squire of the Grove, protruding out of the opened visor of his helmet. It was an object so fearful to look at that Sancho Panza was paralyzed with fright. The nose was so large it seemed uncanny. It was covered with warts and was bent at a tremendous angle, and it hung down way beneath his chin, while its color was that of an eggplant. It was a face so horrible and ugly to look at that Sancho's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. He acted as if he were about to have convulsions, for he began to tremble from head to foot. When Don Quixote beheld the squire's countenance, even he began to show signs of feebleness, but his bravery overcame his fears. He shrugged his shoulders as if shaking off an evil spirit, and was ready for the combat with his adversary.

Before the battle began, Sancho pleaded with his master to help him up into a tree; so afraid was he of this monstrous squire with the awful nose. But while Don Quixote was hoisting his faithful one up into a cork-tree, he suddenly heard the knight approach on his steed behind him, and not knowing whether it was squire or master, and being subconsciously afraid of the nose, one blow of which might have felled him, it seemed, he turned around and made straight for the knight.

The facts were that this gentleman was trying to limber up the joints of his charger—a hack of the same caliber as Rocinante—and was just taking his horse on a tour of exercise, making him skip hither and thither, wherever his master's agonized spurring would carry him. Each time he would land heavily on his stiff legs, and it was when Don Quixote suddenly heard the sound of such a landing behind him that he turned. But by the time Rocinante had completed the turn, which was a movement of much contemplation and hesitation on his part, the back of the Knight of the Grove shone in the distance. Charging by sound and instinct rather than by sight, not seeing whether the knight was coming or going, Don Quixote set upon him with such blind fury that with one thrust of his lance he sent the bespangled gentleman flying out of his saddle, so that he fell flat on the ground, seemingly dead.

Now, when Sancho saw what an auspicious beginning and ending the adventure had had for his master, he heaved a sigh of relief and contentment and climbed down from his tree, approaching the lifeless monster with caution and superstitious awe. But he had taken only one look into his face, when he began to cross himself with so many motions and contortions that Don Quixote thought his squire had gone insane. Turning to his master, who had been contemplating his victory with pride from the back of Rocinante, Sancho begged him to thrust his sword into the mouth of his vanquished foe. Scarcely had he made this suggestion before Don Quixote drew his sword and advanced to carry it out, when the squire of the Grove, now minus the drooping nose, ran forward, wildly exclaiming: "Mind what you are about to do, Senor Don Quixote! That is your friend the bachelor, Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet, and I am his squire!"

"And the nose?" Sancho broke in, unable to restrain his amazed senses.

"I have it here in my pocket," answered the squire of the Grove, as he pulled out and showed him a false nose of immense proportions.

Whereupon Sancho eyed the squire more carefully, and suddenly cried out: "Holy Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tom Cecial, my neighbor and gossip!"

And Tom was only too glad to confess that he was.

At this very moment the bachelor returned from the dead, and when Don Quixote saw him open his eyes, he pointed his sword at his face and swore that the Knight of the Mirrors—thus he called the Knight of the Grove because of his shining regalia—would be a dead man if he did not pronounce the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso the most beautiful woman in the world. Furthermore, he demanded that he swear to present himself before the Peerless One in the city of El Toboso, that she might deal out judgment upon him. Having been dealt with by her, the Knight of the Grove was to return to inform him of the punishment, giving a full account of what had passed between them.

The fallen Samson gladly confessed to everything, including his belief in the true identity of his conqueror. He felt an urgent need for medicine and plaster, and he and his squire departed quickly to seek such aid in the nearest village, while Don Quixote and Sancho took the road which lead to Saragossa.



As Don Quixote was bumping along on his lean Rocinante, he was dreaming of the return of the Knight of the Mirrors, who would bring him word about his beloved one. He was anxious to know whether she was still enchanted. Then he thought of the great victory he had won over this bold knight, and it was perhaps only pardonable if it aroused some conceit in his breast.

But while Don Quixote was contemplating thus, the bachelor-knight kept bemoaning the fate he had brought upon himself. He had dubbed himself Knight at his own instigation, for the kindly and unselfish purpose of unseating and vanquishing Don Quixote in battle, thinking, of course, that that would be an easy matter to accomplish. It was for good reasons he had proposed that the vanquished one should place himself at the disposal of the victor. The bachelor, the curate, and the barber had conferred after Don Quixote's departure as to what to do, and when the bachelor Samson offered to go crusading and to bring back Don Quixote, the two gossips were pleased beyond words. A neighbor of Sancho's, Tom Cecial by name, was induced to become the squire of the knight Samson.

Both knight and squire were now contemplating in a sorry mood the disastrous outcome of their encounter with the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. As they were staggering along on their decrepit mounts, the squire summed up the thoughts of his master Samson in this question: "I'd like to know now which is the madder, he who is so because he can not help it, or he who is so of his own choice?"

While the learned bachelor was thoroughly in accord with the good reason for asking such a question, he could not at the same time help acknowledging the fact that the thrashing he had received was paining him. The desire he had had when he started out looking for Don Quixote—to bring him back to his home and his wits—was now changed into a wild inner cry for revenge.

At last some of the physical agony of the Knight of the Mirrors was stilled by a quack, whom they found in a town along the road. Tom Cecial, the squire for a day and a night, had been cured of knight-errantry and returned to his less venturesome occupation in his La Mancha village; but the thoughts of evilness would not leave his master, who stayed behind, bent on having his revenge.



While Don Quixote was contemplating his own greatness as a reviver of knight-errantry, the monstrous nose of the squire kept coming before Sancho in his fancies. When he told his master, Don Quixote asked him whether he ever for a moment doubted that the knight of the Mirrors and his squire were anything but enchanted and made to appear like the two village friends of theirs. The idea that Samson, who was such a devoted friend of his, should be envious of his deeds in battle and have wanted to steal away honors from him as a knight, was too absurd; and with this he dismissed the subject.

While they were discussing these matters and the enchantment of the Lady Dulcinea, they were passed by a gentleman on horseback, and Don Quixote called to him and asked him politely whether he would not join company with them. The traveler accepted the knight's invitation, and both were soon scrutinizing each other. The gentleman, a man about fifty years of age, with handsome features, wondered at the strange appearance of Don Quixote; and when our knight saw his wonder, he told him why he was so attired and what he had set out to accomplish in the world. This confession drew forth still more astonishment on the gentleman's countenance, but he finally found words to ask whether he could really believe his own ears, for he had thought knight-errantry extinct. It was not long, however, before he realized that he was talking to a madman; and then Sancho Panza came under his observation, and he was deemed a simpleton.

Don Quixote had asked the newcomer's name, and learned it was Don Diego de Miranda; and then the knight was curious to know what he did with his life. Whereupon Don Diego proceeded to tell his fellow-travelers of his tame and godly life in the country with his wife and children; and he pronounced in the course of his description some very beautiful thoughts and principles, which so took Sancho's fancy that he jumped off Dapple, embraced the gentleman's leg, and began to kiss his feet in the most passionate and ardent way.

Astonished, the good gentleman inquired what all this display meant; and Sancho begged of him between his transports: "Let me kiss, for I think your Worship is the first saint in the saddle I ever saw!"

