HERE the captive ended his story; to whom Don Fernando said:
‘Truly, captain, the manner of your relating this strange adventure has been such, as equals the surprising novelty of the event itself. The whole is extraordinary, uncommon, and full of accidents, which astonish and surprise those who hear them. And so great is the pleasure we have received in listening to it, that though the story should have held until to-morrow, we should have wished it were to begin again.’
And, upon saying this, Cardenio and the rest of the company offered him all the service in their power, with such expressions of kindness and sincerity, that the captain was extremely well satisfied of their goodwill. Don Fernando in particular offered him, that, if he Would return with him, he would prevail with the marquess his brother, to stand godfather at Zoraida’s baptism, and that, for his own part, he would accommodate him in such a manner, that he might appear in his own country with the dignity and distinction due to his person. The captive thanked him most courteously, but would not accept of any of his generous offers.
By this time night was come on; and, about dusk, a coach arrived at the inn, with some men on horseback. They asked for a lodging. The hostess answered, there was not an inch of room in the whole inn, but what was taken up.
‘Though it be so,’ said one of the men on horseback, ‘there must be room made for my lord judge here in the coach.’
At this name the hostess was troubled, and said:
‘Sir, the truth is, I have no bed; but if his worship my lord judge brings one with him, as I believe he must, let him enter in God’s name; for I and my husband will quit our own chamber to accommodate his honour.’
‘Then let it be so,’ quoth the squire. But by this time there had already alighted out of the coach a man, who by his garb presently discovered the office and dignity he bore: for the long gown and tucked-up sleeves he had on showed him to be a judge, as his servant had said. He led by the hand a young lady,* seemingly about sixteen years of age, in a riding dress, so genteel, so beautiful, and so gay, that her presence struck them all with admiration, insomuch that, had they not seen Dorothea, Lucinda, and Zoraida, who were in the inn, they would have believed that such another beautiful damsel could hardly have been found. Don Quixote was present at the coming in of the judge and the young lady; and so, as soon as he saw him, he said:
‘Your worship may securely enter here, and walk about in this castle: for, though it be narrow and ill-accommodated, there is no narrowness nor incommodiousness in the world, which does not make room for arms and letters, especially if arms and letters bring beauty for their guide and conductor, as your worship’s letters do in this fair maiden, to whom not only castles ought to throw open and offer themselves, but rocks to separate and divide, and mountains to bow their lofty heads, to give her entrance and reception. Enter, sir, I say, into this paradise; for here you will find stars and suns to accompany that heaven you bring with you. Here you will find arms in their zenith, and beauty in perfection.’
The judge marvelled greatly at this speech of Don Quixote’s, whom he set himself to look at very earnestly, admiring no less at his figure than at his words: and not knowing what to answer, he began to gaze at him again, when he saw Lucinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida appear, whom the report of these new guests, and the account the hostess had given them of the beauty of the young lady, had brought to see and receive her. But Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest complimented him in a more intelligible and polite manner. In fine, my lord judge entered, no less confounded at what he saw, than at what he heard; and the beauties of the inn welcomed the fair stranger. In short, the judge easily perceived, that all there were persons of distinction; but the mien, visage, and behaviour of Don Quixote distracted him.
After the usual civilities passed on all sides, and inquiry made into what conveniencies the inn afforded, it was again ordered, as it had been before, that all the women should lodge in the great room aforesaid, and the men remain without as their guard. The judge was contented that his daughter, who was the young lady, should accompany those ladies; which she did with all her heart. And with part of the innkeeper’s narrow bed, together with what the judge had brought with him, they accommodated themselves that night better than they expected.
The captive, who, from the very moment he saw the judge, felt his heart beat, and had a suspicion that this gentleman was his brother, asked one of the servants that came with him, what his name might be, and if he knew what country he was of? The servant answered, that he was called the Licentiate John Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard say, he was born in a town in the mountains of Leon. With this account, and with what he had seen, he was entirely confirmed in the opinion that this was that brother of his, who, by advice of his father, had applied himself to learning: and overjoyed and pleased herewith, he called aside Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, and told them what had passed, assuring them that the judge was his brother. The servant had also told him, that he was going to the Indies in quality of judge of the courts of Mexico. He understood also that the young lady was his daughter, and that her mother died in childbed of her, and that the judge was become very rich by her dowry, which came to him by his having this child by her. He asked their advice, what way he should take to discover himself, or how he should first know, whether, after the discovery, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be ashamed to own him, or would receive him with bowels of affection.