Of course, the gentleman confessed his sinfulness to Sancho, who refused to change his opinion, in spite of his master's honest laughter. Then the gentleman told Don Quixote about his great pride, his son, who was eighteen years old, had been a student at Salamanca, and wrote divine poems. This immediately inspired Don Quixote to a discourse on poetry, in which he dwelt on the dishonor of commercializing this great gift of the gods. He finished his speech with the advice to Don Diego that he bring up his son to write discourses in which all vice was flayed and all sin chided and rebuked. Above all, he said, a poet must never let envy or personal grudge and hatred guide his pen. When the traveler heard Don Quixote speak in so wise and discerning manner, he was aghast; and he was entirely at a loss to know how to judge him. He was inclined to think that what he had taken for madness in him was nothing but eccentricity.

But while Don Quixote was discoursing on poetry, Sancho, on seeing some shepherds, had fled to beg some ewe milk of them. When his master had finished his discourse, and the gentleman was silently considering his madness, Sancho suddenly heard himself called to battle. Having in his possession his master's helmet, he spurred his donkey to further increase his efforts toward speed, and when he reached the valiant knight, he discovered the reason for the call: a cart bedecked with royal flags approaching on the road.



When Sancho was summoned by his master, he had just bought some curds from the goatherd, and not knowing what to do with them at such a moment, he hastily deposited them in his master's helmet. The first thing Don Quixote did when Sancho had caught up with him, was to snatch the helmet from him, exclaiming that he had to make ready for what promised to be an exciting adventure; while all Sancho could see was the cart with the royal flags, probably carrying some treasure of the kings. As Sancho stood watching the cart, Don Quixote resolutely put on the helmet, which he proceeded to press down on his head in order to make it sit fast; but as he did so, the curds were squeezed, and the whey began to run down over his face, so that Don Quixote imagined that he had been taken with softening of the brain.

Sancho said nothing but gave his master something to wipe his face with, and Don Quixote muttered that if this was sweat he was certain it was going to be a horrible adventure. As he was drying his face, he took off his helmet, and when he smelled the curds he turned to Sancho in great perturbation and accused him of having put them there, calling him a traitor and a scoundrel, and threatening to thrash him. But Sancho eyed his master innocently, and blamed it all on the devil or some enchanter, saying that his master might know that if he had had curds, he would have put them in his stomach and not in his master's helmet.

This was a convincing argument to the knight, who now busied himself with the cart, which had nearly reached them. He called out to the driver and a man on mule-back, who were the only attendants: "Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?"

The man on the mule answered that the cart was his, that he was transporting a pair of enormous lions as a present from the Governor of Oran to His Majesty the King; that the flags were those of the King, and that therefore the property was royal property. He added that the lions were hungry, since they had not eaten anything that day, and that he was in great haste to reach a place where he could feed them.

Here Don Quixote smiled a scornful, superior smile, and calmly told the keeper of the lions to open the cages and let out the beasts that they might learn who the courageous Don Quixote of La Mancha might be. When Sancho heard how mad his master was, he turned in sickly fear to the traveling gentleman and begged him for God's sake to keep his master from having a combat with the lions. The gentleman asked Sancho whether he thought his master would really be so foolish as to do such a thing; and Sancho's firm and emphatic reply made the gentleman hasten to the knight's side in an attempt to reason with him. He was promptly reprimanded by Don Quixote, however, who told him sharply to mind his own business, and then threatened to pin the keeper to the cart with his lance if he did not open the cages and chase out the lions at once.

There was an indescribable consternation and confusion. The driver pleaded with Don Quixote on his knees, and when they all saw that he was determined to meet with the lions in combat, they began to pick up their belongings and run away into safety. Sancho and the gentleman made still another attempt to bring him to his senses, but all their pleas were in vain. Sancho left his master with the tears falling down his cheeks, and Don Quixote ordered the gentleman to speed away on his flea-bitten mare as fast as he could, if he was afraid to be bitten by the lions.

Then Don Quixote decided it might be better to fight on foot, as he was afraid that his Rocinante might be frightened on seeing the beasts; so, sword in hand, he bravely advanced towards the cage. The keeper timidly opened the doors of the first cage, and a male lion of tremendous size, stretching himself leisurely, put his claws through the opening; then he yawned sleepily, and after some deliberation began to lick his eyes and face with his long, fierce tongue. Having thus washed his dirty face, he put his head out of the cage and stood gazing into space with a ferocious look in his eyes, which resembled glowing coals. Not even seeming surprised at the sight of the valiant knight, he then had the audacity to turn his back on our hero, and calmly and proudly lay down, with his hindquarters under Don Quixote's very nose.

Such unheard-of scorn angered the knight, who commanded the keeper to take a stick and poke the beast out of the cage; but here he met with unyielding obstinacy, for this the man refused to do under any circumstances, saying that the first one to be chewed to pieces, if he did that, would be himself. Then he began to praise and flatter Don Quixote's courage which, he said, by this feat had been unequaled in the world. His adversary the lion, he said, had proven by his very action that he considered Don Quixote a superior foe; and when the keeper promised to give Don Quixote a certificate to the effect that the lion had been challenged in true knight errant fashion and refused to give battle, Don Quixote was soothed, and bade the keeper shut the doors to the cage and recall the fugitives that they might hear from the keeper's lips the true account of his remarkable achievement.

The first thing Don Quixote did when Sancho had joined him was to order him to give two gold crowns to the driver and the keeper for lost time; but before Sancho carried out his master's command he was anxious to know whether the lions were dead or alive. Whereupon the keeper related how the valiant knight had single handed dared the lions to come out of their cage, and how they meekly and cowardly had refused at the sight of so bold a warrior; and he embellished his story with numerous little details—in anticipation of the gold crown—and added that when he returned to Madrid he would not fail to inform the King of his marvelous exploit.

When Don Quixote heard this, his heart beat faster, and he told the keeper that if the King should happen to ask who performed this great deed, to say it was the Knight of the Lions, since he had decided to adopt this name hereafter.

So the cart proceeded toward the capital, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveling gentleman went their way. Don Diego bade them make haste that they might reach his village before nightfall, and he asked Don Quixote to spend the night at his house and rest after his exertions—an invitation that the knight accepted with profuse thanks.



The Knight of the Green Coat—which was the name Don Quixote had conferred on his host—reached his house in the afternoon, and he was welcomed home by his wife and son, who could not help staring in amazement at the strange figure Don Quixote presented. The latter advanced to the wife and kissed her virtuously on the hand, after having first asked her permission; and she received him courteously, as did the son also. Then he was escorted into the house, and Sancho helped him to remove his armor and to wash him clean of the curds, which had run down his face and his neck. This being done, Don Quixote joined father and son in another room.

It was not long before Don Lorenzo, the young son, was perplexed by the knight's behavior and conversation, and at his first opportunity he confided this perplexity to his father. Don Diego told him that he himself was at his wit's end, for he had heard him speak as sensibly as he ever heard any man speak; then again, he said, he had seen him perform the most unbelievable acts of madness. Don Lorenzo again engaged in conversation with Don Quixote, who told the young man that he had already learned from his father of his great talents as a poet. The youth modestly disclaimed being entitled to be called a great poet; and the absence of conceit in one of this calling pleased the knight greatly. And he went on, discoursing on matters pertaining to education, on universities, and degrees, and his opinions seemed to Don Lorenzo so authoritative and advanced that he was at a loss to know what to conclude, until Don Quixote suddenly began to talk about the science of knight-errantry, which he maintained surpassed all other sciences.

Don Lorenzo interrupted, of course, saying that he had never heard of any such science; he had read books of chivalry but had never believed that any knights had existed, he said. When Don Quixote heard the youth speak such blasphemy, he prayed that heaven should deliver him from his false illusions as to the existence of knight-errantry! Just then dinner was served.

While they were eating, Don Quixote asked Don Lorenzo to repeat some of his verses to him, and the youth read some of his glosses and sonnets. Don Quixote was extremely impressed with them, and he praised the youth's rare gift in eloquent language. This praise—although he knew it to come from a madman—so pleased Don Lorenzo's father that he begged Don Quixote to remain; and for four days the knight was entertained by Don Diego.

Then Don Quixote felt it his duty to break away from luxury and idleness in order to live up to the laws of knight-errantry, Sancho left with a sigh, and a tear in his eye, for never in his life had he lived so well. However, he saw to it that he was well provisioned before they departed. Don Quixote was anxious to see the poet turn knight-errant, he said, but since his parents no doubt would not permit him to give up his chosen work he thought it best not to attempt to sway them in their convictions. And so he and his squire took leave with many courtesies, while Don Diego and his family were pitying the poor demented knight in their hearts and still were wondering at his nonsense.



They had traveled but a short time when they met some students and peasants on mule-back, and since they were going in the same direction Don Quixote offered them his protection if they would only make the pace of their young mules conform with that of his steed and Dapple. They agreed to do so, and it was not long ere the Knight of the Lions had introduced himself to his companions, and told them of his revival. The students were quick to perceive that he was demented; but not so the peasants, who could make neither head nor tail of what he said, and ascribed this to their own ignorance.

The students invited the knight to come with them to a wedding-feast, and immediately he asked which prince was to be married without his knowing it. The students informed him that it was not any prince's wedding, but that of a rich farmer by the name of Camacho, who was marrying the fair Quiteria, daughter of a rich man in their neighborhood. Quiteria, they said, was in love with one Basilio, a poor young shepherd, whom her father had sent away in anger from his house, forbidding him ever to see his daughter again. As a result of this banishment and his being separated from his love, he had now gone mad.

Don Quixote, having listened attentively to the students' story, began a discourse on love and marriage. Now and then Sancho interrupted him with strings of proverbs; this would infuriate his master by making him deviate from his subject. Finally Don Quixote retaliated by attacking and criticising Sancho's language, which he said was atrocious.

Soon their arguments were taken up by the students. One of them stood by Sancho; the other one took Don Quixote's point of view. Having once been involved, they argued first on one subject, then on another, until at last foils and the art of fencing became the subject. It so happened that one of them was carrying his foils with him, and he suggested that they settle their argument then and there. They did so under Don Quixote's chivalrous supervision, and when the engagement had come to an end, the one who had challenged was so worn and torn that Sancho felt sorry for him and went over to console him; at the same time he felt it his duty to advise him never again to fence, although he did not advise him against wrestling or throwing the bar, for he was strong enough for that, he thought. Whereupon the challenger rose and embraced his adversary, and after that they were better friends than ever.

They pursued their journey, and before long it grew dark. Soon afterwards they heard the musicians at the wedding, and saw the preparations that were being made for it. Here Don Quixote took leave of the students and the peasants, saying that being a knight-errant, he was obliged to give up the comfort of a bed, and would go to sleep in the woods or some lonely field. They did their best to persuade him to accept their hospitality—aided and abetted by the comfort-loving Sancho—but all remonstrances were in vain, much to Sancho's regret.



Sancho was still snoring when his master was up and awake the next morning. After having soliloquized at length before the sleeping squire, he awoke him by ticking him with his lance. Sancho smelled the preparations for the wedding-feast, and at once was wide awake. His master asked him to hasten and come along, and they set off on their mounts and soon arrived at the place where the wedding was to be celebrated. They found there an arcade erected and through this they entered. There was being cooked and prepared enough food to feed every one in town, and when Sancho saw all the good things, his mouth began to water, and he could hardly control himself. As a matter of fact, he soon succumbed to his temptations and he did not have to beg twice, for the cooks told him that this was a day on which no one was to go hungry, that being the wish of the rich Camacho, and they even told him to keep the spoon. So Sancho skimmed all the pots to his heart's content.

Soon the musicians and dancers arrived, and these performed an allegorical dance and play, but nothing interested Sancho as much as the skimmings, to which he returned after having finished an argument with his master about the relative qualities of Camacho the Rich and the poor Basilio; Camacho being the better provider, Sancho was decidedly in favor of him.



Sancho was still eating when suddenly loud exclamations and shouts were heard; and when he and Don Quixote looked to see what was the matter, they found that the bride and the bridegroom, accompanied by the priest and their relatives, were entering the arcade. They proceeded to a platform, on which they took places, and all noticed that the bride looked very pale. Scarcely had the bridal party seated themselves, when a voice was heard from behind them, calling out: "Wait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty!"

All turned and perceived Basilio, poorly clad, with a crown of cypress on his head, and carrying a staff in his hand. The staff had a sharp end, and this he buried deep in the ground; then, pale and trembling, he turned to the fair Quiteria and accused her of marrying Camacho because of his wealth, though she knew she loved no one but himself, Basilio, who was poor, and, therefore, helpless. As he nevertheless wished them happiness, he would now remove the last obstacle to this end.

So saying, Basilio pulled from the staff he carried and which served as a sheath, a rapier, upon which in another instant he had thrown himself. There he lay on the ground, bleeding profusely, the point of the blade appearing through his back, when his many friends came running to give him aid. Don Quixote lifted up his head, and they found that he was still breathing. Some one suggested that they pull out the blade, but the priest warned them not to do that before the poor man had been given the sacrament, as the moment the rapier was removed, death would follow.

Just then Basilio was heard to say in a weak voice that if he could only be joined to his beloved one, he would die happy. The priest cautioned him to think of his soul rather than of his body in these last moments of his, but Basilio interrupted him stubbornly and said he would not confess until this had been done. When Don Quixote heard the dying man implore the priest to carry out his wish, he, too, besought him, and added that under the circumstances Senor Camacho could have nothing against marrying a widow of a man who had died so gallantly and honorably as Basilio. Camacho heard all this, and when Basilio's friends at the same time entreated him to think of the poor man's soul, he consented; and as Quiteria, too, was compassionate, the priest united them as man and wife, gave them his blessing with tears in his eyes, and hoped that Heaven would receive the soul of the wedded man.

But the instant the ceremony was at an end, the suicide jumped to his feet as lightly as a deer. Some began to shout that a miracle had been performed. But Basilio was honest and confessed that he had played a trick; and, indeed, it seemed as if the whole thing had been planned by the two lovers, for Quiteria said that if the marriage was not valid, she would now confirm it anew. Some of Camacho's friends became violent and threatened the life of Basilio, but the valiant Don Quixote did not abandon his new-found friend; he kept them all at a distance with his lance and his sword.

In the meantime Sancho was guarding a spot that to his mind was the most important one there, namely where the wine-jars were standing.

When Don Quixote had made himself respected by the followers of the rich Camacho, he addressed them on the subject of love and war, and held forth to them that all means to an end in these two games were justifiable, as long as no disgrace was brought on the object of one's love. Then he threatened to thrash any one who attempted to separate whom God now had joined; and they were all awed by his resolute language, not knowing who he was. Camacho showed that he was of good mettle, however, for he invited all to remain and have a merry time, and let the feast go on as if nothing had happened.

But Basilio was proud, and so were his friends, and they preferred to withdraw to Basilio's village. They were accompanied by Don Quixote, whom they had invited as a special guest of honor because of his stout defense of Basilio; and Sancho, of course, had to trail along, much to his disgust, for he had looked forward to stilling his hunger for days to come on the remnants of the rich man's wedding-feast. As he was rocking to and fro in his seat on his faithful Dapple, he was contemplating with a surly and melancholy countenance a glorious, but now past day.



Don Quixote and Sancho remained at the home of the newly married couple for three days. Before the knight took leave of Basilio and Quiteria, he discoursed at length on love and matrimony: a discourse that Sancho seemed to take more to heart than they did, for when his master had finished he was heard muttering that he wished he had had such advice before marrying his wife.

"Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote.

"She is not very bad," replied the downtrodden squire, "but she is not very good; at least she is not as good as I could wish."

"Thou dost wrong, Sancho, to speak ill of thy wife," admonished his master; "for after all she is the mother of thy children."

And to this the squire answered: "We are quits, for she speaks ill of me whenever she takes it into her head, especially when she is jealous; and Satan himself could not put up with her then."

Having exchanged these thoughts with his squire, Don Quixote decided it was time to take to the open again, and he begged one of the students who had invited him to the wedding to find him a guide to take him to the cave of Montesinos. The student provided him with a cousin of his own, a young scholar who was very much interested in tales of chivalry; and, followed by the earnest prayers of those they left behind, the three set out for the famous cave.

Don Quixote wanted the scholar to tell him all about himself, and when he learned, he had had books printed which were inscribed to princes, he wanted to know what kind of books they were. When he mentioned that he was writing one now that was to deal with the invention of customs and things, Sancho became interested and thrust this question at him, which he answered himself: "Tell me, Senor—and God give you luck in printing your books!—who was the first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it must have been our father Adam."

Glad to have had his supposition corroborated by so great an authority as an author of books, Sancho was encouraged to ask numerous other questions of the same caliber; and this helped to make the time seem short. When night fell they had reached a little village, from where it was only a very short distance to the cave.

As Don Quixote was intent on discovering the cave's inmost secrets, he provided himself with a hundred fathoms of rope, and the following afternoon he was at the cavern, ready for the hazardous undertaking. Don Quixote was tied to the end of the rope, and all the while Sancho was admonishing him not to bury himself alive in the bottomless pit, telling him that he had no business being an explorer anyway. Before being lowered into the depths, Don Quixote commended himself to his Lady Dulcinea and sent up a prayer to Heaven on bended knees.

In order to enter the cave, he had to cut his way through the brush, and as he commenced to swing his sword, a whole city of crows and bats flew against him and knocked him to the ground. Sancho crossed himself and kept up his vigilance over his master to the last. Finally he saw him disappear in the coal-black depths, and then he called on all the saints he knew by name to protect the flower and cream of knight-errantry, the dare-devil of the earth, the heart of steel and the arm of brass.

At last Sancho and the scholar had given Don Quixote all the hundred fathoms of the rope, and then they got no more replies to their calls. They waited for half an hour, and then they were afraid that the knight was dead and decided to haul him up, Sancho weeping bitterly all the while. But when Sancho saw his master coming up, he could not restrain himself from being hopeful of a miracle, and he called out gleefully: "Welcome back, Senor, for we had begun to think you were going to stop there to found a family."

Don Quixote did not move, however, and they laid him on the ground and found he was fast asleep. When he came to, he was in an exalted state. He raised his eyes toward Heaven, and asked God to forgive them for having taken him away from such a glorious and spectacular pleasure. But Sancho was curious to know what he had seen down there in Hell, and he interrupted and asked the question.

"Hell!" cried Don Quixote. "Call it by no such name, for it does not deserve it."

Then he asked for something to eat, and Sancho put before him an abundance of food, since he said he was very hungry. When he had eaten, he asked them to sit still and listen to his story.



When he was being hoisted down, Don Quixote said, he had suddenly landed on a precipice which led to a cave within the cave, large enough to hold a team of mules and a cart. There, he claimed, he fell asleep, only to wake and find himself in a beautiful field, from where he had gone on a regular sightseeing trip, visiting the most wonderful castles and palaces, and meeting with the most exalted personages. Among these was no other than the enchanted Montesinos himself. He had taken Don Quixote into his own palace, built of crystal and alabaster, and shown him the tomb of his friend Durandarte, who lay there in his enchantment, with his hairy hand over his heart. Don Quixote had asked whether it were indeed true that he, Montesinos, had cut out the heart of his dead friend, as the story had told, and brought it to his Lady Belerma, and Montesinos had nodded in affirmation.

Suddenly they had heard the poor dead knight moan in the most heartrending way, and he had asked Montesinos again and again whether he had done as he had bade him and carried his heart to his Lady Belerma in France. Montesinos had fallen on his knees and had assured his cousin with tearful eyes that as soon as he had died he had cut out his heart with a poniard, dried it with a lace handkerchief as well as he could, and then departed to see his Lady. At the first village he had come to in France, he had stopped to sprinkle some salt on it to keep it fresh, and had given it to the Lady Belerma, who was now also enchanted in this cave.

Don Quixote continued his tale. The enchanter, the sage Merlin, so Montesinos had said, had prophesied that he, Don Quixote, reviver of knight-errantry, was to be the one to disenchant them all. He and Montesinos had almost come to blows, however, when the latter had inferred that during her enchantment the Lady Belerma had developed large circles under her eyes, and that if it had not been for these her beauty would have surpassed even that of the famous Lady Dulcinea of El Toboso. But Montesinos was courteous enough to apologize and acknowledge the truth of the proverb which says that comparisons are odious.

Sancho and the young author of books had some difficulty in persuading themselves that all these things had happened in so short a time, for Don Quixote had only been gone about an hour; but Don Quixote, hearing this, insisted that he had been absent three days and three nights. Then he proceeded to tell how he had felt no hunger whatever, that none down there ever ate, and that the enchanted never slept; he admitted, however, that their nails, hair, and beards grew.

When Sancho heard all this he asked to be forgiven by God for saying he thought his master was lying, but the next moment he had retracted it, and when his master asked what he really meant, he said he did not know.

There was one thing that had happened to our knight in the cave, which caused him infinite pain; he had met one of the enchanted ladies-in-waiting to his Lady Dulcinea, and she had told him in confidence that his beloved one wanted to borrow six reals on a petticoat which she had bought. He gave her all that he had, which amounted to only four reals, and she gave him in exchange her lady's blessing, saying that with it went many kisses. As she left him, he said, she had cut a caper and had sprung fully two yards into the air.

"O blessed God," cried Sancho, "is it possible that enchantments can have such power as to have changed my master's right senses into a craze so full of absurdity? O Senor, Senor, consider yourself! Have a care for your honor, and give no credit to this silly stuff that has left you scant and short of wits."

"Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho," said Don Quixote; and he ascribed his squire's incredulity to a lack of knowledge of the world and assured him that when the time came he would tell him even more that took place in the cave, which would make him believe what he now doubted.



The scholar was surprised that Don Quixote permitted his servant to talk to him in this way, but ascribed his lenience to the good mood he was in. After having whiled away still another hour talking pleasantly, they proceeded to find a place where they might spend the night. The scholar knew of a hermitage not very far off; and on their way there they encountered a man with a mule that was loaded with halberds and lances. Don Quixote was curious to know where he was taking the weapons, but the man answered that he was in great haste to reach the inn beyond the hermitage. He would spend the night at this inn, he said, and if they happened to be there too, he would tell them some things that were both interesting and curious. Don Quixote was so inquisitive that he decided to pass by the hermitage and go to the inn instead.

Just before coming to the inn, they met a happy looking lad of eighteen or nineteen, who carried a sword over his shoulder and a bundle on his back. Don Quixote stopped him and asked where he was going; and the lad replied that he was going to war for his king. He told the knight how he had been in the service of office-seekers and adventurers in Madrid until he had tired of such a life; and this pleased Don Quixote so much that he invited him to sit behind him on Rocinante and ride with him to the inn to sup with him. But the page, seeing the leanness of the knight's steed, said he preferred to walk, though he was glad to accept the invitation for supper.

As soon as they had arrived at the inn, Don Quixote asked the landlord for the man with the lances and halberds; and Sancho was happy to know that his master took this inn for an inn and not for an enchanted castle.



Don Quixote found the man with the arms feeding his mule in the stable, and he asked the knight to accompany him to a quiet nook when he had finished this duty to his beast. But Don Quixote's curiosity knew no bounds, and he offered to help him sift the barley so that he might begin his story at once. Being a good-natured fellow, the man acquiesced. He related how a magistrate in his village, which was four leagues and a half away, had lost a donkey through the carelessness of a servant. Some weeks later another magistrate of the same village was hunting in the woods, and when he returned he brought word to his fellow officer that he had come across the lost beast but that he was now so wild that no one could approach him. He suggested, however, that they go together in search for him; and they developed a plan whereby they thought they should surely be able to capture the animal. Both of them were expert in braying, and they decided to place themselves at different ends of the forest, each one braying at intervals. In this way they thought they should be able to round up the donkey, for they were certain that he would answer their calls.

But it so happened that both of them brayed at the same time, and when they ran to look, convinced that the donkey had turned up, they found not the ass but only each other, so naturally had they brayed. They tried the same scheme again and again, but every time with the same result; and at last they came in this way to a place in the woods where they found the dead donkey devoured by wolves.

The story of the two magistrates going about in the forest braying to each other like asses soon spread to the villages in the county; and in one village in particular the habit of braying whenever they observed any one from the village of the braying magistrates took such root that it was decided to teach them a lesson by taking arms against them. The arms he carried with him now, he said, were to be used against these scoffers, that they might never again behave like asses.

He had just finished his story when some one entered and cried out that the show of The Release of Melisendra and the divining ape were coming to the inn, and a minute later Master Pedro himself came into the yard, where he was greeted by the landlord and all the guests. Master Pedro's one eye was covered by a piece of green silk; Don Quixote judged by this that something had befallen him by accident. He asked the landlord to tell him all he knew of Master Pedro, and he learned that he traveled with his puppet-show from town to town, and was greatly renowned throughout the provinces as a showman. And the ape, the innkeeper said, was like a human being, so clever was he, and wise.

Soon the show was in readiness inside, and every one gathered around Master Pedro and his divining ape. Don Quixote and Sancho were eager to have their fortunes told, and both offered their reals at the same time; but Master Pedro refused to take any money until the ape had rendered satisfactory service.

The ape jumped up on his master's shoulder, and began to chatter his teeth as if he were saying something, all the while keeping his mouth close to Master Pedro's ear. When he had been chattering long enough to please himself, he jumped down just as quickly as he had jumped up. The next instant Don Quixote and Sancho were both frightened and awed by the showman's suddenly throwing himself before Don Quixote's feet and embracing his legs, while he exclaimed: "These legs do I embrace as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O illustrious reviver of knight-errantry, O prop of the tottering, so long consigned to oblivion!" But not only were the knight and the squire aghast; the landlord and the guests were as startled as they were, for they had never seen Master Pedro act like that before.

But the showman had not finished, for in the next moment he lay at the feet of Sancho, to whom the divining ape brought cheer from his Teresa, saying that she was just soothing her feelings by indulging in wine from a pitcher which she was holding in her left hand and that had a broken spout.

Don Quixote was not very well pleased with this exhibition, for he thought it decidedly out of place that an ape should know more than he or any other human being; and he confided to Sancho that the ape was possessed by the devil. He brought Sancho to a dark corner in the stable where he was sure no one could overhear them, and told him there that he was convinced Master Pedro had made a bargain with the devil to get rich through the ape, and then sell him his soul, and he said it surprised him beyond words that the Holy Office had not already interfered with this dastardly scheme.

At this point Master Pedro came in search of Don Quixote, as the show was about to begin. Before entering the inn, however, Sancho entreated his master to ask the ape whether what he saw in the cave of Montesinos was true. Don Quixote did so, and the ape answered that some of it was true, some of it was not; and immediately Sancho scornfully broke in and said that he had told him so already. The ape intimated that by next Friday he should be able to tell more about the adventure; his mind was tired now.

They entered and found the stage set for the performance; the tapers of wax were lit, it was a bright and beautiful scene. Master Pedro disappeared and took his place behind the scenes, for he was the one who created the life in the puppets. A lad who acted as interpreter, calling out the scenes and describing the action of the play, placed himself outside the theater. Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the scholar seated themselves in the front row; and the show began.



The play, which depicted how Melisendra was released by her husband, Senor Don Gaiferos, from the hands of the Moors in the city of Sansuena, now called Saragossa, had only proceeded a short way when Don Quixote became impatient with the young man who was making the explanations to the audience. The knight thought he drifted into unnecessary and superfluous language, and was quick to reprimand him. The show was continued, and again Don Quixote broke in, criticising some of the stage effects: bells were never used by the Moors, only kettledrums, he said. But here Master Pedro begged him not to be so particular, pleading that the show was given for the sake of amusement.

Don Quixote acceded, and the show began again.

But it was not long before a number of horsemen were galloping across the stage in pursuit of the two lovers. Their escape was accompanied by such blowing of horns and trumpets and beating of drums, that the noise and din of it all were too much for the poor knight's imagination which was now stirred to such a pitch that he believed himself in the midst of a real battle. He drew his sword and plunged against the Moorish horseman with such vehemence and force, cutting and slashing in all directions, that every one in the room was aghast at his madness, and ran to hide in safety. Master Pedro came within an inch of having his ear, not to say his whole head, cut off, and Don Quixote's fury was not at an end until he had decapitated all the Moorish pasteboard figures. Lucky it was that no blood could flow from them, or there would have been a plentiful stream of it. The ape took refuge on the roof, frightened out of his poor wits, and even Sancho Panza was more than ordinarily shaken with fear, for he admitted that he had never seen his master so wrought up.

When Don Quixote was certain of complete victory—in other words, destruction—he turned and addressed those who had dared to return after the storm: "I wish I had here before me now all those who do not or will not believe how useful knights errant are in the world. Just think, if I had not been here present, what would have become of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra!"

But Master Pedro was lamenting the loss of all his emperors and kings and knights and horses, and Sancho was so touched by what he said it would cost him to buy a new show, that he pleaded with his master to make restitution; and, although Don Quixote could not see that he had done any wrong, he generously ordered his squire to pay Master Pedro the sum of forty reals and three quarters, the landlord having duly functioned as arbiter and agreed that that was a fair price for the damage done to the figures. Besides this amount, Master Pedro was allotted two reals for his trouble in catching the ape.

While they were summing up, Don Quixote, however, had only one thought in his mind. He was wondering whether Melisendra and her husband had reached safety by this time: so possessed was he of his infernal imagination. Master Pedro promised him that as soon as he had caught his ape, he would put the question to him; and the showman began to worry about his African companion, hoping that he would soon be hungry, for then he would know whether he was still alive.

The rest of the evening was passed in peace, and drinking at Don Quixote's expense, and soon it was morning, and the man with the halberds took his departure. The scholar and the page left, too, and Don Quixote generously gave the page twelve reals. But the first one to depart was the showman: he was afraid that the knight might have another outbreak, and he had no desire to experience it twice, and perhaps lose his ape, which he had now caught.

The landlord was extremely pleased with Don Quixote's generosity, and was sorry to see him depart; but his madness he could make neither head nor tail of, for he had never seen any one thus afflicted.



It was no doubt a good thing for Master Pedro of the puppet-show that neither Sancho nor Don Quixote recognized in him the thief who stole the squire's donkey, when he was asleep; for he it was. None other than the galley-slave Gines de Pasamonte, or Don Ginesillo de Paropilla, as Don Quixote would have it. It was in the guise of a showman, with only one eye and a part of his face visible, that he found it an easy matter to evade being caught by the servants of the law, who had been hunting for him ever since he was liberated through the generosity and bravery of Don Quixote. The ape he had bought from some captives who had returned from Barbary; and he had soon taught him the tricks which made people think he was really divining things. Before entering a village the clever galley-slave would learn all he could about its inhabitants; and being blessed with a remarkable memory, he seldom had any difficulty in making the ape's feat seem impressive to the masses.

Now, when Don Quixote left the inn, it suddenly occurred to him that he ought to visit the banks of the Ebro before steering towards Saragossa. So he kept on the road for two days, and on the third day as he was mounting a hill he was suddenly aroused by hearing a tremendous din of drums, mixed with the sound of trumpets and musket-shots. In as few instants as it took to make his charger ascend to the top of the hill, he was there; and he saw several hundred men, armed with weapons of every imaginable sort. There were flags, of various descriptions, and among them one in particular attracted his attention: it was a large standard in white, on which was painted a donkey, and also an inscription, reading thus:

They did not bray in vain, Our alcaldes twain.

This made Don Quixote believe the warriors must be from the braying town, and he remarked to Sancho that the man to whom they had talked at the inn must have been misinformed, for evidently the two had not been magistrates but alcaldes, according to the sign. To this Sancho replied that having once been a magistrate should not exclude any one from becoming an alcalde; besides, somebody must have brayed, and whether it was an alcalde or a magistrate mattered little, he thought. Don Quixote, however, was in a quandary as to what to do that he might best live up to the laws of knight-errantry.

He finally went to the braying ones, and, having begged their leave to address them, he began a stirring discourse on war and peace that lasted a considerable time. He flayed those who would go into battle for trifling matters; but just when he seemed to be about to win the braying ones over to his way of thinking, he had to pause for breath.

Sancho thought it his duty to interrupt the silence and take up the broken thread here, so he continued in his own way, keeping more or less to the same subject. He started in by praising his master—the Knight of the Lions!—his bravery, his generosity, his knowledge of Latin (which Sancho unfortunately did not understand), and all his other virtues, and suddenly he bellowed out that they were fools to take offense at hearing some one bray. Then he became reminiscent and related how he as a boy used to like to go about braying, and told how envious every one in his village was because of his great gift in that direction. "Wait a bit and listen!" said he. "I'll show you!" And before his master had a chance to stop him, he had pinched his nose and brayed—had brayed such a bray that all the valleys and dales gave echo.

When some of the men heard the braying they thought he had come there to mock them, and they set upon him with such fury and force that Don Quixote, though he did his best to defend him, had to spur Rocinante into retreat, in order to save his own life. But Sancho was both stoned and pummeled into insensibility, and then he was put on his donkey and tied there; and when he came to, he had to put his trust in Dapple, who was forced to smell his way back to Rocinante.

The braying troops remained in the field until evening, but since no opposing army appeared, they returned to their village after dark.



When Dapple reached his faithful playmate, Rocinante, Sancho fell from his back and rolled at his master's feet. There he lay; but Don Quixote was angry and showed no compassion.

"In an evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho! Where hast thou learned that it is well done to mention the rope in the house of the man that has been hanged? To the music of brays what harmonies couldst thou expect to get but cudgels?"

Having thus reprimanded his squire, the good knight looked to his wounds, which Sancho complained of, but found him only discolored.

"I feel as if I was speaking through my shoulders," wailed Sancho; and then he begged his master to hasten away from such evil premises. Of course, he also had to say something scornful about Don Quixote's having abandoned him in the heat of battle; but the knight begged him to consider that there was a difference between flying and retiring.

Don Quixote succeeded in making Sancho mount and remain on the donkey's back, and then they set off toward a grove which they sighted in the distance. Sancho's back pained him fearfully, but he was much relieved when he learned from his master—who had seen the accident—that it was caused by his having been smitten by a man armed with a staff. The cause being removed as it were, Sancho was jubilant, although his heart and courage fell as soon as he, in the course of his usual chattering, touched upon the subject of knight-errantry. While bewailing his fate, he forgot his pain; therefore Don Quixote was generous and Christian enough to beg him to keep on talking to himself. Sancho suddenly was reminded of his island, and in turn reminded his master of his promise concerning it.

This impertinence was rewarded by the knight's demanding of him: "Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised thee an island?"

And Sancho retorted innocently: "If I remember rightly, it must be over twenty years, three days more or less."

Don Quixote then had to laugh, for it would have been ridiculous not to do so. His wrath was aroused, however, when Sancho again showed his covetousness—his one really great failing, Don Quixote thought—and he told him to keep all the money he had, and betake himself back to his Teresa.

Sancho was moved to tears by his master's wrath, and he confessed in a broken voice that if he had only had a tail he would have been a complete ass himself. But, he said, if his master should care to attach one to him, he would willingly wear one, and serve him all his life as an ass. Then he asked on bended knees to be forgiven, saying that if he talked much it was less from malice than from ignorance, and finished up his harangue with a proverb that had nothing whatever to do with the rest of his discourse.

So Don Quixote forgave his squire, and by that time they had reached the grove, and they spent the night there under the trees: Don Quixote in soliloquies and meditation, Sancho in pain and restlessness. In the morning they continued on their way to find the river Ebro.



It took them two days to reach the river. The very first thing that struck the knight's eye when he got there, was a boat without oars, tied to a tree. Immediately Don Quixote insisted that the boat had been sent by magic to fetch him to some great knight or other person in need of his help; and all Sancho's contradictions were fruitless.

Finally the proverb, "Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with him," had its effect on Sancho, and, although certain he was about to give up his life, he tied the beasts to a tree on the bank, and seated himself in the boat, trembling like a leaf. Then the knight cut the rope, and they started to drift out into the stream, while Dapple was braying and Rocinante was trying to break away and plunge in after them. Seeing this, Sancho began to weep convulsively, but his master had no patience with him, and told him to control himself.

Soon they had reached midstream, and Don Quixote, much to Sancho's perplexity, began to talk about cosmography, the three hundred and sixty degrees of the globe, and the equinoctial line, which, the knight said, they were just then passing. A sure sign by which all seafaring Spaniards determined the passing of this latitude, Don Quixote went on, was that all lice died on everybody on board ship. So, in accordance with this custom, he asked his squire to take the test. Sancho let his hand creep stealthily into the hollow of his left knee, and he promptly told his master that either was the test not to be relied upon, or they had not passed the line that had just been mentioned by name.

"Why, how so?" asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"

"Ay, and aughts," replied Sancho, and in replying he let the stream wash his fingers.

Just then they came in view of some large floating mills, moored in midstream. At once Don Quixote became excited, crying to Sancho that there must be some fair princess or high-born lady in captivity in this castle.

Sancho did his best to make his master believe they were not castles but only mills that ground corn; but to no avail. Don Quixote insisted that either his squire or the mills were enchanted. They came closer and closer to them, and soon shouts were heard from some of the millers, who realized the danger of the boat's being upset by the suction of the water, and dragged into the mill wheels.

The men quickly got hold of some sticks and poles, and tried to stave off the boat, and when Don Quixote saw their white, flour-covered faces he turned to Sancho and begged him to take a good look at the monsters that had been sent to oppose him. The men were all the time crying out, unable to fathom such dare-deviltry or folly: "Devils of men, where are you going to? Are you mad? Do you want to drown yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these wheels?"

In reply to these well-meant exclamations, Don Quixote stood up in the boat and began to swing his sword in a ferocious manner, calling them evil rabble, and demanding that they set free the princess who was imprisoned in the fortress; while Sancho said all the prayers he could think of, crawling on the bottom of the swaying boat, which was now close to the rushing water.

At last the millers caught the boat with their hooks, but in so doing Don Quixote and his squire both fell into the river. Don Quixote in his heavy armor made two trips to the bottom, but both he and Sancho were rescued, thanks to the devils in white. As soon as they had come ashore, Sancho sank upon his knees and thanked the Lord for having been saved from such a death as that from drinking too much water, and prayed that he should be delivered from all future temptations to risk his life in any more foolish causes.

As this moment the fishermen who owned the boat came running up, claiming damages for the wrecked craft, and after having failed to strike a bargain with this rabble for the delivery of the enchanted fair maiden in the castle, Don Quixote, wearied by their stupidity, paid them fifty reals for the boat, exclaiming: "God help us, this world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the other! I can do no more." Then, turning toward the water mills, he burst out into lamentations, confessing to the imagined captive princess his inability to set her free at this time; while the fishermen stood by, wondering what it was all about.

Having ceased his lamentations, Don Quixote and Sancho joined their faithful beasts, and set out to find new adventures.



Sancho left the river Ebro with no regrets, except for the fifty reals just paid to the fishermen. He was seriously considering in his own mind the foolishness of remaining a squire to such a mad master as his. But late the following afternoon they approached a field, and suddenly Don Quixote discovered in the distance a number of people, and as they came closer they found it was a hawking party.

Seeing in the party a lady with a hawk on her left hand, and dressed so richly that Sancho said he had never seen anything so fine in his life, Don Quixote decided that she must be some lady of great distinction. Therefore he dispatched his squire with a message to her, asking her for permission to kiss her hand in person. He instructed Sancho to be particularly careful not to dispense any of his proverbs to the lady; but Sancho said he could do without this warning, for had he not carried messages before to the exalted Dulcinea, the highest lady of them all?

Soon Don Quixote saw his squire kneeling before the lady. Having given her his life's history and told her his name, Sancho proceeded with the message of his master, the valiant Knight of the Lions, formerly the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, explicitly explaining his master's modest desire. The lady, who was no other than a duchess, at once was interested, as she had read and laughed over the first volume of "The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha"; and she immediately asked Sancho to return to his master and say that she would be delighted beyond words to have the worthy knight and his squire come and be her and the Duke's guests at a country place they had there.

Sancho was so flattered that the Duchess had recognized him from having read the book, and so pleased with the reception she had given him, as well as so taken by her great charm and beauty that he could not get back to his master quickly enough to tell him the good news. With his best manner and bearing Don Quixote, attended by his faithful one, rode into the presence of the august lady, and kissed her hand.

But while Sancho was on his way to his master with the Duchess' message, she had sent for the Duke, and they had arranged, both being gifted with a remarkable sense of humor, to receive and entertain the hero in true knight-errant fashion. Having read all the tales of chivalry, they knew exactly what to do.

Don Quixote was about to dismount, when he had kissed the Duchess' hand; and Sancho, as was his custom, wanted to get off Dapple in a hurry and hold his stirrup, as soon as he perceived his master's intention. But luck would have it that one of his legs caught in the trappings, and he fell head first towards the ground. There the poor squire hung, unable to get up or down, caught by the foot. Now, when Don Quixote, his eyes fixedly and courteously on the Duchess, thought that his squire was there with the stirrup, he pressed downward with all his weight, and knight and saddle both flew high in the air off Rocinante. When Don Quixote had reached earth, he lay there, writhing in pain and cursing and swearing at his stupid squire, who was still hanging by his foot.

The Duke and the Duchess, unable to constrain themselves at the amusing scene, finally were able through their laughter to order their huntsmen to their help; and, limping, the knight advanced to do homage to the Duke and his consort on his damaged knees. The Duke, however, nobly refused such honor, and instead, embraced the knight. He then regretted in a few well chosen words the knight's accident; but Don Quixote replied with an exalted speech, saying that if he had fallen to the depths of the bottomless pit, the glory of having seen such a noble and worthy pair would have lifted him up. Then, of course, he said something uncomplimentary about his squire, who did not know how to tighten the girths of a saddle, although he could not help giving him credit for having a loose tongue.

But when the knight began to praise the beauty of the Duchess, the Duke asked him courteously whether there were not others to praise, as, for instance, his own Lady Dulcinea. At this Don Quixote offered the Duchess his services for a few days, together with those of his squire, Sancho Panza, whom he now took pity on and praised as being the drollest squire in the world. Whereupon the Duchess flattered Sancho, saying that if he were droll, she was sure he was shrewd as well; but Don Quixote broke in and added that he was talkative. When the knight, having heard himself addressed as the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, begged to correct it to the Knight of the Lions, the Duke asked him to relate the episode that thus changed his title. And then he invited all to come to the castle to be present at a reception that he would give to their great and distinguished guest.