‘Leave it to me to make the experiment,’ said the priest, ‘and the rather, because there is no reason to doubt, Señor captain, but that you will be very well received: for the worth and prudence, which appear in your brother’s looks, give no signs of his being arrogant or wilfully forgetful, or of his not knowing how to make due allowances for the accidents of fortune.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said the captain, ‘I would fain make myself known to him by some roundabout way, and not suddenly and at unawares.’
‘I tell you,’ answered the priest, ‘I will manage it after such a manner, that all parties shall be satisfied.’
By this time supper was ready, and they all sat down at table, excepting the captive, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in their chamber. In the midst of supper, the priest said:
‘My lord judge, I had a comrade of your name in Constantinople, where I was a slave some years; which comrade was one of the bravest soldiers and captains in all the Spanish infantry: but as unfortunate as he was resolute and brave.’
‘And pray, Sir, what was this captain’s name?’ said the judge.
‘He was called,’ answered the priest, ‘Ruy Perez de Viedma, and he was born in a village in the mountains of Leon. He related to me a circumstance, which happened between his father, himself, and his two brethren, which, had it come from a person of less veracity than himself, I should have taken for a tale, such as old women tell by a fireside in winter. For he told me, his father had divided his estate equally between himself and his three sons, and had given them certain precepts better than those of Cato. And I can assure you, that the choice he made to follow the wars succeeded so well, that, in a few years, by his valour and bravery, without other help than that of his great virtue, he rose to be a captain of foot, and saw himself in the road of becoming a colonel very soon. But fortune proved adverse; for where he might have expected to have her favour, he lost it, together with his liberty, in that glorious action, whereby so many recovered theirs,—I mean in the battle of Lepanto. Mine I lost in the Goleta; and afterwards, by different adventures, we became comrades in Constantinople. From thence he came to Algiers, where, to my knowledge, one of the strangest adventures in the world befell him.’
The priest then went on, and recounted to him very briefly what had passed between his brother and Zoraida. To all which the judge was so attentive, that never any judge was more so. The priest went no further than that point, where the French stripped the Christians that came in the bark, and the poverty and necessity wherein his comrade and the beautiful Moor were left: pretending that he knew not what became of them afterwards, whether they arrived in Spain, or were carried by the Frenchmen to France.
The captain stood at some distance, listening to all the priest said, and observed all the emotions of his brother; who, perceiving the priest had ended his story, fetching a deep sigh, and his eyes standing with water, said:
‘O sir, you know not how nearly I am affected by the news you tell me; so nearly that I am constrained to show it by these tears, which flow from my eyes, in spite of all my discretion and reserve! That gallant captain you mention is my elder brother, who being of a stronger constitution, and of more elevated thoughts, than I, or my younger brother, chose the honourable and worthy profession of arms; which was one of the three ways proposed to us by our father, as your comrade told you, when you thought he was telling you a fable. I applied myself to learning, which, by God’s blessing on my industry, has raised me to the station you see me in. My younger brother is in Peru, so rich, that, with what he has sent to my father and me, he has made large amends for what he took away with him, and besides has enabled my father to indulge his natural disposition to liberality. I also have been enabled to prosecute my studies with more decorum and authority, until I arrived at the rank to which I am now advanced. My father is still alive, but dying with desire to hear of his eldest son, and begging of God with incessant prayers, that death may not close his eyes, until he has once again beheld his son alive. And I wonder extremely, considering his discretion, how, in so many troubles and afflictions, or in his prosperous successes, he could neglect giving his father some account of himself; for had he, or any of us, known his case, he needed not to have waited for the miracle of the cane to have obtained his ransom. But what at present gives me the most concern, is to think whether those Frenchmen have set him at liberty, or killed him, to conceal their robbery. This thought will make me continue my voyage, not with that satisfaction I began it, but rather with melancholy and sadness. O my dear brother! did I but know where you now are, I would go and find you, to deliver you from your troubles, though at the expense of my own repose. Oh! who shall carry the news to our aged father that you are alive? Though you were in the deepest dungeon of Barbary, his wealth, my brother’s, and mine, would fetch you thence. O beautiful and bountiful Zoraida; who can repay the kindness you have done my brother? Who shall be so happy as to be present at your regeneration by baptism, and at your nuptials, which would give us all so much delight?’