With the Duchess in the middle, flanked by Don Quixote and the Duke, the whole company headed for the castle; but it was not long before the Duchess found her desire for conversation with the droll and amusing Sancho irresistible. As soon as the Duchess' wish was made known to him, the squire eagerly wedged his way between the horses and chattered his way into the lady's good graces.



The reception tendered Don Quixote was arranged in true knight-errant fashion by the Duke, who had ridden ahead and given full instructions to the servants. So when Don Quixote arrived, he received a welcome that surpassed anything he had ever read or dreamt of.

The staircases and the galleries of the court were lined with servants, who greeted him with the exclamation: "Welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!" At the same time they cast pellets with scented water over him.

Sancho was taken aback at the sight of all this glory. He had followed the Duchess, but once in the castle, the absence of his Dapple made him feel worried. So he turned to one of the duennas, a dignified woman, named Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba, and asked her whether she would not favor him by going outside and seeing that his poor little Dapple was well taken care of. Dona Rodriguez was greatly incensed at his ordering a duenna of the ducal household to do things of that sort, and called him a garlic-stuffed scoundrel. Don Quixote, overhearing their conversation, reprimanded his misbehaving servant, and Sancho blamed it all on his love for his donkey.

After this, Don Quixote was escorted into a hall the walls of which were covered with cloth of gold and rich tapestries, and here he was stripped of his armor by six fair damsels. These maidens could scarcely control their laughter when they saw him stand there, thin, emaciated, tall and bony, dressed in his chamois doublet and tight-fitting breeches. They begged him to permit them to put a clean shirt on him, but that he refused with many assurances of his modesty, asking them instead to give it to Sancho. The two were taken to a room, where Don Quixote, alone with his squire, undressed and put on the shirt, while he gave Sancho admonitions galore, as to how to behave, begging him never again to have any quarrels with any duennas, for that only tended to lessen the respect for the master, who was always judged by his squire's behavior and actions.

Then Don Quixote returned to the hall, where he was attired in a rich baldric and a scarlet mantle, with a sword and a gorgeous montera of green satin. As he passed through the halls and chambers on his way to the state dining room, he was escorted by the seneschal and twelve pages; and the sides of each room, as well as the aisles, were lined with servants in pompous liveries.

Only four covers were laid. Besides Don Quixote and his noble hosts the confessor of the ducal household, a cold and austere churchman, occupied a seat at the heavily laden table, to which our knight was ushered ceremoniously by the Duke himself. But the dinner had not even begun when Sancho unloosened his tongue and began with his proverbs, much to the distress and mortification of his master, although to the great enjoyment of the Duchess. Sancho had been standing by Don Quixote, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at everything that was taking place, for he had never in his life seen anything so sumptuous and ceremonious. The exchange of courtesies between the Duke and our Knight, when the latter finally was induced to accept the seat of honor at the head of the table, impressed the squire considerably; and it was then he thought the time ripe for the introduction of a story about this matter of seats. The Duchess told him by all means to let them hear it, and he began, telling it in the most roundabout way, with twists and curves, and expeditions here and there to places and matters that had as much to do with the story as had the proverbs that he stuffed it with.

Don Quixote was beside himself, and the confessor interrupted the poor squire impatiently again and again; but on he went. All the while the Duchess was laughing so heartily that she could scarcely sit up straight in the chair. And while the Duke engaged himself with Don Quixote, she carried on a confidential conversation with Sancho, who told her how he had tricked his master into believing that his Lady Dulcinea was enchanted, saying she was as much enchanted as his father.

When the confessor heard the sacrilegious conversation the Duchess was having with Sancho, discussing giants and enchantments, he severely reprimanded her and warned her that she would have to answer to God for whatever this man did and said. Then, addressing the Duke, whom he had forbidden to read the book about Don Quixote's adventures, he said: "This Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, cannot be such a blockhead as your Excellency would have him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and follies." And then he turned to Don Quixote and told him to be on his way, and go home and bring up his children, if he had any; and he called him a numbskull, and other names, and a fool for believing that there were knights-errant in the world and Dulcineas and other such silly things.

Don Quixote sat still and never moved a muscle while the churchman was speaking, but as soon as he had said all he had to say, he sprang up from his seat, trembling in his whole body, his face contorted with rage.



Had Don Quixote not been where he was and had the man who thus assailed him not been of the church, it is safe to say that Don Quixote would have made his defamer retract his words at the point of his sword. But instead he calmed himself, and began a long discourse on the virtues of knight-errantry, finishing it with an avowal of his intentions which, he swore, were to do good to all and evil to none. As for his deserving to be called a fool, he would leave that to the judgment of the Duke and the Duchess. But their worships never got a chance to utter a word before Sancho broke in with the most stupendous praise of his master's speech.

The churchman wanted to know whether he was the Sancho Panza of the book he had seen in print, to which Sancho replied that he most certainly was, and corroborated it with a string of proverbs, ending his long-winded reply to the confessor's question with a wish for long life for his master and himself, saying that neither one of them would be in any want of empires or islands to rule. Whereupon the Duke at once said he conferred upon Sancho this very moment the government of one of his islands; and hearing this Don Quixote whispered to Sancho—who could not believe his own ears—to go down on his knees and thank the Duke for his kindness.

The ecclesiastic could stand this impudence no longer, and he rose from his seat and left the room in disgust and ill-temper. The Duke wanted to call him back, but he was in such hysterics from hearing Sancho's proverbial nonsense that he could not speak. After the churchman's departure Don Quixote again took to discoursing, and delivered a tirade on the subject of giving and taking offense, comparing the confessor's rebuke to the offense of a woman, whose only weapon was her tongue and who therefore could not be punished by the sword. They marveled at his knowledge and at the quality of his language, however amusing he himself appeared; but it was Sancho who particularly took their fancy, for the ducal pair thought they had never met any one quite so amusing and droll in all their life. And when Don Quixote had ended his discourse, Sancho himself burst out regarding the priest: "By my faith, I am certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan had heard the little man's words, he would have given him such a spank on the mouth that he would not have spoken for the next three years."

The dinner was now over, and four maidens entered: one carrying a silver basin, another one a jug, also of silver, a third one towels, while the fourth had her sleeves rolled up, and, approaching Don Quixote, began to soap his face and beard. Don Quixote thought this must be a custom after all ducal meals, so he submitted in amazement and stretched out his legs comfortably, that he should not appear out of place in such surroundings. When his face was all lathered, the barber maiden pretended there was no more water in the jug; and by this time the lather had worked its way into the knight's eyes, and he sat there making the most fierce and ludicrous faces until the water finally arrived. Then the Duke, in order that Don Quixote should have no suspicions, ordered the maiden to wash his face and beard as well. But the one who really was crying for and needing such a washing was Sancho. He at last got up sufficient courage to ask the Duchess that he might share in the ceremony, and she promised him that if necessary the maidens would even put him in the bathtub. This kind offer Sancho declined—with many thanks, however—saying he would be just as grateful for having only his beard washed.

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