These and the like expressions the judge uttered, so full of compassion at the news he had received of his brother, that all who heard him bore him company in demonstrations of a tender concern for his sorrow.
The priest then, finding he had gained his point according to the captain’s wish, would not hold them any longer in suspense; and so, rising from table, and going in where Zoraida was, he took her by the hand, and behind her came Lucinda, Dorothea, and the judge’s daughter. The captain stood expecting what the priest would do; who, taking him also by the other hand, with both of them together went into the room where the judge and the rest of the company were, and said:
‘My lord judge, cease your tears, and let your wish be crowned with all the happiness you can desire, since you have before your eyes your good brother, and your good sister-in-law. He whom you behold is Captain Viedma, and this the beautiful Moor, who did him so much good. The Frenchmen I told you of reduced them to the poverty you see, to give you an opportunity of showing the liberality of your generous breast.’
The captain ran to embrace his brother, who set both his hands against the captain’s breast, to look at him a little more asunder: but, when he thoroughly knew him, he embraced him so closely, shedding such melting tears of joy, that most of those present bore him company in weeping. The words both the brothers uttered to each other, and the concern they showed, can, I believe, hardly be conceived, much less written. Now they gave each other a brief account of their adventures: now they demonstrated the height of brotherly affection; now the judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all he had: now he made his daughter embrace her; now the beautiful Christian and most beautiful Moor renewed the tears of all the company. Now Don Quixote stood attentive, without speaking a word, pondering upon these strange events, and ascribing them all to chimeras of knight-errantry. Now it was agreed that the captain and Zoraida should return with their brother to Seville, and acquaint their father with his being found and at liberty, that the old man might contrive to be present at the baptism and nuptials of Zoraida, it being impossible for the judge to discontinue his journey, having received news of the flota’s departure from Seville for New Spain in a month’s time, and as it would be a great inconvenience to him to lose his passage.
In fine, they were all satisfied, and rejoiced at the captive’s success; and two parts of the night being wellnigh spent, they agreed to retire, and repose themselves during the remainder. Don Quixote offered his service to guard the castle, lest some giant, or other miscreant-errant, for lucre of the treasure of beauty enclosed there, should make some attempt and attack them. They who knew him, returned him thanks, and gave the judge an account of his strange frenzy, with which he was not a little diverted. Sancho Panza alone was out of all patience at the company’s sitting up so late: and after all he was better accommodated than any of them, throwing himself upon the accoutrements of his ass, which will cost him so dear, as you shall be told by and by.*
The ladies being now retired to their chamber, and the rest accommodated as well as they could, Don Quixote sallied out of the inn to stand sentinel at the castle gate, as he had promised.
It fell out, then, that a little before day, there reached the ladies’ ears a voice so tuneable and sweet, that it forced them all to listen attentively; especially Dorothea, who lay awake, by whose side slept Doña Clara de Viedma, for so the judge’s daughter was called. Nobody could imagine who the person was that sung so well, and it was a single voice without any instrument to accompany it. Sometimes they fancied the singing was in the yard, and at other times that it was in the stable. While they were thus in suspense, Cardenio came to the chamber-door, and said:
‘You that are not asleep, pray listen, and you will hear the voice of one of the lads that take care of the mules, who sings enchantingly.’
‘We hear him already, sir,’ answered Dorothea.
Cardenio then went away, and Dorothea, listening with the utmost attention, heard that this was what he sung: