CHAPTER XV. In which is related the unfortunate adventure that befell Don Quixote when he encountered certain wicked Yanguesans.

THE learned Cid Benengeli tells us that, upon taking leave of their hosts and all those who had attended the shepherd Grisóstomo’s funeral, Don Quixote and his squire entered the same wood into which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela disappear, and that, having journeyed in the forest for more than two hours, looking for her everywhere without being able to discover her, they finally came to a meadow covered with fresh young grass, alongside the cool and placid waters of a mountain stream which irresistibly invited them to pause there during the noontide heat, for the sun was now beating down upon them. The two of them accordingly dismounted and, turning Rocinante and the ass out to feed upon the plentiful pasturage, proceeded to investigate the contents of the saddlebags, after which, without further ceremony, master and man sat down together very peaceably and sociably to eat what they had found there.

Now, Sancho had not taken the trouble to put fetters on Rocinante, knowing the hack to be so tame and so little inclined to lust that, he felt certain, all the mares in the Cordovan meadowlands would not be able to tempt him to an indiscretion. But fate and the devil— who is not always sleeping—had ordained that a herd of Galician ponies belonging to some carters of Yanguas ¹ should be feeding in this same valley; for it was the custom of these men to stop for their siesta in some place where grass and water were to be had for their teams, and as it happened, the spot the Yanguesans had chosen on this occasion was not far from where Don Quixote was.

Then it was that Rocinante suddenly felt the desire to have a little sport with the ladies. The moment he scented them, he abandoned his customary gait and staid behavior and, without asking his master’s leave, trotted briskly over to them to acquaint them with his needs. They, however, preferred to go on eating, or so it seemed, for they received him with their hoofs and teeth, to such good effect that they broke his girth and left him naked and without a saddle. But the worst of it was when the carters, seeing the violence that he was offering their mares, came running up with poles and so belabored him that they left him lying there badly battered on the ground.

At this point Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing that Rocinante received, also ran up, panting. It was the master who spoke first.

“So far as I can see, friend Sancho,” he said, “those are not knights but low fellows of ignoble birth; and so you may very well aid me in wreaking a deserved vengeance upon them for the wrong they have done to Rocinante in front of our very eyes.”

“What the devil kind of vengeance are we going to take,” asked Sancho, “seeing there are more than twenty of them and not more than two of us, or maybe only one and a half?”

“I,” replied Don Quixote, “am worth a hundred.” Without saying anything more, he drew his sword and fell upon the Yanguesans, and, moved and incited by his master’s example, Sancho Panza did the same.

At the first slashing blow he dealt, the knight laid open the leather jacket that the man wore along with a good part of one shoulder. Seeing themselves assaulted like this by two lone individuals while they were so many in number, the Yanguesans again ran up with their poles and, surrounding their assailants, began flaying them with great ardor and vehemence. The truth is that the second blow sufficed to lay Sancho low, and the same thing happened with Don Quixote, all his dexterity and high courage availing him not at all. As luck would have it, he fell at Rocinante’s feet, for the animal had not yet been able to rise; all of which goes to show what damage poles can do when furiously wielded by angry rustics. When the Yanguesans saw what mischief they had wrought, they lost no time in loading their teams and were soon off down the road, leaving the two adventurers in a sorry plight and a worse mood.

The first to recover his senses was Sancho Panza. Finding himself beside his master, he called out to him in a weak and piteous voice, “Señor Don Quixote! Ah, Senor Don Quixote!”

“What do you want, brother Sancho?” said the knight in the same feeble, suffering tone that the squire had used.

“I’d like, if possible,” said Sancho, “for your Grace to give me a couple of draughts of that ugly Bras,² if you happen to have any of it at hand. Perhaps it would be as good for broken bones as it is for wounds.”

“If I only did have some of it, wretch that I am,” said Don Quixote, “what more could we ask for? But I swear to you, Sancho Panza, on the word of a knight-errant, that before two days have passed, unless fortune should rule otherwise, I shall have it in my possession, or else my hands will have failed me.”

“But how many days do you think it will be, your Grace, before we are able to move our feet?” Sancho wanted to know.

“For my part,” said his well-cudgeled master, “I must confess that I cannot answer that question. I hold myself to blame for everything. I had no business putting hand to sword against men who had not been dubbed knights and so were not my equals. Because I thus violated the laws of knighthood, the God of battles has permitted this punishment to be inflicted upon me. For which reason, Sancho, you should pay attention to what I am about to say to you, for it may have much to do with the safety of both of us. Hereafter, when you see a rabble of this sort committing some offense against us, do not wait for me to draw my sword, for I shall not do so under any circumstances, but, rather, draw your own and chastise them to your heart’s content. If any knights come to their aid and defense, I will protect you by attacking them with all my might; and you already know by a thousand proofs and experiences the valor of this, my strong right arm.”

For the poor gentleman was still feeling puffed up as a result of his victory over the valiant Biscayan. His advice, however, did not strike Sancho as being so good that he could let it pass without an answer.

“Sir,” he said, “I am a peaceful man, calm and quiet, and I can put up with any insult because I have a wife and young ones to support and bring up; and so let me advise your Grace, since it is not for me to lay down the law, that under no consideration will I draw my sword, either against rustic or against knight, but from now on, as God is my witness, I hereby pardon all wrongs that have been done or may be done to me by any person high or low, rich or poor, gentleman or commoner, without excepting any rank or walk in life whatsoever.”

“I wish,” said his master, “that I had a little breath so that I could speak to you without so much effort; I wish the pain in this rib would subside somewhat so that I might be able, Sancho, to show you how wrong you are. Come now, you sinner, supposing that the wind of fortune, which up to now has been so contrary a one, should veer in our favor, filling the sails of our desire so that we should certainly and without anything to hinder us be able to put into port at one of those islands that I have promised you, what would happen to you if, winning the victory, I were to make you the ruler of it? You will have rendered that impossible by not being a knight nor caring to become one, and by having no intention of avenging the insults offered you or defending your seignorial rights.

“For you must know that in newly conquered kingdoms and provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never tranquil, nor do they like their new lords so well that there is not to be feared some fresh move on their part to alter the existing state of affairs and, as the saying goes, see what their luck will bring. And so it is necessary that the new ruler possess the ability to govern and the valor to attack or defend himself as the case may be.”

“Well, in the present case,” said Sancho, “I can only wish I had that ability and that valor of which your Grace speaks; but I swear to you on the word of a poor man that I need a poultice more than I do an argument. If your Grace will try to rise, we will help Rocinante up, although he does not deserve it, seeing that he is the principal cause of this thrashing we have received. I never would have thought it of him; I always took him to be as chaste and peaceful as I am. Oh, well, they say it takes a lot of time to get to know a person and nothing in this life is certain. Who would have thought that those mighty slashes your Grace gave that poor knight-errant would be followed posthaste by such a tempest of blows as they let fall upon our shoulders?”

“Your shoulders, at any rate,” observed Don Quixote, “ought to be used to such squalls as that, but mine, accustomed to fine cambric and Dutch linen, naturally feel more acutely the pain of this misfortune that has befallen us. And if I did not imagine—why do I say imagine?—if I did not know for a certainty that all these discomforts are the inevitable accompaniment of the profession of arms, I should straightway lay me down and die of pure vexation.”

“Sir,” replied the squire, “seeing that these mishaps are what one reaps when one is a knight, I wish your Grace would tell me if they happen very often or only at certain times; for it seems to me that after two such harvests, there will not be much left of us for the third, unless God in His infinite mercy sees fit to succor us.”

“Be assured, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that the life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand perils and misadventures. At the same time, it is within the power of those same knights to become at almost any moment kings and emperors, as experience has shown in the case of many different ones whose histories I know well. If this pain of mine permitted me, I could tell you right now of some who merely by the might of their arm have risen to the highest stations such as I have mentioned; yet these very ones, both before and after, endured various troubles and calamities.

“There was the valorous Amadis of Gaul, who fell into the power of his mortal enemy, Arcalaus the enchanter, who, after he had taken him prisoner and had bound him to a pillar in the courtyard, is known for a fact to have given him more than two hundred lashes with his horse’s reins. And there is a certain author of no little repute, though his name is not widely known, who tells us how the Knight of the Sun, in a certain castle, was caught in a trapdoor that opened beneath his feet; on falling through the trap, he found himself in a deep underground pit, bound hand and foot, and they gave him one of those so-called clysters of sand and snow-water that all but finished him. Indeed, if in this great peril a magician who was a great friend of his had not come to his aid, it would have gone very badly with the poor knight.

“And so I well may suffer in the company of such worthy ones; for the indignities that they endured are worse than those that we have had to suffer. I would inform you, Sancho, that those wounds that are inflicted by any instruments that chance to be in the assailant’s hand do not constitute an affront, as is expressly laid down in the dueling code. Thus, if the shoemaker strike another with the last that he holds, although it is really of wood, it cannot for that reason be said that the one attacked with it has been cudgeled. I tell you this in order that you may not think that, because we have been beaten to a pulp in this combat, an affront has thereby been offered us; for the arms that those men bore and with which they pommeled us were nothing other than stakes, and none of them, so far as I can recall, carried a rapier, sword, or dagger.”

“They did not give me time to see what they carried,” said Sancho, “for I had no sooner laid hands on my blade than they made the sign of the cross over my shoulder with their clubs, taking away the sight of my eyes and the strength of my feet, after which they went off and left me lying here where I am now, and I am not taking the trouble to think whether or not those blows they gave me with their poles were an affront; all I can think of is the pain they have caused me, which is as deeply imprinted on my memory as it is on my shoulders.”

“But with all that, brother Panza,” said Don Quixote, “I must remind you that there is no memory to which time does not put an end and no pain that death does not abolish.”

“Well,” said Panza, “what greater misfortune could there be than that of having to wait on time and death? If this trouble of ours were one of those that are cured with a couple of poultices, it would not be so bad. But I am beginning to think that all the plasters in a hospital will not be enough to put us in shape again.”

“Leave all that,” said Don Quixote, “and draw strength from weakness as I propose to do. Come, let us see how Rocinante is; for, it appears to me, the poor beast has had the worst of this mishap.”

“I am not surprised at that,” said Sancho, “in view of the fact that he is a knight-errant also. What does astonish me is that my donkey should have gone free and without costs while we have come off without our ribs.” ³

“Fortune,” said Don Quixote, “always leaves a door open in adversity as a means of remedying it. What I would say is, this little beast may take the place of Rocinante now by carrying me to some castle where I may be healed of my wounds. And I may add that I do not look upon it as a disgrace to go mounted like that, for I recall having read that good old Silenus, the tutor and instructor of the merry god of laughter, when he entered the city of the hundred gates,⁴ was pleased to do so mounted upon a very handsome ass.”

“That may very well be,” said Sancho, “but there is a big difference between going mounted and being slung across the animal’s flanks like a bag of refuse.”

“Wounds received in battle,” replied Don Quixote, “confer honor, they do not take it away; and so, friend Sancho, say no more, but, as I have already told you, lift me up the best you can and place me on the ass in any fashion that pleases you, and we will then be on our way before night descends upon us here in this wilderness.”

“But I thought I heard your Grace say,” remarked Panza, “that it is very fitting for knights-errant to sleep out in the cold wastes and desert places the better part of the year, and that they esteem it a great good fortune to be able to do so.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “is when they have no choice in the matter or when they are in love; and, it is true, there have been knights who for two years’ time have remained upon a rock, in sun and shade and through all the inclemencies of the heavens, without their ladies knowing anything about it. One of these was Amadis, who, under the name of Beltenebros, took up his lodging on the rock known as Peña Pobre, remaining there either eight years or eight months, I am not quite certain as to the exact length of time; what matters is that he was there doing penance for some slight offense that he had given to his lady Oriana. But let us quit this talk, Sancho, and make haste before something happens to the ass as it did to Rocinante.”

“There will be the devil to pay in that case,” said Sancho; and venting himself of thirty “Ohs” and “Ahs” and sixty sighs and a hundred-twenty imprecations of various sorts, with curses for the one who had got him into this, he arose, pausing halfway like a Turkish bow bent in the middle, without the power to straighten himself. It was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in saddling his ass, which, making use of the unwonted freedom it had enjoyed that day, had wandered off some little distance. He then managed to get Rocinante on his feet, and if that animal had possessed the power to complain, you may be sure that he would have been an equal for Sancho and his master.

The end of the matter was, Sancho seated Don Quixote upon the donkey, tying Rocinante on behind, and then started off leading the ass by the halter, proceeding more or less in the direction in which he thought the main highway ought to be; and as chance was now guiding their affairs from good to better, he had gone but a short league when there before them was the road—not only the road but an inn, which greatly to Sancho’s disgust and his master’s delight had, of course, to be a castle. The squire stubbornly insisted that it was not a castle but a hostelry, while his master maintained the contrary. The argument lasted so long that they had reached the inn before it was ended, and with the point still unsettled, Sancho entered the gateway, followed by his cavalcade.

CHAPTER XVI. Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in the inn which he imagined was a castle.

UPON seeing Don Quixote thus slung across the ass, the innkeeper inquired of Sancho what was wrong. The squire replied that it was nothing; his master had fallen from a cliff and bruised a few ribs, that was all. Now, the innkeeper had a wife who was not the kind one would expect to find among women of her calling, for she was naturally of a charitable disposition and inclined to sympathize with those of her neighbors who were in trouble. She accordingly came running up to take care of her injured guest and called upon her daughter, who was young and very good-looking, to lend her a helping hand.

Serving in the inn, also, was a lass from Asturia, broad-faced, flat-headed, and with a snub nose; she was blind in one eye and could not see very well out of the other. To be sure, her bodily graces made up for her other defects: she measured not more than seven palms from head to foot, and, being slightly hunchbacked, she had to keep looking at the ground a good deal more than she liked. This gentle creature in turn aided the daughter of the house, and the two made up a very uncomfortable bed for Don Quixote in an attic which gave every evidence of having formerly been a hay-loft and which held another lodger, a mule driver, whose bed stood a little beyond the one they had prepared for our friend.

The muleteer’s couch was composed of the packsaddles and blankets from his beasts, but it was a better one for all of that. The other consisted merely of four smooth planks laid upon two trestles of uneven height, and had a mattress so thin that it looked more like a counterpane, with lumps which, had they not been seen through the rents to be of wool, might from the feel of them have been taken for pebbles. To cover him, the knight had a pair of sheets made of the kind of leather they use on bucklers and a quilt whose threads anyone who chose might have counted without missing a single one.

On this wretched pallet Don Quixote stretched himself out, and then the innkeeper’s wife and daughter proceeded to cover him from top to toe with plasters while Maritornes (for that was the Asturian girl’s name) held the light. As she applied the poultices, the mistress of the house remarked that he was so black-and-blue in spots that his bruises looked more like the marks of blows than like those caused by a fall.

“They were not blows,” said Sancho, adding that the rock had many sharp points and jutting edges and each one had left its imprint. “If your Ladyship,” he went on, “can manage to save a little of that tow, it will come in handy, for my loins also hurt me a little.”

“So, then,” replied the innkeeper’s wife, “you must have fallen too.”

“I did not fall,” said Sancho Panza, “but the shock I had at seeing my master take such a tumble makes my body ache as if I had received a thousand whacks.”

“That may very well be,” said the daughter, “for I have often dreamed that I was falling from a tower and yet I never reached the ground, and when I awoke from my dream I would feel as bruised and broken as if I had really fallen.”

“The point is, lady,” Sancho explained, “that I was not dreaming at all, but was more wide awake than I am at this minute, and yet I find myself with scarcely less bruises than my master, Don Quixote.”

“What did you say the gentleman’s name was?” asked Maritornes, the Asturian.

“Don Quixote de la Mancha,” replied Sancho, “and he is a knightly adventurer and one of the best and bravest that the world has seen for a long time.”

“What is a knightly adventurer?” the girl wished to know.

“Are you so unused to the ways of the world that you don’t know that?” he said. “Then let me inform you, my sister, that it is something that can be summed up in two or three words: well thrashed and an emperor; today, he is the most wretched and needy creature that there is, and tomorrow he will have the crowns of two or three kingdoms to give to his squire.”

“If that is so,” said the innkeeper’s wife, “how does it come that you, being this worthy gentleman’s squire, have not so much as an earldom, to judge by appearances?”

“It is early yet,” was Sancho’s answer. “We have been looking for adventures for only a month now, and so far have not fallen in with what could rightly be called one. Sometimes you look for one thing and you find another. The truth is, once my master Don Quixote is healed of this wound or fall, providing I am none the worse for it all, I would not exchange my expectations for the best title in all Spain.”

The knight had been following this conversation very closely; and at this point, raising himself up in the bed as well as he was able, he took the landlady’s hand and said to her, “Believe me, beautiful lady, you well may call yourself fortunate for having given a lodging in this your castle to my person. If I myself do not tell you of my merits, it is for the reason that, as the saying goes, self-praise is degrading; but my squire can inform you as to who I am. I will only say that I have written down in my memory for all eternity the service which you have rendered me, that I may give you thanks as long as life endures. And I would to high Heaven that love did not hold me so captive and subject to its laws, and to the eyes of that beauteous but ungrateful one whose name I mutter between my teeth;¹ for then the orbs of this lovely damsel here would surely be the mistress of my liberty.”

The landlady, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes were very much bewildered by these remarks of the knight-errant; they understood about as much of them as if he had been speaking Greek, although they were able to make out that he was offering them flattery and compliments. Being wholly unused to such language, they could but stare at him in amazement, for he seemed to them a different kind of man from any they had known. And so, thanking him in their own idiom, which was that of a wayside tavern, they left him, while Maritornes looked after Sancho, who had no less need of attention than did his master.

The mule driver had arranged with the Asturian to have a little sport with her that night, and she had given him her word that, as soon as the guests were quiet and her master and mistress asleep, she would come to him and let him have his way. It was commonly said of the good lass that she never made such a promise without keeping it, even though it was in a forest and without witnesses, for she prided herself greatly upon being a lady and did not look upon it as any disgrace to be a servant in an inn, for, as she was in the habit of saying, it was misfortunes and ill luck that had brought her to such a state.

Don Quixote’s hard, narrow, cramped, makeshift bed stood in the middle of this starry stable² and was the first that one encountered upon entering the room. Next to it was that of his squire, Sancho, which consisted solely of a cattail mat and a blanket that looked as if it was of shorn canvas rather than of wool. And beyond these two was that of the mule driver, made up, as has been said, of packsaddles and all the trappings of his two best mules, although he had twelve of them altogether, sleek, fat, and in fine condition; for he was one of the richest carters of Arévalo, according to the author of this history who knew him well and makes special mention of him—some say they were related in one way or another. In any event, Cid Hamete Benengeli was a historian who was at great pains to ascertain the truth and very accurate in everything, as is evident from the fact that he did not see fit to pass over in silence those details that have been mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they may appear to be.

All of which might serve as an example to those grave chroniclers who give us such brief and succinct accounts that we barely get a taste, the gist of the matter being left in their inkwells out of carelessness, malice, or ignorance. Blessings on the author of the Tablante de Ricamonte³ and the one who wrote that other work in which are related the deeds of Count Tomillas⁴—with what exactitude they describe everything!

But to go on with our story, the mule driver, after he had looked in on his beasts and had given them their second feeding, came back and stretched out on his packsaddles to await that model of conscientiousness, Maritornes. Sancho, having been duly poulticed, had also lain down and was doing his best to sleep, but the pain in his ribs would not let him. As for Don Quixote, he was suffering so much that he kept his eyes open like a rabbit. The inn was silent now, and there was no light other than from a lantern which hung in the middle of the gateway.

This uncanny silence, and our knight’s constant habit of thinking of incidents described at every turn in those books that had been the cause of all his troubles, now led him to conceive as weird a delusion as could well be imagined. He fancied that he had reached a famous castle—for, as has been said, every inn where he stopped was a castle to him—and that the daughter of the lord (innkeeper) who dwelt there, having been won over by his gentle bearing, had fallen in love with him and had promised him that she would come that night, without her parents’ knowledge, to lie beside him for a while. And taking this chimerical fancy which he had woven out of his imagination to be an established fact, he then began to be grieved at the thought that his virtue was thus being endangered, and firmly resolved not be false to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though Queen Guinevere with her waiting-woman Quintañona should present themselves in person before him.

As he lay there, his mind filled with such nonsense as this, the hour that had been fixed for the Asturian’s visit came, and an unlucky one it proved to be for Don Quixote. Clad in her nightgown and barefoot, her hair done up in a fustian net, Maritornes with silent, cautious steps stole into the room where the three were lodged, in search of the muleteer. She had no sooner crossed the threshold, however, than the knight became aware of her presence; and, sitting up in bed despite his poultices and the pain from his ribs, he held out his arms as if to receive the beautiful maiden. The latter, all doubled up and saying nothing, was groping her way to her lover’s cot when she encountered Don Quixote. Seizing her firmly by the wrists, he drew her to him, without her daring to utter a sound.

Forcing her to sit down upon the bed, he began fingering her nightgown, and although it was of sack-cloth, it impressed him as being of the finest and flimsiest silken gauze. On her wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they gave off the gleam of oriental pearls. Her hair, which resembled a horse’s mane rather than anything else, he decided was like filaments of the brightest gold of Araby whose splendor darkened even that of the sun. Her breath without a doubt smelled of yesterday’s stale salad, but for Don Quixote it was a sweet and aromatic odor that came from her mouth.

The short of it is, he pictured her in his imagination as having the same appearance and manners as those other princesses whom he had read about in his books, who, overcome by love and similarly bedecked, came to visit their badly wounded knights. So great was the poor gentleman’s blindness that neither his sense of touch nor the girl’s breath nor anything else about her could disillusion him, although they were enough to cause anyone to vomit who did not happen to be a mule driver. To him it seemed that it was the goddess of beauty herself whom he held in his arms.

Clasping her tightly, he went on to speak to her in a low and amorous tone of voice. “Would that I were in a position, O beauteous and highborn lady, to be able to repay the favor that you have accorded me by thus affording me the sight of your great loveliness; but Fortune, which never tires of persecuting those who are worthy, has willed to place me in this bed where I lie so bruised and broken that, even though my desire were to satisfy yours, such a thing would be impossible. And added to this impossibility is another, greater one: my word and promise given to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the one and only lady of my most secret thoughts. If this did not stand in the way, I should not be so insensible a knight as to let slip the fortunate opportunity which you out of your great goodness of heart have placed in my way.”

Maritornes was extremely vexed and all a-sweat at finding herself held fast in Don Quixote’s embrace, and without paying any heed to what he was saying she struggled silently to break away. Meanwhile, the mule driver, whose evil desires had kept him awake, had been aware of his wench’s presence ever since she entered the door and had been listening attentively to everything that Don Quixote said. Jealous because the Asturian lass, as he thought, had broken her word and deserted him for another, he came up to the knight’s cot and, without being able to make head or tail of all this talk, stood there waiting to see what the outcome would be.

When he saw that the girl was doing her best to free herself and Don Quixote was trying to hold her, he decided that the joke had gone far enough; raising his fist high above his head, he came down with so fearful a blow on the gaunt jaws of the enamored knight as to fill the poor man’s mouth with blood. Not satisfied with this, the mule driver jumped on his ribs and at a pace somewhat faster than a trot gave them a thorough going-over from one end to the other. The bed, which was rather weak and not very firm on its foundations, was unable to support the muleteer’s added weight and sank to the floor with a loud crash. This awoke the innkeeper, who imagined that Maritornes must be involved in some brawl, since he had called twice to her and had received no answer. Suspicious of what was going on, he arose, lighted a lamp, and made his way to the place from which the sound of the scuffle appeared to be coming. Frightened out of her wits when she heard her master, for she knew what a terrible temper he had, the girl took refuge beside Sancho Panza, who was still sleeping, and huddled herself there like a ball of yarn.

“Where are you, whore?” cried the landlord as he came in; “for I am certain that this is all your doing.”

At that moment Sancho awoke and, feeling a bulky object almost on top of him and thinking it must be a nightmare, began throwing his fists about on one side and the other, giving Maritornes no telling how many punches. Feeling the pain, the wench cast all modesty aside and let him have so many blows in return that he very soon emerged from his sleepy state. When he saw himself being treated like this by an unknown assailant, he rose the best way he could and grappled with her, and there then began between the two of them the prettiest and most stubbornly fought skirmish that ever you saw.

When the muleteer perceived by the light of the lamp what was happening to his lady, he left Don Quixote and went to her assistance. The innkeeper also came over to her, but with different intentions, for he meant to punish the girl, thinking that, undoubtedly, she was the cause of all the disturbance that prevailed. And so, then, as the saying goes, it was “the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope, the rope to the stick.” ⁵ There was the mule driver pounding Sancho, Sancho and the wench flaying each other, and the landlord drubbing the girl; and they all laid on most vigorously, without allowing themselves a moment’s rest. The best part of it was, the lamp went out, leaving them in darkness, whereupon there ensued a general and merciless melee, until there was not a hand’s breadth left on any of their bodies that was not sore and aching.

As chance would have it, there was lodged at the inn that night a patrolman of the old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who, hearing all this uproar and the sounds of a struggle, at once snatched up his staff of office and the tin box containing his warrants and went groping his way through the darkness to the room above, as he cried, “Hold, in the name of the law! Hold, in the name of the Holy Brotherhood!” The first one whom he encountered was the well-pommeled Don Quixote, who lay flat on his back and senseless on his broken-down bed. Grasping the knight’s beard, the officer cried, “I charge you to aid the law!” But when he perceived that the one whom he thus held did not budge nor stir, he concluded that the man must be dead and the others in the room his murderers. Acting upon this suspicion, he called out in a booming voice, “Close the gateway of the inn! See that no one leaves, for someone here has killed a man!”

This cry startled them all, and each one left off his pommeling at the point where he was. The innkeeper then retired to his room, the mule driver to his packsaddles, and the wench to her stall, the poor unfortunate Don Quixote and Sancho being the only ones that could not move. The officer now let go of our friend’s beard and left the room to go look for a light, that he might arrest the offenders. He did not find any, however, for the innkeeper had taken care to put out the lantern when he retired to his room, and the representative of the Holy Brotherhood was accordingly compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where with a great deal of time and trouble he finally succeeded in lighting another lamp.

CHAPTER XVII. Wherein is continued the account of the innumerable troubles that the brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza endured in the inn, which, to his sorrow, the knight took to be a castle.

HAVING by this time recovered from his swoon, Don Quixote called to his squire in the same tone of voice that he had used the day before as they lay stretched out in the “vale of stakes.” ¹ “Sancho, my friend, are you asleep? Are you asleep, friend Sancho?”

“How do you expect me to sleep, curses on it?” replied the squire, who was filled with bitterness and sorrow. “I think all the devils in Hell must have been after me tonight.”

“You are undoubtedly right about that,” said his master; “for either I know little about it or this castle is an enchanted one. I may as well tell you—but first you must swear that you will keep it a secret until after I am dead.”

“I swear,” said Sancho.

“I ask that,” Don Quixote went on, “because I hate taking away anyone’s good name.”

“I told you,” Sancho repeated, “that I will say nothing about it until your Grace has reached the end of his days; and please God I may be able to reveal it tomorrow.”

“Do I treat you so harshly, Sancho, that you wish to see me die so soon?”

“It is not for that reason,” said Sancho. “It is just that I am opposed to keeping things too long—I don’t like them to spoil on my hands.”

“Be that as it may,” said Don Quixote, “I am willing to trust your friendship and your courtesy. And so I may tell you that one of the weirdest adventures happened to me that I could possibly describe. To make a long story short, you must know that, a short while ago, the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me. She is the most genteel and lovely damsel to be found in many a land. How can I describe to you the grace of her person, her sprightly wit, or all those other hidden charms which, in order to keep faith with my lady Dulcinea, I must leave untouched and pass over in silence? I can only say that Heaven was envious of this gift that fortune had placed in my hands—or it may be (and this is more likely) that this castle, as I have remarked to you, is enchanted; at any rate, just as I was engaged with her in most sweet and amorous parley, without my seeing him or knowing whence he came, a monstrous giant seized me by the arm and gave me such a blow on the jaw that my mouth was bathed in blood; and after that he flayed me in such a manner that I am even worse off today than yesterday, when those carters on account of Rocinante’s excesses did us that wrong with which you are acquainted. I therefore can only conjecture that the treasure of this damsel’s beauty must be in the keeping of some enchanted Moor, and that it is not for me.”

“Not for me either,” said Sancho; “for more than four hundred Moors have been mauling me and have made such a job of it that the thrashing those fellows gave me with their poles was but cakes and gingerbread by comparison. But tell me, sir, what name do you give to this fine and rare adventure which has left us where we are now? Your Grace, it is true, did not have quite so bad a time of it, with that incomparable beauty in your arms that you have been telling me about; but what was there in it for me except the worst beating that I hope to receive in all my born days? Pity me and the mother that bore me, for I am not a knight-errant nor ever expect to be, yet I always get the worst of whatever’s coming!”

“So, you were beaten too, were you?” said Don Quixote.

“Did not I tell you I was, curses on it?” said Sancho.

“Well, do not let it worry you, my friend,” said the knight; “for I will now make some of that precious balm and we shall both of us be healed in the blink of an eye.”

The officer of the Brotherhood had lighted his lamp by this time and now came in to have a look at the one he thought was dead. The moment Sancho caught sight of him, in his nightgown, with a lamp in his hand, a towel around his head, and an evil-looking face, the squire turned to his master and said, “Could this be the enchanted Moor coming back to give us some more punishment, if there is any left in the inkwell?”

“No,” replied Don Quixote, “it cannot be; for those who are under a spell do not let themselves be seen by anyone.”

“If they do not let themselves be seen,” remarked Sancho, “they certainly make themselves felt; if you do not believe it, let my ribs speak for me.”

“Mine,” said Don Quixote, “could tell the same story; but that is not a sufficient reason for believing that he whom we see here is the enchanted Moor.”

Upon seeing them talking together so calmly, the officer did not know what to make of it, although the knight, true enough, was still flat on his back and unable to move, on account of his plasters and because he was still so stiff and sore.

“Well,” said the officer coming up to him, “and how goes it, my good man?”

“If I were you,” said Don Quixote, “I would speak a little more politely. Is it the custom in this country to address knights-errant in such a fashion, you dunce?”

Unable to bear being treated so ill by one whose appearance was so unimpressive, the patrolman raised his lamp with all the oil that was in it and let him have it over the head, a good stiff blow at that; after which, in the darkness, he slipped out of the room.

“Undoubtedly, sir,” said Sancho, “that must be the enchanted Moor. He must be keeping the treasure for others, seeing all that he gives us is punches with his fist and blows with the lamp.”

“Yes,” said Don Quixote, “that is it; but no notice is to be taken of such things where enchantments are concerned, nor should one be angry or annoyed by them. Since these are invisible and fanciful beings, we should find no one on whom to take revenge even if we were to go looking for him. Arise, Sancho, if you can, summon the governor of this fortress, and tell him to let me have a little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary that I may make that health-giving balm. I think that truly I have need of it now, for there is much blood coming from the wound which that phantom gave me.”

His bones aching all over, Sancho got to his feet and went out into the darkness to look for the landlord. On the way he met the officer, who was listening to find out what happened to his enemy.

“Sir,” said the squire, “whoever you may be, kindly do us the favor of giving us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine, for they are needed to heal one of the most gallant knights-errant that ever walked the earth; he lies now in that bed, badly wounded at the hands of the enchanted Moor who is lodged in this inn.”

Hearing this, the officer thought the man must be out of his senses, but inasmuch as day was already dawning, he threw open the inn door and told the proprietor what it was that Sancho required. The innkeeper provided all the things mentioned, and Sancho then took them to Don Quixote, who was lying there with his hands to his head, complaining of the pain from the blow that had been dealt him with the lamp, although the fact of the matter was that it had done him no more harm than to raise a couple of rather large bumps, while what he fancied to be blood was in reality nothing other than sweat, due to the anxiety he felt over the tempest that had but recently subsided.

Taking the ingredients, he now made a compound of them, mixing them all together and boiling them for some little while until he thought they were properly steeped. He then asked for a small vial into which he might pour the liquid, but as there was none to be had, he resolved to make use of an oil flask made of tinplate which the innkeeper presented to him free of charge. Above this flask he muttered more than eighty Our Fathers and as many Hail Marys and other prayers, each word being accompanied by the sign of the cross in way of benediction. All of which was witnessed by Sancho, the landlord, and the officer of the Holy Brotherhood. As for the carter, he had quietly gone out to look after his mules.

Having done this, the knight wished to try out the virtues of this precious balm, as he fancied it to be, and so he drank what remained in the pot, amounting to nearly half a quart. No sooner had he swallowed it than he at once began to vomit and kept it up until there was absolutely nothing left in his stomach; and with all his anxiety and the agitation of vomiting, a most copious sweat broke out upon him, whereupon he asked them to throw some covering over him and leave him alone. They did so, and he slept for more than three hours, at the end of which time he awoke, feeling greatly relieved in body and especially in his much battered bones. This led him to believe that he had been cured and that he had indeed discovered Fierabras’s balm; from now on he would be able to face with no fear whatsoever any kind of destruction, battle, or combat, no matter how perilous the undertaking.

Marveling at the change for the better that had been wrought in his master, Sancho Panza asked that what remained in the pot, which was no small quantity, be given to him. Don Quixote consented; and, taking the kettle in both hands, with good faith and right good will, the squire gulped down only a trifle less than his master had taken. Now, Sancho’s stomach was not so delicate as the knight’s, for he did not vomit at first but suffered such cramps and nausea, perspired so freely, and felt so faint, that he thought surely his last hour had come; and, finding himself in such misery and affliction, he cursed the balm and the thief who had given it to him.

“It is my opinion, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that all this comes of your not having been dubbed a knight, for which reason this liquor is not suited to you.”

“If your Grace knew that all the time,” replied his squire, “then, curse me and all my kin, why did you let me taste it?”

At this point the beverage took effect and poor Sancho began to discharge at both ends and with such force that neither the cattail mat on which he had dropped down nor the coarse linen coverlet that had been tossed over him was of much use afterward. The sweat poured off him in such abundance, accompanied by such spasms and convulsions, that not only he but all who saw him thought that he was dying. This untoward squall kept up for nearly two hours, and when it was over he was not left in better condition as his master had been, but was so tired and weak that he was not able to stand.

But Don Quixote, who, as has been said, felt greatly relieved and quite himself again, was all for setting out at once in search of adventures; for, as he saw it, every moment that he tarried he was cheating the world and the needy ones in it of his favor and assistance—especially in view of the sense of security and confidence which the possession of his balm now afforded him. Accordingly, impelled by this desire, he himself saddled Rocinante and the ass and then aided his squire to clothe himself and straddle his beast, after which the knight mounted his steed and prepared to ride away. As he passed a corner of the inn, he seized a pike that was standing there to serve him as a lance.

All the guests in the hostelry, more than twenty persons, stood around watching, among them the innkeeper’s daughter, and the knight in turn could not keep his eyes off the lass; every so often he would heave a sigh which it seemed must come from the depths of his entrails, but the others thought it must be from the pain in his ribs—at least, those who had seen him covered with plasters as he had been the night before were of this opinion.

As the two rode up to the gateway of the inn, Don Quixote called to his host and said to him, gravely and calmly, “Many and great are the favors, Sir Governor, which I have received in this your castle, and I shall be under obligations to you all the days of my life. If I can repay you by avenging the wrong done you by some haughty foe, you know that my profession is none other than that of helping those who cannot help themselves, avenging those who have been wronged, and chastising traitors. Search well your memory, and if you find anything of this sort with which to entrust me, you have but to speak, and I promise you by the order of chivalry which I have received to see that you are given satisfaction and are paid in accordance with your wishes.”

The innkeeper’s manner was equally tranquil as he replied, “Sir Knight, I have no need of your favor nor that you should avenge me of any wrong; for I can take such vengeance as I see fit when the need arises. The only thing needed in this case is for your Grace to pay me what you owe me for last night, including straw and barley for the two animals, your supper, and beds.”

“Then this is an inn, is it?” said Don Quixote.

“And a very respectable one,” replied the innkeeper.

“In that case I have been laboring under a mistake all this time,” said the knight; “for the truth is, I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one at that. However, seeing it is not a castle but an inn, the only thing for you to do is to overlook the payment, since I cannot contravene the rule of knights-errant, none of whom, I am sure—at least, up to now, I have read nothing to the contrary —ever paid for his lodging or anything else when he stopped at an inn; for any hospitality that is offered to knights is only their just due, in return for all the hardships they suffer as they go in quest of adventures day and night, in summer and in winter, on horseback and on foot, enduring hunger and thirst and heat and cold, being subject to all the inclemencies of Heaven and all the discomforts of earth.”

“I have little to do with all that,” said the landlord. “Pay me what you owe me and let us hear no more of these accounts of chivalry. The only accounts that interest me are those that are due me.”

“You are but a stupid, evil-minded tavernkeeper,” was Don Quixote’s answer; and, putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his lance into position, he sallied out of the inn with no one to stop him. Without looking back to see if his squire was following him, he rode along for some distance. The innkeeper, meanwhile, seeing him leave like this without settling his account, straightway made for Sancho Panza, who said that since his master would not pay, neither would he, for being squire to a knight-errant as he was, he came under the same rule with regard to inns and taverns.

The landlord grew very indignant at this and began to threaten him, telling him that if he did not pay he would regret it. But Sancho replied that, by the law of knighthood which his master had received, he would not part with a single coronado,² even though it cost him his life; for if the worthy and ancient custom of knights-errant was to be violated, it would not be by him, nor would the squires of those knights who were yet to come into the world have any cause to complain of him or to reproach him for breaking so just a code.

As poor Sancho’s ill luck would have it, stopping at the inn that day were four wool carders of Segovia,³ three needlemakers from the vicinity of the Horse Fountain of Cordova,⁴ and a couple of lads from the Fair of Seville,⁵ merry fellows all of them, well intentioned, mischievous, and playful. They now, as if moved and instigated by one and the same impulse, came up to Sancho and pulled him off his donkey, and then one of them entered the inn to get the blanket off the host’s bed. Throwing Sancho into it, they glanced up and saw that the roof was a little too low for the work in hand; so they went out into the stable yard, which was bounded only by the sky above. Placing the squire in the middle of the blanket, they began tossing him up and down, having as much sport with him as one does with a dog at Shrovetide.

The cries of the poor wretch in the blanket were so loud that they reached his master’s ears. Reining in his steed to listen attentively, Don Quixote at first thought that it must be some new adventure that awaited him, until he came to distinguish clearly the voice of his squire. Turning about then, he returned to the inn at a painful gallop and, finding it closed, started circling the hostelry to see if he could find an entrance of some sort. The moment he reached the walls of the stable yard, which were not very high, he saw the scurvy trick that was being played on Sancho. He saw the latter going up and down in the air with such grace and dexterity that, had the knight’s mounting wrath permitted him to do so, it is my opinion that he would have laughed at the sight.

He then endeavored to climb down from his horse onto the wall, but he was so stiff and sore that he was unable to dismount; whereupon, from his seat in the saddle he began hurling so many insults and maledictions at those who were doing the tossing that it would be quite impossible to set them all down here. The men in the yard, however, did not for this reason leave off their laughing sport, nor did the flying Sancho cease his lamentations, mingled now with threats and now with entreaties, all of which were of no avail until his tormentors saw fit to stop from pure exhaustion. After that, they brought his ass and set him upon it, bundling him in his greatcoat. Seeing him so done in, Maritornes felt sorry for him and, in order to refresh him, brought him a jug of water which she got from the well that it might be cooler. Taking the jug and raising it to his mouth, Sancho paused at sound of his master’s words.

“Sancho, my son, do not drink that water. Do not drink it, my son, for it will kill you. Do you not see? I have here the most blessed balm”—and he showed him the vial containing the beverage—“of which you have but to imbibe two drops and you shall be healed without a doubt.”

At this, Sancho rolled his eyes and cried out in a voice that was even louder than his master’s, “Can it be your Grace has forgotten that I am not a knight, or do you want me to vomit up what guts I have left from last night? Keep your liquor and to the devil with it; just leave me alone, that’s all.”

Even as he finished saying this he started to take a drink; but perceiving at the first swallow that it was only water, he stopped and asked Maritornes to bring him some wine instead. She complied right willingly, paying for it out of her own money; for it is said of her that, although she occupied so lowly a station in life, there was something about her that remotely resembled a Christian woman. When he had drunk his fill, Sancho dug his heels into his ass’s flanks, and the gate of the inn having been thrown wide open for him, he rode away quite well satisfied with himself because he had not had to pay anything, even though it had been at the expense of those usual bondsmen, his shoulders.

The truth is, the innkeeper had kept his saddlebags, but Sancho was so excited when he left that he did not notice they were gone. Once the two unwelcome guests were safely outside, the landlord was all for barring the gate; but the blanket-tossers would not hear of this, for they were fellows to whom it would not have made a penny’s worth of difference if Don Quixote had really been one of the Knights of the Round Table.

CHAPTER XVIII. In which is set forth the conversation that Sancho Panza had with his master, Don Quixote, along with other adventures deserving of record.

BY THE time Sancho reached his master, he was so exhausted and felt so faint that he was not even able any longer to urge on his beast.

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote when he saw him, “I am now convinced that yonder castle or inn is without a doubt enchanted; for what sort of creatures could they be who had such atrocious sport with you if not phantoms from another world? The thing that confirms me in this belief is the fact that, when I was alongside the stable-yard wall, witnessing the acts of that sad tragedy, it was not possible for me to climb it or even so much as get down off Rocinante, and that shows they must have cast a spell on me. But I swear to you, by the sword of a knight, that if I had been able to dismount and come over that wall, I should have wreaked such vengeance in your behalf that those villainous knaves would never have forgotten their little jest; and I should have done this even though it be against the laws of knighthood; for as I have told you many times, it is not permitted that a knight raise his hand against one who is not of his calling, save it be in defense of his own life and person in a case of great and urgent necessity.”

“I would have avenged myself, if I had been able,” said Sancho, “whether I had been dubbed a knight or not; although it is my opinion that those who had such sport with me were not phantoms or human beings under a spell as your Grace says, but flesh-and-blood men like us. They all had names, for I heard them calling one another by them as they were tossing me. There was one who was called Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio Hernández, and the innkeeper’s name was Juan Palomeque the Left-Handed. And so, Señor, your not being able to leap over the stable-yard wall or even get down off your horse was due to something other than enchantments. What I make out of it all is that these adventures that we go looking for will end by bringing us so many misadventures that we shan’t know which is our right foot. The best and most sensible thing to do, in my judgment, would be for us to return home, now that it is harvest time, and stop running about from Ceca to Mecca ¹ and from pail to bucket, as the saying goes.”

“How little you know, Sancho, about the matter of chivalryl” Don Quixote replied. “Hush, and have patience; the day shall come when you will see with your own eyes how honorable a calling it is that we follow. For tell me, if you will: what greater pleasure or satisfaction is to be had in this world than that of winning a battle and triumphing over one’s enemy? None, undoubtedly none.”

“That may be,” said Sancho; “I cannot say as to that, but one thing I know is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your Grace has been one, for I am not to be counted among that honored number, we have not won a single battle, unless it was with the Biscayan, and even there your Grace came out with half an ear and half a helmet the less. Since then, all that we have had has been poundings, punches, and more poundings; and over and above that, I got the blanketing at the hands of certain persons who were under a spell, and so I do not know what that pleasure of conquering an enemy, of which your Grace speaks, is like.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “is the thing that vexes me, and I can understand that it should vex you as well, Sancho. But from this time forth I shall endeavor to have at hand some sword made by so masterful an art that anyone who carries it with him cannot suffer any manner of enchantment. It may even be that fortune will procure for me the blade of Amadis,² the one he bore when he was called the Knight of the Flaming Sword. It was one of the best that ever a knight had in this world, for in addition to the aforesaid virtue which it possessed, it cut like a razor, and there was no suit of armor, however strong or enchanted it might be, that could withstand it.”

“It would be just my luck,” said Sancho, “that if your Grace did find a sword like that, it would be of use only to those who had been dubbed knights; as for the squires, they are out of luck.”

“Never fear, Sancho,” said his master, “Heaven will do better by you than that.”

As they went along conversing in this manner, Don Quixote caught sight down the road of a large cloud of dust that was drawing nearer.

“This, 0 Sancho,” he said, turning to his squire, “is the day when you shall see the boon that fate has in store for me; this, I repeat, is the day when, as well as on any other, shall be displayed the valor of my good right arm. On this day I shall perform deeds that will be written down in the book of fame for all centuries to come. Do you see that dust cloud rising there, Sancho? That is the dust stirred up by a vast army marching in this direction and composed of many nations.”

“At that rate,” said Sancho, “there must be two of them, for there is another one just like it on the other side.”

Don Quixote turned to look and saw that this was so. He was overjoyed by the thought that these were indeed two armies about to meet and clash in the middle of the broad plain; for at every hour and every moment his imagination was filled with battles, enchantments, nonsensical adventures, tales of love, amorous challenges, and the like, such as he had read of in the books of chivalry, and every word he uttered, every thought that crossed his mind, every act he performed, had to do with such things as these. The dust clouds he had sighted were raised by two large droves of sheep coming along the road in opposite directions, which by reason of the dust were not visible until they were close at hand, but Don Quixote insisted so earnestly that they were armies that Sancho came to believe it.

“Sir,” he said, “what are we to do?”

“What are we to do?” echoed his master. “Favor and aid the weak and needy. I would inform you, Sancho, that the one coming toward us is led and commanded by the great emperor Alifanfarón, lord of the great isle of Trapobana. This other one at my back is that of his enemy, the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolín of the Rolled-up Sleeve, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.” ³

“But why are they such enemies?” Sancho asked.

“Because,” said Don Quixote, “this Alifanfarón is a terrible pagan and in love with Pentapolín’s daughter, who is a very beautiful and gracious lady and a Christian, for which reason her father does not wish to give her to the pagan king unless the latter first abjures the law of the false prophet, Mohammed, and adopts the faith that is Pentapolin’s own.”

“Then, by my beard,” said Sancho, “if Pentapolín isn’t right, and I am going to aid him all I can.”

“In that,” said Don Quixote, “you will only be doing your duty; for to engage in battles of this sort you need not have been dubbed a knight.”

“I can understand that,” said Sancho, “but where are we going to put this ass so that we will be certain of finding him after the fray is over? As for going into battle on such a mount, I do not think that has been done up to now.”

“That is true enough,” said Don Quixote. “What you had best do with him is to turn him loose and run the risk of losing him; for after we emerge the victors we shall have so many horses that even Rocinante will be in danger of being exchanged for another. But listen closely to what I am about to tell you, for I wish to give you an account of the principal knights that are accompanying these two armies; and in order that you may be the better able to see and take note of them, let us retire to that hillock over there which will afford us a very good view.”

They then stationed themselves upon a slight elevation from which they would have been able to see very well the two droves of sheep that Don Quixote took to be armies if it had not been for the blinding clouds of dust. In spite of this, however, the worthy gentleman contrived to behold in his imagination what he did not see and what did not exist in reality.

Raising his voice, he went on to explain, “That knight in the gilded armor that you see there, bearing upon his shield a crowned lion crouched at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; the other with the golden flowers on his armor, and on his shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is the dread Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia. And that one on Micocolembo’s right hand, with the limbs of a giant, is the ever undaunted Brandabarbarán de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias. He goes armored in a serpent’s skin and has for shield a door which, so report has it, is one of those from the temple that Samson pulled down, that time when he avenged himself on his enemies with his own death.

“But turn your eyes in this direction, and you will behold at the head of the other army the ever victorious, never vanquished Timonel de Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes with quartered arms—azure, vert, argent, and or—and who has upon his shield a cat or on a field tawny, with the inscription Miau, which is the beginning of his lady’s name; for she, so it is said, is the peerless Miulina, daughter of Alfeñiquén, duke of Algarve. And that one over there, who weights down and presses the loins of that powerful charger, in a suit of snow-white armor with a white shield that bears no device whatever—he is a novice knight of the French nation, called Pierres Papin, lord of the baronies of Utrique. As for him you see digging his iron spurs into the flanks of that fleet-footed zebra courser and whose arms are vairs azure, he is the mighty duke of Nervia, Espartafilardo of the Wood, who has for device upon his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says ‘Rastrea mi suerte.’”⁴

In this manner he went on naming any number of imaginary knights on either side, describing on the spur of the moment their arms, colors, devices, and mottoes; for he was completely carried away by his imagination and by this unheard-of madness that had laid hold of him.

Without pausing, he went on, “This squadron in front of us is composed of men of various nations. There are those who drink the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus; woodsmen who tread the Massilian plain; those that sift the fine gold nuggets of Arabia Felix; those that are so fortunate as to dwell on the banks of the clear-running Thermodon, famed for their coolness; those who in many and diverse ways drain the golden Pactolus; Numidians, whose word is never to be trusted; Persians, with their famous bows and arrows; Medes and Parthians, who fight as they flee; Scythians, as cruel as they are fair of skin; Ethiopians, with their pierced lips; and an infinite number of other nationalities whose visages I see and recognize although I cannot recall their names.

“In this other squadron come those that drink from the crystal currents of the olive-bearing Betis;⁵ those that smooth and polish their faces with the liquid of the ever rich and gilded Tagus; those that enjoy the beneficial waters of the divine Genil;⁶ those that roam the Tartessian⁷ plains with their abundant pasturage; those that disport themselves in the Elysian meadows of Jerez;⁸ the men of La Mancha, rich and crowned with golden ears of corn; others clad in iron garments, ancient relics of the Gothic race; those that bathe in the Pisuerga, ⁹ noted for the mildness of its current; those that feed their herds in the widespreading pasture lands along the banks of the winding Guadiana, celebrated for its underground course;¹⁰ those that shiver from the cold of the wooded Pyrenees or dwell amid the white peaks of the lofty Apennines—in short, all those whom Europe holds within its girth.”

So help me God! How many provinces, how many nations did he not mention by name, giving to each one with marvelous readiness its proper attributes; for he was wholly absorbed and filled to the brim with what he had read in those lying books of his! Sancho Panza hung on his words, saying nothing, merely turning his head from time to time to have a look at those knights and giants that his master was pointing out to him; but he was unable to discover any of them.

“Sir,” he said, “may I go to the devil if I see a single man, giant, or knight of all those that your Grace is talking about. Who knows? Maybe it is another spell, like last night.”

“How can you say that?” replied Don Quixote. “Can you not hear the neighing of the horses, the sound of trumpets, the roll of drums?”

“I hear nothing,” said Sancho, “except the bleating of sheep.”

And this, of course, was the truth; for the flocks were drawing near.

“The trouble is, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “you are so afraid that you cannot see or hear properly; for one of the effects of fear is to disturb the senses and cause things to appear other than what they are. If you are so craven as all that, go off to one side and leave me alone, and I without your help will assure the victory to that side to which I lend my aid.”

Saying this, he put spurs to Rocinante and, with his lance at rest, darted down the hillside like a flash of lightning.

As he did so, Sancho called after him, “Come back, your Grace, Señor Don Quixote; I vow to God those are sheep that you are charging. Come back! O wretched father that bore me! What madness is this? Look you, there are no giants, nor knights, nor cats, nor shields either quartered or whole, nor vairs azure or bedeviled. What is this you are doing, 0 sinner that I am in God’s sight?”

But all this did not cause Don Quixote to turn back. Instead, he rode on, crying out at the top of his voice, “Ho, knights, those of you who follow and fight under the banners of the valiant Pentapolín of the Rolled-up Sleeve; follow me, all of you, and you shall see how easily I give you revenge on your enemy, Alifanfarón of Trapobana.”

With these words he charged into the middle of the flock of sheep and began spearing at them with as much courage and boldness as if they had been his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who were with the animals called to him to stop; but seeing it was no use, they unloosed their slings and saluted his ears with stones as big as your fist.

Don Quixote paid no attention to the missiles and, dashing about here and there, kept crying, “Where are you, haughty Alifanfarón? Come out to me; for here is a solitary knight who desires in single combat to test your strength and deprive you of your life, as a punishment for that which you have done to the valorous Pentapolin Garamanta.”

At that instant a pebble¹¹ from the brook struck him in the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Believing himself dead or badly wounded, and remembering his potion, he took out his vial, placed it to his mouth, and began to swallow the balm; but before he had had what he thought was enough, there came another almond,¹² which struck him in the hand, crushing the tin vial and carrying away with it a couple of grinders from his mouth, as well as badly mashing two of his fingers. As a result of these blows the poor knight tumbled from his horse. Believing that they had killed him, the shepherds hastily collected their flock and, picking up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, they went off down the road without more ado.

Sancho all this time was standing on the slope observing the insane things that his master was doing; and as he plucked savagely at his beard he cursed the hour and minute when luck had brought them together. But when he saw him lying there on the ground and perceived that the shepherds were gone, he went down the hill and came up to him, finding him in very bad shape though not unconscious.

“Didn’t I tell you, Señor Don Quixote,” he said, “that you should come back, that those were not armies you were charging but flocks of sheep?”

“This,” said Don Quixote, “is the work of that thieving magician, my enemy, who thus counterfeits things and causes them to disappear. You must know, Sancho, that it is very easy for them to make us assume any appearance that they choose; and so it is that malign one who persecutes me, envious of the glory he saw me about to achieve in this battle, changed the squadrons of the foe into flocks of sheep. If you do not believe me, I beseech you on my life to do one thing for me, that you may be undeceived and discover for yourself that what I say is true. Mount your ass and follow them quietly, and when you have gone a short way from here, you will see them become their former selves once more; they will no longer be sheep but men exactly as I described them to you in the first place. But do not go now, for I need your kind assistance; come over here and have a look and tell me how many grinders are missing, for it feels as if I did not have a single one left.”

Sancho went over and almost put his eyes into his master’s mouth. Now, as it happened, this was the moment when the balm in Don Quixote’s stomach began to work, and he promptly discharged its entire contents with more force than a musket straight into the beard of his good-hearted squire.

“Holy Mary!” exclaimed Sancho, “and what is this that has happened now? This sinner must surely be mortally wounded, for he is vomiting blood from his mouth.”

When he investigated a little more closely, however, he discovered from the color, taste, and smell that this was not blood but balm from the vial from which he had seen his master drinking; and so great was the disgust he felt that, his stomach turning over, he now vomited up his insides all over Don Quixote, and both of them were in a fine state indeed. Sancho then made for his saddlebags to get something with which to wipe the vomit off them, and when he found the bags were missing, it was more than he could do to contain himself. Cursing himself anew, he made up his mind that he would leave the knight and return home, even though he did lose what was coming to him for his services, along with all hope of becoming governor of that promised island.

Don Quixote then rose and, with his left hand to his mouth to keep his teeth from popping out, grasped Rocinante’s reins in the other hand—for the animal had not stirred from his side, so loyal and well trained was he—and went over to where the squire was bending above his donkey with his hand to his cheek like one lost in thought.

Seeing him so downcast, his master said to him, “Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is worth no more than another unless he does more. All these squalls that we have met with are merely a sign that the weather is going to clear and everything will turn out for the best; for it is impossible that either good or evil should be lasting; and from this it follows that, the evil having lasted so long, the good must be near at hand. And so you should not grieve for the misfortunes that have befallen me, since you have had no part in them.”

“How is that?” replied Sancho. “I suppose the one they tossed in a blanket yesterday was somebody else than my father’s son? And my saddlebags, which are gone now, did they belong to some other person?”

“You mean to say your saddlebags are missing, Sancho?”

“Yes,” replied the squire, “that they are.”

“Well, in that case, we shan’t have anything to eat today,” said Don Quixote.

“Not unless these meadows have some of those herbs which your Grace was saying he knows so well, with which unfortunate knights-errant like your Grace are in the habit of supplying their needs.”

“So far as that goes,” said his master, “right now I would rather have a quarter of a loaf or a loaf of bread and a couple of pilchards’ heads than all the herbs that Dioscorides describes, even with Doctor Laguna’s commentary. ¹³ But, nevertheless, Sancho, mount your ass and follow me; for inasmuch as God is the provider of all things, He will not fail us, especially seeing that we are so active in His service; for gnats never lack the air, grubs the earth, nor polliwogs the water; and He is so merciful that He causes His sun to shine on the good and the bad and the rain to fall on the just and the unjust.”

“It strikes me,” said Sancho, “that your Grace is better fitted to be a preacher than a knight-errant.”

“Knights-errant,” was Don Quixote’s rejoinder, “have always known, and have to know, everything; for they might be called upon to deliver a sermon or make a speech in the middle of the open country, just as if they were graduates of the University of Paris; from which it may be deduced that the lance never yet blunted the pen nor the pen the lance.”

“That may all very well be as your Grace says,” replied Sancho, “but let us leave here at once and go look for a lodging for tonight; and God grant it may be someplace where there are no blankets or blanket-tossers, nor phantoms nor enchanted Moors, for if I come upon any of those, I’ll have nothing whatever to do with them.”¹⁴

“Pray God, then, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and lead the way where you will; for this time I will leave the lodging to your choice. But, first, put your finger in my mouth and feel how many teeth and grinders are missing on this right side of my upper jaw, for that is where the pain is.”

Sancho did as he was told. “How many grinders did your Grace have on this side?”

“Four besides the double tooth and all of them whole and healthy.”

“Mind what you are saying, your Grace,” Sancho warned.

“I am telling you: four, if not five,” said Don Quixote; “for in all my life I have never had a tooth or grinder pulled, nor has any fallen out or been destroyed by decay or abscess.”

“Well, in this lower jaw,” Sancho went on, “your Grace has not more than two grinders and a half left; and in the upper jaw, there is not even a half, there is none at all—it is all as smooth as the palm of your hand.”

“How unfortunate I am!” cried Don Quixote as he heard this sad news from his squire. “I would rather they had robbed me of an arm so long as it was not my sword arm. For I must tell you, Sancho, that a mouth without grinders is like a mill without a millstone, and a tooth is more to be prized than a diamond. But to all this we are subject, those of us who follow the arduous profession of knighthood. So mount, my friend, and lead on, and I will follow at whatever pace you will.”

Sancho obeyed, heading in the direction in which he thought they might be able to find a lodging without leaving the highway, which at this point was a much-traveled stretch of road. They went along slowly, for Don Quixote’s jaws were hurting him so much that he could think of nothing else and was in no mood to make haste. Perceiving this, Sancho sought to divert him and to take his mind off his troubles by small talk of one kind or another; and some of the things he said to him are set forth in the chapter that follows.

CHAPTER XIX. Of the shrewd things that Sancho Panza said to his master and the adventure that happened to him in connection with a dead body, along with other famous events.

“IT SEEMS to me, sir, that all these misadventures that have happened to us of late are without any doubt a punishment for the sin your Grace committed against the order of knighthood by failing to keep the vow that you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth, or embrace the queen, and all the rest of it; your Grace swore not to do any of these things until you had taken a helmet from that Moor Malandrino ¹ or whatever his name is, I don’t rightly remember.”

“There is much in what you say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “but to tell you the truth, I had forgotten about it; and you may be sure that it was because you had failed to remind me in time that the business of the blanket occurred. But I will see to making amends for it all; for in knighthood there are ways of adjusting everything.”

“Why,” said Sancho, “did I take some kind of oath, then?”

“It makes no difference whether you did or not,” said Don Quixote. “It appears to me that you are not wholly clear of complicity in this matter, and so it will not be a bad thing to provide ourselves with a remedy.”

“In that case,” said his squire, “will your Grace please be sure not to forget the remedy as you did the vow? For who knows, the phantoms may take it into their heads to have sport with me again, and with your Grace as well, if they see you so stubborn.”

While they were engaged in this and similar talk, night descended upon them as they were going along the highway, before they had as yet found a lodging; and what made matters worse, they were very hungry, for with their saddlebags they had lost their entire pantry and store of provisions. And on top of all their misfortunes, they now had an experience which, if it was not a real adventure, certainly had all the earmarks of one. Although it was already quite dark, they continued on their way, for Sancho was sure that, since this was a main highway, they would have to go but a league or two before they came upon some kind of inn. And as they were riding along through the darkness like that, the squire hungry and the master with a great desire to eat, they suddenly saw coming toward them a great number of lights which looked exactly like moving stars. Sancho was stunned by the sight, while Don Quixote did not feel altogether easy about it, and the one pulled on the halter of his ass, the other on his horse’s reins. They sat there watching closely, trying to make out what these lights could be, which were all the time coming nearer—and the nearer they came, the bigger they seemed. Sancho was shaking like someone who had had a dose of mercury, and his master’s hair was standing on end. Then Don Quioxte managed to pluck up a little courage.

“There can be no doubt, Sancho,” he said, “that this is going to be a very great and perilous adventure in which it will be necessary for me to display all my strength and valor.”

“Poor me!” said his squire. “If by any chance this is to be another adventure with phantoms, where am I going to find the ribs to bear it?”

“Phantoms or not,” said the knight, “I will not permit them to touch the nap of your garments. If they had sport with you last time, it was only because I was unable to get over the stable-yard wall; but here we are in the open where I can wield my sword as I like.”

“And what if they enchant and benumb you as they did before, what difference will it make whether or not you are in the open?”

“Nonetheless,” replied Don Quixote, “I beg of you, Sancho, to keep up your courage; for experience will teach you what mine is.”

“Very well, I will keep it up, God willing,” was Sancho’s answer.

Retiring then to one side of the road, the two of them continued watching attentively to see what those moving lights could be; and it was not long before they caught sight of a large number of white-shirted figures,² a vision so frightening that Sancho lost what courage he had. His teeth began chattering like those of a person who has the quartan fever, and they chattered more than ever as the apparition came near enough to be distinguishable; for there were some twenty of those shirted figures, all mounted on horseback and with lighted torches in their hands, and behind them came a litter covered with mourning, followed by six other riders all in black down to the feet of their mules, for it was obvious from their leisurely gait that these animals were not horses. As the cavalcade approached, it could be seen that the shirted ones were muttering something to themselves in a low and mournful tone of voice.

This weird vision, at such an hour and in so out-of-the-way a place, was sufficient to strike terror to Sancho’s heart, and his master would have felt the same way had he been anyone else than Don Quixote. As it was, the former had by now reached the end of his strength, but not so the latter, whose vivid imagination was already at work and who saw here another adventure out of his storybooks. The litter had to be a bier, bearing some knight either dead or badly wounded, and it was for him, Don Quixote, and him alone, to exact vengeance; and so, without another word, he rested his lance, settled himself well in the saddle, and, with highborn mettle and intrepid bearing, took up his stand in the middle of the road along which the shirted figures had to pass.

When they were close upon him, he raised his voice and cried, “Halt, knight, or whoever you may be, and give an account of yourself; tell me whence you come and whither you are bound, and who it is that you bring with you on that bier; for to all appearances either you have done some wrong or some wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary that I should know of it, either to punish you for your evil deeds or to avenge you for the misdoings of another.”

At this point, one of the figures spoke up. “We are in a hurry,” he said, “and the inn is far, and we cannot stop to give you the information that you seek.” And, so saying, he spurred his mule forward.

Don Quixote was greatly put out at such a reply and, seizing the mule by the bridle, he repeated, “Halt, I say, and show a little better breeding by giving me an answer to my questions. Otherwise, you shall all do battle with me.”

Now, the mule as it happened was a little shy, and when Don Quixote laid hold of the bridle, it reared on its hind legs and threw its master to the ground. A lad who was on foot, upon seeing the shirted one fall, began reviling the knight; but our friend’s wrath was up, and without further delay he brought his lance into position and bore down upon one of those who were clad in mourning, wounding him badly and tumbling him from his mount. Then he turned upon the others, and it was something to see the dexterity with which he attacked and routed them. It seemed as if at that moment Rocinante had sprouted wings, so proud-stepping and light-footed did he show himself to be.

All these shirt-wearers were timid folk, without arms, and so, naturally enough, they speedily quit the fray and started running across the fields, still bearing their lighted torches in their hands, which gave them the appearance of masked figures darting here and there on some night when a fiesta or other celebration is being held. Those who wore the mourning, on the other hand, wrapped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were unable to move; and, accordingly, with no risk to himself, Don Quixote smote them all and drove them off against their will; for they thought that this surely was no man but a devil straight out of Hell who had come to rob them of the body that they carried on the litter.

Sancho watched it all, greatly admiring his master’s ardor. “No doubt about it,” he told himself, “he is as brave and powerful as he says he is.”

There was a flaming torch that had been stuck in the ground near the first one who had fallen from his mule; and by its light Don Quixote could be seen coming up to the fellow, sticking the point of his lance in his face, and calling upon him to surrender as he valued his life.

“I am prisoner enough as it is,” the man said; “for my leg is broken and I cannot stir. I beg your Grace, if you are a Christian knight, not to slay me; if you were to do so, you would be committing a great sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and have already taken my first orders.”

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “what in the devil brings you here if you are a churchman?”

“What, sir?” said the man on the ground. “My bad luck, that’s all.”

“Still worse luck awaits you,” said Don Quixote, “if you do not answer to my satisfaction all those questions that I put to you in the first place.”

“Your Grace shall be easily satisfied as to all that,” replied the licentiate. “To begin with, I may tell your Grace that, although I said I was a licentiate, I am really but a bachelor, and my name is Alonso L6pez, a native of Alcobendas. I come from the city of Baeza with eleven other-priests, the ones that are carrying the torches. We are on our way to the city of Segovia, accompanying the corpse that is in that litter, the body of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was first interred; and now we are taking his bones to their last resting place in Segovia, where he was born.”

“And who killed him?” demanded Don Quixote.

“God,” said the bachelor, “by means of a pestilential fever that took him off.”

“In that way,” said the knight, “Our Lord has absolved me of the trouble of avenging him, as I should have had to do had he met his death at the hands of another; but He who slew him having slain him, there is nothing to do but be silent and shrug one’s shoulders, and I should do the same if it were I whom He was slaying. I would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and it is my calling and profession to go through the world righting wrongs and redressing injuries.”

“I do not know what you mean by righting wrongs, seeing that you found me quite all right and left me very wrong indeed, with a broken leg which will not be right³ again as long as I live; and if you have redressed any injury in my case, it has been done in such a way as to leave me injured forever. It was a great misadventure for me to fall in with you who go hunting adventures.”

“Everything,” replied Don Quixote, “does not occur in the same manner. The big mistake you made, Sir Bachelor Alonso L6pez, was in coming as you did, by night, dressed in those surplices, bearing lighted torches and praying, all of which gave the appearance of something evil and of the other world. I accordingly could not fail to fulfill my obligation by attacking you, and I would have done so even though I knew for a certainty that you were devils out of Hell; for such I took you to be all the time.”

“Since that is the way fate has willed it,” said the bachelor, “I beseech your Grace, Sir Knight-errant—whose errantry has done me so bad a turn—I beseech you to help me up from under this mule, for one of my legs is caught between the stirrup and the saddle.”

“Why,” exclaimed Don Quixote, “I might have talked on until tomorrow! How long were you going to wait to tell me of your distress?”

He then called to Sancho to come, but the squire did not see fit to do so, being engaged at that moment in robbing a sumpter mule of the larder which these gentlemen were carrying with them and which was well stocked with things to eat. Having made a sack of his greatcoat, he dumped into it all that it would hold and threw it across his ass’s back; and then, and only then, did he answer his master’s call to come and help get the bachelor out from under the mule. Setting the fellow on his beast once more, they gave him his torch, and Don Quixote told him to follow in the track of his companions and beg their pardon on his behalf for the wrong which he had not been able to avoid doing them.

“And if,” said Sancho, “those gentlemen wish to know who the valiant one was who did this to them, your Grace may inform them that he is the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance.”

At this the knight inquired of his squire what had led him to call him by such a title at that particular moment.

“I can tell you,” said Sancho. “I was looking at you for a time by the light of the torch that poor fellow carried; and truly, your Grace now has the worst-looking countenance that I have ever seen, whether due to exhaustion from this combat or the lack of teeth and grinders, I cannot say.”

“It is not that,” said Don Quixote; “it is simply that the sage who is to write the history of my exploits must have thought that it would be a good thing for me to take another appellation as all knights of the past have done. Thus one was called the Knight of the Flaming Sword; another the Knight of the Unicorn; one the Knight of Damsels, and one the Knight of the Phoenix; another the Knight of the Griffin; and still another the Knight of Death: and by these names and insignia were they known all the world over. And so, I tell you, it must have been that sage of whom I was speaking who put it into your mind and on your tongue to dub me the Knight of the Mournful Countenance. This title I mean to adopt as my own from now on; and in order that it may better fit me, I propose, as soon as opportunity offers, to have painted on my shield a very sad-looking face.”

“There is no necessity of wasting time and money on having a face made for you,” said Sancho. “All that your Grace has to do is to uncover your own to those who look at you, and without need of any image or shield they will call you that. This is the truth I speak; for I assure your Grace—not meaning any harm—that hunger and the lack of grinders have given you so ill a countenance that you can very well do without the painted one.”

Don Quixote laughed heartily at Sancho’s wit, but still he could not give up the idea of calling himself by that name and having a suitable device painted on his buckler or shield just as he had conceived it.

At this point the bachelor prepared to take his departure. ⁴ “I neglected to warn your Grace,” he said, “that you are hereby excommunicated for having laid violent hands on a holy thing: luxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo, etc.” ⁵

“I do not understand that Latin of yours,” said Don Quixote, “but I am quite sure that I did not lay my hands on anything; I laid on with this lance. What is more, I did not realize that I was insulting priests or sacred things of the Church, which I respect and revere as the good Catholic and loyal Christian that I am; I thought, rather, that it was phantoms and monsters from the other world that I was attacking. But, even so, I cannot but recall what happened to Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the royal ambassador in the presence of his Holiness the Pope, that day when the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar showed himself to be a brave and honored knight.” ⁶

Having listened to this speech, the bachelor went his way without saying a word in reply.

Don Quixote then wanted to see whether it really was bones they had in that litter or not; but Sancho would not consent.

“Sir,” he said, “your Grace has concluded this adventure in the safest manner of any yet. But those fellows whom you overcame and routed may come to realize that it was, after all, only one individual who conquered them; and being thoroughly ashamed of themselves, they may pluck up courage and return to look for us, in which case they could give us plenty of trouble. The ass is ready, the mountains near by, and we are hungry; there is nothing for us to do but to retire as decently as may be, and as the saying goes, ‘To the grave with the dead and the living to the bread.”’⁷

Urging his ass forward, he begged his master to follow him, and the latter, deciding that his squire was right, made no reply but fell in behind. After going a short distance they found themselves between two small mountains, in a broad and hidden valley. Here they dismounted, and Sancho relieved the donkey of its burden; after which, stretched upon the green grass and with hunger as a sauce, they breakfasted, lunched, dined, and supped at one and the same time, satisfying their stomachs with more than one cold cut which the gentlemen of the clergy attending the deceased—who seldom stint themselves in this regard—had brought along in their well-stocked larder upon the back of their sumpter mule.

But they still had one misfortune to endure, which for Sancho was the worst of all: they had no wine, nor even water, to drink, and so were harassed by thirst. Whereupon, noting the green young grass of the meadow round about, he conceived an idea which will be set forth in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XX. Of an adventure such as never was seen or heard of, which was completed by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha with less peril than any famous knight in all the world ever incurred in a similar undertaking.

“IT IS not possible, sir,” said Sancho, “that this grass should not betoken the presence near by of some spring or brook that provides it with moisture; and so, it would be a good thing if we were to go a little farther, for I am sure we should be able to find someplace where we might quench this terrible thirst that is consuming us and that, undoubtedly, is more painful to bear than hunger.”

This impressed Don Quixote as being good advice; and after they had placed upon the ass what was left of their dinner, he took Rocinante’s rein and Sancho took the halter of his beast and they started feeling their way up the meadow, for the night was so dark that they were unable to see anything at all. They had not gone two hundred paces when they heard a roaring sound, which appeared to be that of water falling from great, high cliffs. This cheered them enormously; but as they paused to determine the direction from which it came, another and terrible din fell upon their ears, watering down the satisfaction they had felt at the thought of finding water,¹ especially for Sancho, who was by nature timid and lacking in spirit. What they heard, I am telling you, was the sound of measured blows, together with the rattling of iron chains, accompanied by so furious a thunder of waters as to strike terror in any other heart than that of Don Quixote.

It was night, as has been stated, and they now chanced to reach a cluster of tall trees, whose leaves, stirred by the mild wind that was blowing, rustled with a soft and gentle murmur. The solitude, the place, the darkness, the din of the water, the rustling of the leaves —all this was frightful, horror-inspiring, especially when they found that the blows did not cease, nor did the wind fall asleep or morning come; and added to it all was the fact that they had no idea where they were. Don Quixote, however, with his own intrepid heart to keep him company, leaped upon Rocinante’s back and, bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his lance into play.

“Sancho, my friend,” he said, “you may know that I was born, by Heaven’s will, in this age of iron, to revive what is known as the Golden Age. I am he for whom are reserved the perils, the great exploits, the valiant deeds. I am—I say again—he who is to revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve Peers of France, and the Nine Worthies. I am he who is to cast into oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes, and the Tirants, the Knights of the Sun and the Belianises, together with the entire throng of famous knights-errant of times past, by performing in this age in which I live such great and wonderful feats of arms as shall darken the brightest of their achievements. Note well, my rightful and my loyal squire, the shades of night that lie about us; this uncanny silence; the low and indistinct rustling of those trees; the frightful sound made by that water that we came to seek, which appears to be falling precipitously from the tall mountains of the moon; those unceasing blows that grieve and wound our ears; all of which things together, and each one singly, are sufficient to strike fear, dread, and terror in the breast of Mars himself, not to speak of him who is not accustomed to such happenings and adventures.

“Well, all these things that I have been describing are for me but the incentives and awakeners of my courage, causing the heart within my bosom to burst with the desire of entering upon this adventure, however difficult it may be. And so, tighten Rocinante’s girth a bit if you will, and God be with you. Wait for me here three days, no longer. If at the end of that time I have not returned, you may go back to our village; and then, as a special favor to me, you will go to El Toboso, where you will tell that incomparable lady, my Dulcinea, how her captive knight died, undertaking things that would render him worthy of being called hers.”

Hearing his master speak these words, Sancho began weeping as if his heart would break. “Sir,” he said, “I do not know why your Grace is so bent upon this fearful undertaking. It is night now, no one can see us, and we can easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger’s path, even though we do not drink for the next three days. Since there is none here to see us, the fewer will there be to call us cowards. What’s more, I have often heard the curate of our village say in his sermons—your Grace knows him very well—that whoever goes looking for danger will perish by it. It is not good to tempt God by entering upon some monstrous undertaking from which you can escape only by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for your Grace by saving you from being tossed in a blanket as I was and by bringing you out the victor, safe and free, over all those enemies who were accompanying that corpse.

“And if all this does not suffice to move or soften that hard heart of yours, let it be moved by the thought, the certain knowledge, that no sooner will you have left this spot than I out of fear will yield my soul to any that cares to take it. I have left my native land, my wife and young ones, to come and serve your Grace, believing that by so doing I would better my lot, not make it worse; but as avarice always bursts the bag,² so has it torn my hopes to shreds. Just when they are brightest and I seem nearest to obtaining that wretched island, that cursed island, which your Grace so many times has promised me, I perceive that, in place of fulfilling that hope, you are about to go away and leave me in a place like this, so far from any human beings.

“In God’s name, sir, do me not this wrong. If your Grace will not wholly desist from this enterprise, at least put it off until morning; for according to that knowledge of the heavens that I acquired as a shepherd, it should not be as much as three hours from now until dawn, seeing that the mouth of the Horn is directly overhead and midnight is in line with the left arm.” ³

“How, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “can you see that line or where the mouth of the Horn or your own head is, when it is so dark and there is not a star in the sky?”

“That,” replied Sancho, “is because fear has many eyes and can see things under the earth and much more in the heavens above; and anyway, it stands to reason that daybreak cannot be far off.”

“Far off or near,” said his master, “it shall not be said of me, either now or at any other time, that tears and entreaties kept me from fulfilling my duties as a knight; and so, Sancho, I beg you to be quiet; for God, who has put it into my heart to undertake this dread adventure such as never before was heard of—God will see to my well-being and will comfort you in your sorrow. The thing for you to do is to tighten Rocinante’s girth and remain here, and I shall return soon, either living or dead.”

Perceiving his master’s firm resolve, and seeing of how little avail were his own tears, advice, and entreaties, Sancho determined to have resort to his ingenuity in compelling him, if he could, to wait until daylight. Accordingly, when he went to tighten Rocinante’s girth, he very deftly and without being observed slipped the halter of his ass over the hack’s two front feet so that when Don Quixote started to ride away, he found that his steed was unable to move except by little hops and jumps.

“Ah, sir,” Sancho said to his master when he saw that his trick had worked, “Heaven itself, moved by my tears and supplications, has ordained that Rocinante should not stir; and if you stubbornly insist upon spurring and whipping him, you will merely be angering fortune and, so to speak, kicking against the prick.”

Don Quixote was truly in despair now; for the more he dug his legs into his horse’s flanks the less inclined that animal was to budge; and without noticing that the hack’s feet had been bound, the knight decided there was nothing for him to do but be calm and wait until daylight should come or Rocinante should see fit to move; for he was convinced that all this came of something other than his squire’s cleverness.

“Since Rocinante will not go,” he said, “I am content, Sancho, to wait until dawn shall smile, even though I myself may weep that she is so long in coming.”

“There is no occasion for weeping,” replied Sancho, “for I will entertain your Grace by telling stories from now until daybreak, unless you care to dismount and lie down to sleep for a little while upon this green grass, as knights-errant are accustomed to do, so that you may be rested when day comes and fit to undertake this unlikely adventure that awaits you.”

“Why,” said Don Quixote, “do you call upon me to dismount or to sleep? Am I, perchance, one of those knights who take their repose amid dangers? Sleep, then, if you will, for you were born to sleep, or do whatever you like, and I shall do that which best befits my knightly character.”

“Sir,” said Sancho, “let not your Grace be angry, for I did not mean it in that way.”

Coming up to his master, then, he laid both hands on the saddletree in such a manner that he stood embracing Don Quixote’s left leg; and he did not stir an inch from there, so great was his fear of those blows which were still to be heard in regular cadence. Don Quixote then remarked that his squire might tell him a story by way of amusing him as he had promised; to which Sancho replied that he would be glad to do so if the fear which that sound inspired in him would only let him.

“But, in spite of all that,” he said, “I will try to tell you a story which, if it does not escape me in the telling, and nobody stops me, is one of the best there is; and pay attention, your Grace, for I am about to begin.⁴ Let bygones be bygones; and may the good come to all and the evil to him who goes to look for it. For your Grace must know that when the ancients began their fables the beginning was by no means left to the choice of the one who told the tale; instead, they always began with a maxim from Cato Zonzorino,⁵ the Roman, who uttered the words that I have quoted, ‘... and the evil to him who goes to look for it,’ a saying that fits like the ring on your finger, signifying that your Grace should remain here and not go hunting trouble anywhere else, and that we should return by another road since there is no one to compel us to keep following this one where there are so many frightful things to startle us.”

“Go on with your story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and as for the road that we are to follow, leave that to me.”

“I will tell you, then,” continued Sancho, “that in a village of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd—I mean, one who tended goats—and this shepherd or goatherd of my story was named Lope Ruiz; and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherd lass whose name was Torralba, which shepherd lass called Torralba was the daughter of a wealthy cattle-raiser, and this wealthy cattle-raiser—”

“If that is the way you are going to tell your story, Sancho, saying everything over twice, you will not be finished in a couple of days. Tell it in a straightforward manner, like a man of good sense, or otherwise do not tell it at all.”

“In my country,” said Sancho, “they tell all fables just the way I am telling this one, and I cannot tell it any other way, nor is it right for your Grace to ask me to adopt new customs.”

“As you like, then,” said Don Quixote, “and since fate has willed that I must listen, proceed with it.”

“And so, then, my dear master, as I was saying, this shepherd was in love with Torralba, the shepherd lass, who was sturdy of figure, wild in her ways, and somewhat mannish—I can see yet those little mustaches of hers.”

“You knew her, then?” asked Don Quixote.

“I did not know her, but the one who told me the story described her for me so truly and faithfully that, when I go to tell it to another, I could swear and affirm that I have seen her with my own eyes. And so, as days and days went by, the devil, who never sleeps but sweeps everything up into his pile, saw to it that the shepherd’s love for the shepherd lass turned into hatred and ill will. The reason for this, according to the gossiping tongues, was that she had given him certain grounds for jealousy, which crossed the line and reached forbidden territory. And as a result of all this, the shepherd hated her from then on, so much, that in order not to have to see her again, he made up his mind to leave his native land and go where his eyes would never behold her. Finding herself thus spurned, La Torralba, who had never loved him before, became enamored of him.”

“That is the way with women,” said Don Quixote; “they spurn those that care for them and love those that hate them. But go on, Sancho.”

“The shepherd then proceeded to do as he had resolved; and, getting together his goats, he set out through the countryside of Estremadura on his way to the kingdom of Portugal. Learning of this, La Torralba set out after him, following him, barefoot, from afar, a shepherd’s staff in her hand and a knapsack around her neck, in which, so it is said, she carried a broken mirror, a piece of a comb, and some kind of paint or other for her face; but whatever it was she carried, I am not going to take the trouble to find out. I will merely tell you that the shepherd with his flock had by this time crossed the Guadiana River, which in that season was swollen and almost out of its banks; and at the point where he was, there was neither boat nor bark to be had, nor anyone to ferry him and his goats to the other side; all of which grieved him sorely, for he could now see La Torralba close on his heels and knew that she would be bound to annoy him greatly with her tears and pleas.

“As he was looking about, he saw a fisherman alongside a boat so small that it would hold only one person and a goat, but, nevertheless, he spoke to the man, who agreed to take the shepherd and his flock of three hundred to the opposite bank. The fisherman would climb into the boat and row one of the animals across and then return for another, and he kept this up, rowing across with a goat and coming back, rowing across and coming back—Your Grace must be sure to keep count of the goats that the fisherman rowed across the stream, for if a single one of them escapes your memory, the story is ended and it will not be possible to tell another word of it.

“I will go on, then, and tell you that the landing place on the other side was full of mud and slippery, and it took the fisherman a good while to make the trip each time; but in spite of that, he came back for another goat, and another, and another—”

“Just say he rowed them all across,” said Don Quixote; “you need not be coming and going in that manner, or it will take you a year to get them all on the other side.”

“How many have gone across up to now?” Sancho demanded.

“How the devil should I know?” replied Don Quixote.

“There, what did I tell you? You should have kept better count. Well, then, by God, the story’s ended, for there is no going on with it.”

“How can that be?” said the knight. “Is it so essential to know the exact number of goats that if I lose count of one of them you cannot tell the rest of the tale?”

“No, sir, I cannot by any means,” said Sancho; “for when I asked your Grace to tell me how many goats had been rowed across and you replied that you did not know, at the very instant everything that I was about to say slipped my memory; and you may take my word for it, it was very good and you would have liked it.”

“So,” said Don Quixote, “the story is ended, is it?”

“As much ended as my own mother is,” Sancho replied.

“Well, then,” said Don Quixote, “I can assure you that you have told me one of the most novel fables, stories, or histories that anyone in the world could possibly conceive. And I may add that such a way of telling and ending it has never been nor will be heard of in the course of a lifetime; although I expected nothing else from one with a wit like yours. However, I do not marvel at it, for it is possible that those ceaseless blows we hear have disturbed your understanding.”

“Anything may be,” said Sancho; “but in the matter of my story, I know that there is nothing more to be told, for it ends where you begin to lose count of the number of goats that have crossed,”

“Let it end where it will, and well and good. But come, let us see if Rocinante can carry me now.” With this, he applied the spurs once more, and the hack once again gave a start, but without budging from the spot, so well was he shackled.

At this juncture, whether it was the cool of the morning which was coming on, or something laxative he had eaten at supper, or—which is most likely—merely a necessity of nature, Sancho felt the will and desire to do that which no one else could do for him;⁶ but so great was the fear that had lodged in his heart that he did not dare stir by so much as the tip of a fingernail from his master’s side. It was, however, out of the question not to satisfy the need he felt; and what he did, accordingly, in order to have a little peace, was to remove his right hand which held the back of the saddle, and with this hand he very adroitly and without making any noise unloosed the slip-knot which alone sustained his breeches, thus letting them drop to the ground, where they lay like fetters about his feet; after which, he lifted his shirt and bared his behind, no small one by any means.

Having done this—and he thought it was all he needed to do in order to be rid of his agonizing cramps —he encountered another difficulty: how was he to vent himself without making some noise or sound? Gritting his teeth and huddling his shoulders, he held his breath as best he could; but despite all these precautions, the poor fellow ended by emitting a little sound quite different from the one that had filled him with such fear.

“What noise was that, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“I do not know, sir,” he replied. “It must be something new; for adventures and misadventures never come singly.”

He then tried his luck again and succeeded so well that, without any more noise or disturbance than the last time, he found himself free of the load that had given him so much discomfort. But Don Quixote’s sense of smell was quite as keen as his sense of hearing, and Sancho was so close upon him that the fumes rose in almost a direct line, and so it is not surprising if some of them reached the knight’s nostrils, whereupon he came to the aid of his nose by compressing it between two fingers.

“It strikes me, Sancho,” he said in a somewhat snuffling tone of voice, “that you are very much frightened.”

“That I am,” replied his squire, “but how does your Grace happen to notice it, now more than ever?”

“Because you smell now more than ever, and it is not of ambergris.”

“That may well be,” said Sancho, “but I am not to blame; it is rather your Grace, for keeping me up at such hours and putting me through such unaccustomed paces.”

“Retire, if you will, three or four paces from here, my friend,” said Don Quixote, without taking his fingers from his nose; “and from now on, see to it that you take better care of your person and show more respect for mine. It is my familiarity with you that has bred this contempt.”

“I’ll wager,” said Sancho, “your Grace thinks I have done something with my person that I ought not to have done.”

“It only makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,” Don Quixote answered him.

In talk such as this master and man spent the rest of the night; and when Sancho saw that morning was near he very cautiously removed the fetters from Rocinante and tied up his breeches. Finding himself free, although he was by no means a mettlesome animal, the hack appeared to be in high spirits and began pawing the earth, since—begging his pardon—he was not capable of leaping and prancing. When he beheld his steed in motion, Don Quixote took it for a good sign, a sign that he should begin that dread adventure.

It was light now and things could be clearly seen, and he discovered that they were in a grove of chestnut trees that cast a very deep shade. He was aware, also, that the sound of blows continued, although he could see no cause for it; and so, without any further delay, he dug his spurs into Rocinante and, turning to Sancho to bid him good-by, commanded him to wait three days at the most, as he had told him before. If at the end of that time he had not returned, his squire would know for a certainty that it had pleased God to have him end his life’s span in this perilous undertaking.

Once again he reminded Sancho of the mission which the latter was to fulfill by bearing a message on his master’s behalf to the lady Dulcinea. As to pay for his services, Sancho was not to let that worry him, as the knight before leaving home had made out his will in which his squire would find himself recompensed in full for all the wages due him in accordance with the time he had served. If, on the other hand, God should bring him, Don Quixote, safe, sound, and unscathed out of this peril, then his faithful servitor might be more than certain of obtaining that promised island. At hearing these sad words from his good master, Sancho again fell to weeping and resolved not to leave him until the final outcome and end of the business.

These tears and this noble resolve on the part of Sancho Panza are duly recorded by the author of the history, who must have been well bred and at the very least an old Christian.⁷ Such a display of sentiment somewhat softened his master’s heart. Not that Don Quixote showed any weakness, however; on the contrary, hiding his feelings as well as he could, he rode away in the direction from which the noise of water and the sound of blows appeared to be coming, with Sancho following on foot, leading his ass by the halter as usual, for that beast was his constant companion in good fortune or adversity.

When they had gone quite a way through the dense shade of the chestnut trees, they came out upon a little meadow at the foot of some tall cliffs over which poured a huge stream of water. Down below were a number of rude huts which looked more like ruins than houses, and it was from here that the hammering noise which never ceased was coming. Rocinante was frightened by the din of the waters and the sound of the blows, but Don Quixote quieted him and gradually made his way to where the huts stood, commending himself with all his heart to his lady and begging her favor in this dread enterprise; and as he went, he likewise commended himself to God, praying that He would not forget him. Sancho, meanwhile, never left his master’s side but kept stretching his neck as far as he could between Rocinante’s legs to see if the thing that had caused him so much fear and suspense was at last visible.

They had gone perhaps a hundred yards farther when, upon turning a corner, they discovered the obvious, unmistakable cause of that horrendous and, for them, terror-inspiring noise that all night long had so bewildered and alarmed them. And that cause was—if, O reader! you will not be too disappointed and disgusted —six fulling hammers which with their alternating strokes produced the clangor that resembled the sound of blows.

When Don Quixote saw what it was, he was speechless and remained as if paralyzed from head to foot. Gazing at him, Sancho saw that his head was on his bosom, as if he were abashed. The knight then glanced at his squire and perceived that his cheeks were puffed with laughter as if about to explode, and in spite of the melancholy that possessed him he in turn could not help laughing at the sight. Thus encouraged, Sancho gave in to his mirth and laughed so hard that he had to hold his sides to keep from bursting. He would stop for a while and then begin all over again, any number of times, laughing as hard as he had at first.

Don Quixote was furious at this, especially when he heard his squire saying, as if to mock him, “‘Sancho, my friend, you may know that I was born by Heaven’s will, in this our age of iron, to revive what is known as the Golden Age. I am he for whom are reserved the perils, the great exploits, the valiant deeds...”’ And he went on repeating all the other things that Don Quixote had said the first time they heard those frightening blows.

At seeing himself thus made sport of, the knight was so exceedingly wroth that he raised his lance and let Sancho have a couple of whacks, which, had they been received upon the head instead of across the shoulders, would have freed Don Quixote from the necessity of paying his wages, unless it had been to his heirs. The jest was becoming serious, and Sancho was afraid things might go further. He was very humble now.

“Calm yourself, your Grace,” he said. “In God’s name, I was only joking.”

“Well, you may be joking, but I am not,” said Don Quixote. “Come over here, my merry gentleman, I want to ask you a question. Supposing that, in place of fulling hammers, this had really been another dangerous adventure, did not I display the requisite courage for undertaking and carrying it through? Am I obliged, being a gentleman as I am, to recognize and distinguish sounds and know whether they come from fulling hammers or not? Especially when I may never before have laid eyes on such things, as happens to be the case, whereas you, rude bumpkin that you are, were born and brought up among them. But turn these six hammers into six giants and beard me with them one by one, or with all of them together, and if I do not cause them all to turn up their toes, then you may make as much sport of me as you like.”

“I shall do so no more, sir,” replied Sancho, “for I admit that I carried the joke a little too far. But tell me, your Grace, now that there is peace between us—and may God in the future bring you out of all adventures as safe and sound as He has brought you out of this one—tell me if it was not truly a laughing matter, and a good story as well, that great fright of ours? For I, at least, was afraid, although I am well aware that your Grace does not know what fear is.”

“I do not deny,” said Don Quixote, “that what happened to us has its comical aspects; but it is best not to tell the story, for not everyone is wise enough to see the point of the thing.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Sancho, “your Grace saw the point when you pointed your lance at my head—but it fell on my shoulders, thank God, and thanks also to my quickness in dodging it. But never mind, it will all come out in the wash;⁸ and I have heard it said, ‘He loves you well who makes you weep.’ It is the custom of great lords, after they have scolded a servant, to give him a pair of breeches; although I am sure I do not know what they would give him after a good clubbing, unless they happened to be knights-errant, and then perhaps they would give him a few islands or some kingdoms on terra firma.”⁹

“The dice may so fall,” replied Don Quixote, “that everything you say will come true. But let us overlook the past; for you are shrewd enough to know that the first instinctive movements a man makes are not within his control. Be advised of one thing for the future, however: you are to abstain and refrain from conversing with me so much; for in all the books of chivalry that I have read, and they are infinite in number, I have never heard of any squire talking so much to his master as you do to me. The truth is, I look upon it as a great fault, on your part and on mine: on your part because it shows that you have little respect for me; and on mine because I do not make myself more respected.

“There was, for example, Gandalín, squire to Amadis of Gaul, who was count of Firm Island. I have read of him that he never spoke to his master save with cap in hand, with lowered head and body bent double more turquesco.¹⁰Then, what shall we say of Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who was so very silent that, by way of indicating how excellent a thing such taciturnity on his part was, the author of that history, which is as voluminous as it is veracious, sees fit to mention his name only once?

“From all this that I have told you, Sancho, you are to infer that it is necessary that there be a difference between master and man, lord and servant, a knight and his squire. And so, from now on, we must treat each other with more respect and less bantering; for in whatever way I may become annoyed with you, it will be bad for the pitcher.¹¹ The favors and benefits that I have promised you will all come in due time; and if they should not, your wages at least are safe as I have told you.”

“That is all well and good,” said Sancho, “but what I should like to know of your Grace is, if by any chance the time for the granting of favors does not come and it is necessary to think of the wages, how much did the squire of a knight-errant earn in those times, and was it reckoned by months, or by days as in the case of bricklayers?”

“I do not think,” said Don Quixote, “that the squires of old received wages, but only favors; and if I have provided a wage for you, in the sealed will which I have left at home, it was in view of what might happen; as yet I do not know how chivalry will work out in these calamitous times in which we live, and I do not wish my soul in the other world to have to suffer on account of trifles; for I may tell you, Sancho, that there is no calling anywhere more dangerous than that of adventurer.”

“That is the truth,” said Sancho, “seeing that the mere sound of fulling hammers can disturb and agitate the heart of so valiant a knightly adventurer as is your Grace. But you may be sure that from now on I will not open my mouth to make light of what concerns your Grace, but will speak only to honor you as my liege lord and master.”

“By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, “you will live long upon the face of the earth; for after parents, masters are to be respected as if they were the ones that bore us.”

CHAPTER XXI. Which treats of the high and richly rewarded adventure of Mambrino’s helmet, together with other things that happened to our invincible knight.

AT THIS point it began to rain a little, and Sancho suggested that they enter the fulling mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such a dislike for the place by reason of the offensive joke ¹ associated with it that he would not hear of their setting foot inside it; and so, turning to the right, they came out into another road like the one they had traveled the day before.

They had not gone far before Don Quixote sighted a man on horseback wearing something on his head that gleamed like gold, and no sooner had he laid eyes upon him than he said to his squire, “It is my opinion, Sancho, that there is no proverb that is not true; for they are all drawn from experience itself, mother of all the sciences, and especially that saying that runs, ‘Where one door closes another opens.’ By this I mean to say that if, last night, fortune closed the door on what we were seeking by deceiving us with those fulling hammers, she is now opening another upon a better and more assured adventure, and if I do not embark upon that undertaking the fault will be mine, and I shall not be able to blame it upon those hammers or the darkness of night. I tell you this for the reason that, if I am not mistaken, there comes toward us now one who wears upon his head that helmet of Mambrino concerning which, as you know, I have taken a vow.”

“But, your Grace,” said Sancho, “mark well what I say and even better what you do; for I should not like to have any more fulling hammers fulling and finishing us off and cudgeling our brains.”

“To the devil with the fellow!” exclaimed Don Quixote. “What has the helmet to do with fulling mills?”

“I know nothing about that,” replied Sancho, “but upon my word, if I were free to talk as I used to, I could give you such reasons that your Grace would see he was mistaken in what he just said.”

“How could I be mistaken in what I said, you unbelieving traitor? Tell me, do you not see that knight coming toward us, mounted on a dappled gray steed and with a golden helmet on his head?”

“What I see and perceive,” said Sancho, “is a man upon an ass, a gray ass like mine, with something or other on his head that shines.”

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “that is Mambrino’s helmet. Go off to one side and let me meet him singlehanded; and you shall see me end this adventure without wasting a word in parley, and when it is ended, the helmet which I have so greatly desired shall be mine.”

“I will take care to go to one side, right enough,” said Sancho; “but—I say again—I only pray God that it may turn out to be marjoram and not fulling hammers.” ²

“I have told you, brother,” said Don Quixote, “not to think of mentioning those hammers to me again; and if you do, I vow—I need say no more—that I will full your very soul.”

Sancho was silent, for he was afraid that his master would carry out this vow which he had hurled at him like a bowling ball.

The truth concerning that helmet and the horse and horseman that Don Quixote had sighted was this: in these parts there were two villages, one so small that it had neither apothecary nor barber, whereas the other had both; and as a consequence, the barber of the larger village served the smaller one, in which, as it happened, there was a sick man who had need of a blood-letting and another individual who needed to have his beard trimmed; and so the barber was on his way now, carrying with him a brass basin, and as it had started to rain and he did not wish to have his hat spoiled (it was probably a new one), he had placed the basin on his head, and since it was very clean it could be seen glittering half a league away. He was riding on an ass, a gray one as Sancho had remarked, and it was all this that had given Don Quixote the impression of a knight, a dappled steed, and a helmet of gold, for he readily fitted all the things that he saw to his own mad, ill-errant³ thoughts of chivalry.

As he saw the poor fellow whom he took to be a knight approaching, without pausing for any exchange of words he bore down upon him with lowered lance at the best speed that Rocinante could make, with intent to run him through with his pike. As he drew near, without abating his fury in the least, he cried out, “Defend yourself, vile wretch, or else render to me of your own free will that which is so justly my due!”

The barber who, without any thought or fear of what was about to happen, had seen this apparition descending upon him, now had no other recourse by way of protecting himself from the lance blow than to slide down off his ass’s back, and he had no more than touched the earth when he was up and running away across the fields faster than the wind, leaving his basin behind him upon the ground. Don Quixote was content with this, observing that the heathenish fellow had been wise in imitating the beaver, which, when it finds itself hard pressed by the hunters, bites and tears off ⁴ with its teeth that for which it knows it is being pursued. He commanded Sancho to pick up the helmet for him.

“By God,” said the squire, taking it in his hands, “if it isn’t a very good basin and worth a piece of eight if it’s worth a maravedi.”

With this, he handed it to his master, and Don Quixote at once placed it on his head, turning it round and round in search of the visor.

“Undoubtedly,” he said when he failed to find one, “the pagan to whose measure this helmet was originally made must have had a very large head. The regrettable part of it is, half of it is missing.”

Upon hearing the basin called a helmet, Sancho could not help laughing, but mindful of his master’s ire, he stopped short.

“What are you laughing at, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“I was just thinking what a big pate that pagan had who owned it, for this helmet looks exactly like a barber’s basin.”

“Do you know what I think, Sancho? I think that this famous piece of that enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have fallen into the hands of someone who did not know, and was incapable of estimating, its worth, and who, seeing that it was of the purest gold and not realizing what he was doing, must have melted down the other half for what he could get for it, while from the remaining portion he fashioned what appears, as you have said, to be a barber’s basin. But be that as it may; I recognize its value, and the transformation that it has undergone makes no difference to me; the first village that we come to where there is a blacksmith, I will have it repaired in such a manner that the helmet which the god of smithies made and forged for the god of battles shall not surpass or even come up to it. In the meanwhile, I will wear it the best way I can, for something is better than nothing at all, especially seeing that it will serve quite well to protect me from stones.”

“That is,” said Sancho, “providing it is not a stone from a slingshot of the kind they let you have in the battle of the two armies, that time they made the sign of the cross on your Grace’s grinders and broke the vial which held that blessed potion that made me vomit up my guts.”

“I am not greatly grieved over having lost it,” said Don Quixote, “for as you know, Sancho, I have the receipt in my memory.”

“So have I,” replied Sancho, “but if I ever in all my life make it or try it again, may this be my last hour on earth. What is more, I do not expect to have any occasion to use it, for I mean to see to it with all my five senses that I neither wound anybody nor am wounded by anyone else. As to being tossed in a blanket, I say nothing about that. Troubles of that kind are hard to foresee, and if they come, there is nothing to do but shrug your shoulders, hold your breath, shut your eyes, and let yourself go where luck and the blanket take you.”

“You are a bad Christian, Sancho,” said his master when he heard this, “for you never forget an injury that once has been done you. You should know that it is characteristic of noble and generous hearts to pay no attention to trifles. You have no lame leg, no fractured rib, no broken head to show for it; so why can you not forget that bit of buffoonery? For when you look at it closely, that is all it was: a jest and a little pastime; for had I not regarded it in that light, I should have returned and, in avenging you, should have wrought more damage than those Greeks did who stole Helen of Troy—who, you may be sure, if she had lived in these times or my Dulcinea had lived in those, would not have been so famed for her beauty as she now is.” With this, he breathed a sigh and wafted it heavenward.

“Let it pass for a jest,” said Sancho, “seeing that it cannot be avenged in earnest; but I know what jest and earnest mean, and I further know that this joke will never slip from my memory any more than it will from my shoulders. But leaving all that aside, tell me, your Grace, what are we to do with this dappled gray steed that looks like a gray-colored ass, which that fellow Martino⁵ whom your Grace just routed has left here? For judging by the way he took to his heels, I don’t think he ever means to come back for it; and by my beard, but the gray is a good one!”

“It is not my custom,” said Don Quixote, “to despoil those whom I conquer, nor is it in accordance with the usages of knighthood to deprive one’s enemy of his steed and leave him to go away on foot, unless it be that the victor has lost his own mount in the fray, in which case it is permitted to take that of the vanquished as something that has been won in lawful warfare. And so, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever you choose to call him; for as soon as its master sees that we are gone, he will come back for it.”

“God knows I’d like to take it,” said Sancho, “or at least exchange it for this one of mine, which does not strike me as being a very good one. Surely the laws of knighthood must be pretty strict if they cannot be stretched far enough to permit you to exchange one ass for another. Could I not at least exchange trappings?”

“I am none too certain as to that,” replied Don Quixote; “but being in doubt and until I am better informed, I should say that you might exchange them in case of extreme necessity.”

“The necessity,” said Sancho, “is so extreme that I could not need them more if they were for my own person.”

Having been granted permission to do so, he now effected the mutatio capparum,⁶trigging his own beast out in great style, in such a manner as to alter its appearance most advantageously. This being done, they made their lunch on what was left over from the spoils of the sumpter mule, drinking water from the brook where the fulling hammers were but without turning their heads to look at them, for they still could not forget the fright which those distasteful objects had given them.

At length, all anger and melancholy gone, they mounted again and without taking any definite direction, as was the custom of knights-errant, they let Rocinante follow his own will, his master’s inclinations and those of the ass falling in behind; for the ass followed wherever the hack led, very sociably and affectionately. Proceeding in this manner, they came back to the highway and continued riding along, leaving everything to chance and with no plan whatsoever.

Finally Sancho spoke up and addressed the knight. “Sir,” he said, “would your Grace grant me permission to have a word with you? Ever since you gave me that order to be silent, a number of things in my stomach have gone to rot, and I have one now on the tip of my tongue that I do not want to see wasted.”

“Say what you have to say,” said Don Quixote, “and be brief about it, for there is no pleasure in listening to long speeches.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Sancho. “I just wanted to tell you that for some days now I have been thinking how little gain or profit there is in your Grace’s going in search of adventures in these wasteland and crossroad places; for even if you come out the victor in the most dangerous of them, there is no one to witness them or know about them, and as a result, nothing will ever be heard of them, which is contrary to what your Grace had in mind and what they deserve. And, accordingly, it seems to me that it would be better—saving, always, your Grace’s better judgment—for us to go serve some emperor or other great prince who has some war on his hands and in whose service your Grace would have an opportunity to display the valor of your person, the great feats of which you are capable, and your superior understanding. For when the lord we served beheld all this, being obliged to reward each according to his merits, he could not fail to have your Grace’s exploits set down in writing, that they might never be forgotten. Of my own I say nothing, for they do not go beyond the bounds of what is becoming in a squire; although I may say this much: that if it were the custom of knighthood to record squirely achievements, I do not think mine would be left out.”

“There is something in what you say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but before we come to that, it is necessary for a knight to roam the world in quest of adventures and, so to speak, serve a period of probation, in order that, having brought a number of those adventures to a successful conclusion, he may win such name and fame as will render him well known for his accomplishments by the time he arrives at the court of some great monarch. He must be so well known that, when he enters the gate of the city, all the young lads will follow and surround him, shouting, ‘There goes the Knight of the Sun,’ or of the Serpent, or whatever insignia it was under which he performed his feats of valor. ‘He,’ they will say, ‘is the cne who overcame singlehanded the giant Brocabruno of the Mighty Strength; he it was who freed the Mameluke of Persia of the spell under which he had been for nearly nine hundred years.’

“Thus from mouth to mouth his fame will spread, until at last, aroused by the tumult of the lads and the throng that will have gathered, the king of that realm will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as he sees the knight, recognizing him by his armor or by the device on his shield, he will be certain to cry, ‘What, ho! Up, all ye knights that be in my court and go forth to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh hither.’ At this command, they will all come out, and the monarch himself, descending the stair halfway, will welcome the new arrival, giving him a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek, after which he will conduct him to the apartment of my lady the queen, and in her company the knight will be presented to her daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and faultless damsels to be met with anywhere in the known world. And then it will come to pass that she will rest her eyes on the knight and he will rest his on her, and each will appear to the other as something that is nearer divine than human; and, without knowing how or why it comes about, they will find themselves caught and entangled in love’s inextricable net, with a deep pain in their hearts at not being able to put into words their longings and desires.

“After that, they undoubtedly will take him to some room in the palace that is richly fitted out, and there, having relieved him of his armor, they will bring him a sumptuous scarlet cloak to wear; and if he presented a handsome appearance in his suit of armor, he will be even handsomer in a doublet. When night comes, he will sup with the king, queen, and infanta, and he will never take his eyes off the princess but will steal glances at her without the others seeing him, and she with equal cunning will do the same, for, as I have said, she is a very circumspect young lady. And then, when the tables have been cleared, through the door of the great hall there will at once enter a small and ugly dwarf, followed by a beautiful duenna between two giants, who comes to propose a certain adventure conceived by a wise man of very long ago; and whoever carries it through is to be looked upon as the best knight in the world.

“The king will thereupon command all those present to undertake the adventure, and none will bring it to an end and conclusion except the knight who is their guest. This will greatly add to his fame, and the infanta will be very happy and feel well recompensed for having placed her affections upon so exalted a personage. But the best part of it is, this king or prince or whoever he may be is engaged in a bitter war with another monarch who is quite as powerful as he; and the stranger knight—after a few days spent at court—will then beg his royal host’s permission to go serve him in the said war. His Majesty will grant this request with right good grace, and the knight will courteously kiss the king’s hand in return for the favor shown him.

“That night, he will take leave of his lady the infanta through the grating of her chamber overlooking the garden where he has already conversed with her many times, the go-between and confidante in the affair being a maid-in-waiting whom the princess greatly trusts. He will sigh and she will swoon, and the damsel will bring water to revive her. He will be very much distressed at this, for morning is near, and for the sake of his lady’s honor he would not have them discovered. Finally the infanta will come to herself and will hold out her white hands through the bars to her knight, who will kiss them thousands upon thousands of times, bathing them with his tears.

“It will be arranged between them how they are to keep each other informed as to the good or ill that befalls them, and the princess will entreat him not to remain away any longer than need be. He will give her this promise, with many oaths to bind it, and then he will kiss her hands once more and depart, so deeply moved that he is on the verge of dying. Going to his apartment, he will cast himself down upon his bed, but will be unable to sleep from the pain of parting. In the morning, very early, he will go to bid adieu to the king, queen, and infanta; but after he has paid his respects to the royal pair, he is informed that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive any visitors. The knight will think that she too must be suffering at prospect of their separation, his heart will be transfixed, and it will be all he can do to hide his feelings.

“But the damsel who is the go-between will be there; she will take note of everything and will go to report it all to her mistress, who will receive her with tears. The princess will then tell her maid-in-waiting that one of the things that cause her most sorrow is the fact that she does not know who her knight is, or whether he is of royal lineage or not. The damsel will assure her that so much courtesy, gentleness of bearing, and valor could be displayed only by a grave and royal personage, and with such words as these she will endeavor to assuage her mistress’s grief. The princess will then seek to compose herself so as not to make a bad impression upon her parents, and after a couple of days she will appear in public once more.

“Meanwhile, the knight has left for the wars; he conquers the king’s enemy, takes many cities, is victorious in many battles, returns to court, meets his lady in the accustomed place, and they agree that he is to ask her father for her hand in payment of his services. The king is unwilling to grant this request, for he does not know who the knight is; but, nevertheless, whether she is carried off or however it happens, she becomes his bride, and her father in the end comes to look upon it as a piece of great good fortune, for he has learned that the knight is the son of the valiant king of some realm or other which I do not think you will find on the map. The king then dies, the infanta inherits the throne, and, in a couple of words, the knight becomes king.⁷

“And here is where the bestowal of favors comes in, as he rewards his squire and all those who have assisted him in rising to so exalted a state. He marries the squire to one of the infanta’s damsels, undoubtedly the one who was the go-between in his courting of the princess, and who is the daughter of a very great duke.”

“That’s what I want, and no mistake about it,” said Sancho. “That is what I’m waiting for. All of this, word for word, is bound to happen to your Grace now that you bear the title Knight of the Mournful Countenance.”

“Do not doubt it, Sancho,” Don Quixote assured him; “for in this very manner and by these very steps of which I have told you, many come, and have come, to be kings and emperors. It only remains to find out what king of the Christians or the pagans is at war and has a beautiful daughter. But there will be time to think of all that; for, as I have said, one must achieve fame elsewhere before repairing to court. There is one other thing: supposing that I find a king with a war and with a beautiful daughter, and supposing that I have won an incredible amount of fame throughout the universe, I do not know how I am going to make myself out to be of royal line or even second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not wish to give me his daughter’s hand unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on this point, however much my deeds may merit the honor; and for this reason I fear losing that which my good right arm has so well earned for me. It is true that I am a gentleman property-holder with a country house and estate, and am entitled to an income of five hundred sueldos;⁸ and it may further be that the learned scribe who writes my history will so clear up my relationships and ancestry that I shall be found to be the descendant, fifth or sixth in line, of some king.

“For I would have you know, Sancho,” he went on, “that there are in this world two kinds of ancestral lines. In the one case, there are those who trace their descent from princes and monarchs whom time has little by little reduced until they come to end in a point like a pyramid upside down; and in the other case, there are those who spring from the lower classes and who go upward, one step after another, until they come to be great lords; the difference being that the former were what they no longer are, while the latter are what they formerly were not. And I may be one of those who, after it has been ascertained that they are of great and famous origin, are accepted for what they are, and the king, my father-in-law, in that case will be content; but should he not be, the infanta will love me so much that, in spite of her father’s wishes and even though she definitely knows me to be a water carrier’s son, she still will insist upon my being received as a gentleman and her consort. And if everything else fails, then it will come to my abducting and carrying her off wherever I see fit; for time or death must eventually put an end to her parents’ wrath.”

“It comes to something else as well,” said Sancho. “For I am reminded here of what certain wicked ones say: ‘Never beg as a favor what you can take by force’; although they might better say: ‘An escape from the slaughter is worth more than good men’s prayers.’ I tell you this because if the king, your Grace’s father-in-law, will not condescend to give you my lady the infanta, then, as your Grace says, there is nothing for it but to abduct and carry her off. But the trouble is that until you make your peace and come into the tranquil enjoyment of your kingdom, your poor squire can whistle for his favors—that is, unless the damsel who was the go-between and who is to be his wife accompanies the princess and shares her ill fortune with her until Heaven ordains otherwise; for I take it that his master will give her to him at once as his lawful spouse.”

“No one can deny him that,” said Don Quixote.

“Well, then,” replied Sancho, “if that is so, we have nothing to do but to commend ourselves to God and let fortune take whatever course it will.”

“May God fulfill my desires and your needs, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “and let him be vile who looks upon himself as such.” ⁹

“In God’s name, so let him be,” said Sancho. “I am an old Christian, and that in itself is enough to make me a count.”

“Enough and more than enough for you,” said Don Quixote; “and even if you were not, it would make no difference; for once I am king, I can very well make a noble of you without any purchase price or service on your part; and in making you a count, I make a gentleman of you at the same time, and then let them say what they will, upon my word they will have to call you ‘my lordship’ whether they like it or not.”

“And I would lend dignity to the tittle!”¹⁰ said Sancho.

“Title, you mean to say, not tittle,” his master corrected him.

“So be it,” said Sancho. “I’d know how to behave myself properly; for there was a time in my life when I was the beadle of a confraternity, and the beadle’s gown sat so well upon me that everybody said I ought to be the steward. So what will it be when I put a ducal robe on my back or dress myself out in gold and pearls like one of those foreign counts? I think, myself, that folks will be coming to see me for a hundred leagues around.”

“You will cut a fine figure,” said Don Quixote, “but it will be necessary for you to shave your beard quite often, for it is so thick and unkempt that unless you use the razor on it every other day at the least, people will be able to see what you are at the distance of a musket shot.”

“What more have I to do,” said Sancho, “than to hire a barber and keep him in the house? If necessary, I can even have him walk behind me like a nobleman’s equerry.”

“How do you know,” asked Don Quixote, “that noble-men have equerries walking behind them?”

“I will tell you about that,” Sancho replied. “Years ago I spent a month near the court, and there I saw a very small gentleman who, they told me, was a very great lord.¹¹ He was out for a stroll, and there was a man on horseback following him at every turn he took just as if he had been his tail. I asked why it was this man did not join the other one but always rode along behind him, and they replied that he was an equerry and that such was the custom of the nobility. I have known it ever since then, for I have never forgotten it.”

“You are right,” said Don Quixote, “and you may take your barber with you in the same manner; for all customs did not come into use, nor were they invented, at one and the same time; and so you may be the first count to be followed by his barber, for shaving the beard is a more intimate matter than saddling a horse.”

“Just leave the barber to me,” said Sancho, “while your Grace sees to becoming a king and making a count of me.”

“So shall it be,” said Don Quixote; and, raising his eyes, he saw something that will be related in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XXII. Of how Don Quixote freed many unfortunate ones who, much against their will, were being taken where they did not wish to go.

CID HAMETE BENENGELI, the Arabic and Man chegan ¹author, in the course of this most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and imaginative history, informs us that, following the remarks that were exchanged between Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza, his squire, as related at the end of Chapter XXI, the knight looked up and saw coming toward them down the road which they were following a dozen or so men on foot, strung together by their necks like beads on an iron chain and all of them wearing handcuffs. They were accompanied by two men on horseback and two on foot, the former carrying wheel-lock muskets while the other two were armed with swords and javelins.

“That,” said Sancho as soon as he saw them, “is a chain of galley slaves, people on their way to the galleys where by order of the king they are forced to labor.”

“What do you mean by ‘forced’?” asked Don Quixote. “Is it possible that the king uses force on anyone?”

“I did not say that,” replied Sancho. “What I did say was that these are folks who have been condemned for their crimes to forced labor in the galleys for his Majesty the King.”

“The short of it is,” said the knight, “whichever way you put it, these people are being taken there by force and not of their own free will.”

“That is the way it is,” said Sancho.

“Well, in that case,” said his master, “now is the time for me to fulfill the duties of my calling, which is to right wrongs and come to the aid of the wretched.”

“But take note, your Grace,” said Sancho, “that justice, that is to say, the king himself, is not using any force upon, or doing any wrong to, people like these, but is merely punishing them for the crimes they have committed.”

The chain of galley slaves had come up to them by this time, whereupon Don Quixote very courteously requested the guards to inform him of the reason or reasons why they were conducting these people in such a manner as this. One of the men on horseback then replied that the men were prisoners who had been condemned by his Majesty to serve in the galleys, whither they were bound, and that was all there was to be said about it and all that he, Don Quixote, need know.

“Nevertheless,” said the latter, “I should like to inquire of each one of them, individually, the cause of his misfortune.” And he went on speaking so very politely in an effort to persuade them to tell him what he wanted to know that the other mounted guard finally said, “Although we have here the record and certificate of sentence of each one of these wretches, we have not the time to get them out and read them to you; and so your Grace may come over and ask the prisoners themselves, and they will tell you if they choose, and you may be sure that they will, for these fellows take a delight in their knavish exploits and in boasting of them afterward.”

With this permission, even though he would have done so if it had not been granted him, Don Quixote went up to the chain of prisoners and asked the first whom he encountered what sins had brought him to so sorry a plight. The man replied that it was for being a lover that he found himself in that line.

“For that and nothing more?” said Don Quixote. “And do they, then, send lovers to the galleys? If so, I should have been rowing there long ago.”

“But it was not the kind of love that your Grace has in mind,” the prisoner went on. “I loved a wash basket full of white linen so well and hugged it so tightly that, if they had not taken it away from me by force, I would never of my own choice have let go of it to this very minute. I was caught in the act, there was no need to torture me, the case was soon disposed of, and they supplied me with a hundred lashes across the shoulders and, in addition, a three-year stretch² in the gurapas, and that’s all there is to tell.”

“What are gurapas?” asked Don Quixote.

“Gurapas are the galleys,” replied the prisoner. He was a lad of around twenty-four and stated that he was a native of Piedrahita.

The knight then put the same question to a second man, who appeared to be very downcast and melancholy and did not have a word to say. The first man answered for him.

“This one, sir,” he said, “is going as a canary—I mean, as a musician and singer.”

“How is that?” Don Quixote wanted to know. “Do musicians and singers go to the galleys too?”

“Yes, sir; and there is nothing worse than singing when you’re in trouble.”

“On the contrary,” said Don Quixote, “I have heard it said that he who sings frightens away his sorrows.”

“It is just the opposite,” said the prisoner; “for he who sings once weeps all his life long.”

“I do not understand,” said the knight.

One of the guards then explained. “Sir Knight, with this non sancta tribe, to sing when you’re in trouble means to confess under torture. This sinner was put to the torture and confessed his crime, which was that of being a cuatrero, or cattle thief, and as a result of his confession he was condemned to six years in the galleys in addition to two hundred lashes which he took on his shoulders; and so it is he is always downcast and moody, for the other thieves, those back where he came from and the ones here, mistreat, snub, ridicule, and despise him for having confessed and for not having had the courage to deny his guilt. They are in the habit of saying that the word no has the same number of letters as the word sí, and that a culprit is in luck when his life or death depends on his own tongue and not that of witnesses or upon evidence; and, in my opinion, they are not very far wrong.”

“And I,” said Don Quixote, “feel the same way about it.” He then went on to a third prisoner and repeated his question.

The fellow answered at once, quite unconcernedly. “I’m going to my ladies, the gurapas, for five years, for the lack of five ducats.”

“I would gladly give twenty,” said Don Quixote, “to get you out of this.”

“That,” said the prisoner, “reminds me of the man in the middle of the ocean who has money and is dying of hunger because there is no place to buy what he needs. I say this for the reason that if I had had, at the right time, those twenty ducats your Grace is now offering me, I’d have greased the notary’s quill and freshened up the attorney’s wit with them, and I’d now be living in the middle of Zocodover Square in Toledo instead of being here on this highway coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience, and that’s enough of it.”

Don Quixote went on to a fourth prisoner, a venerable-looking old fellow with a white beard that fell over his bosom. When asked how he came to be there, this one began weeping and made no reply, but a fifth comrade spoke up in his behalf.

“This worthy man,” he said, “is on his way to the galleys after having made the usual rounds clad in a robe of state and on horseback.” ³

“That means, I take it,” said Sancho, “that he has been put to shame in public.”

“That is it,” said the prisoner, “and the offense for which he is being punished is that of having been an ear broker, or, better, a body broker. By that I mean to say, in short, that the gentleman is a pimp, and besides, he has his points as a sorcerer.”

“If that point had not been thrown in,” said Don Quixote, “he would not deserve, for merely being a pimp, to have to row in the galleys, but rather should be the general and give orders there. For the office of pimp is not an indifferent one; it is a function to be performed by persons of discretion and is most necessary in a well-ordered state; it is a profession that should be followed only by the wellborn, and there should, moreover, be a supervisor or examiner as in the case of other offices, and the number of practitioners should be fixed by law as is done with brokers on the exchange. In that way many evils would be averted that arise when this office is filled and this calling practiced by stupid folk and those with little sense, such as silly women and pages or mountebanks with few years and less experience to their credit, who, on the most pressing occasions, when it is necessary to use one’s wits, let the crumbs freeze between their band and their mouth⁴ and do not know which is their right hand and which is the left.

“I would go on and give reasons why it is fitting to choose carefully those who are to fulfill so necessary a state function, but this is not the place for it. One of these days I will speak of the matter to someone who is able to do something about it. I will say here only that the pain I felt at seeing those white hairs and this venerable countenance in such a plight, and all for his having been a pimp, has been offset for me by the additional information you have given me, to the effect that he is a sorcerer as well; for I am convinced that there are no sorcerers in the world who can move and compel the will, as some simple-minded persons think, but that our will is free and no herb or charm can force it. All that certain foolish women and cunning tricksters do is to compound a few mixtures and poisons with which they deprive men of their senses while pretending that they have the power to make them loved,⁵ although, as I have just said, one cannot affect another’s will in that manner.”

“That is so,” said the worthy old man; “but the truth is, sir, I am not guilty on the sorcery charge. As for being a pimp, that is something I cannot deny. I never thought there was any harm in it, however, my only desire being that everyone should enjoy himself and live in peace and quiet, without any quarrels or troubles. But these good intentions on my part cannot prevent me from going where I do not want to go, to a place from which I do not expect to return; for my years are heavy upon me and an affection of the urine that I have will not give me a moment’s rest.”

With this, he began weeping once more, and Sancho was so touched by it that he took a four-real piece from his bosom and gave it to him as an act of charity.

Don Quixote then went on and asked another what his offense was. The fellow answered him, not with less, but with much more, briskness than the preceding one had shown.

“I am here,” he said, “for the reason that I carried a joke too far with a couple of cousins-german of mine and a couple of others who were not mine, and I ended by jesting with all of them to such an extent that the devil ⁶ himself would never be able to straighten out the relationship. They proved everything on me, there was no one to show me favor, I had no money, I came near swinging for it, they sentenced me to the galleys for six years, and I accepted the sentence as the punishment that was due me. I am young yet, and if I live long enough, everything will come out all right. If, Sir Knight, your Grace has anything with which to aid these poor creatures that you see before you, God will reward you in Heaven, and we here on earth will make it a point to ask God in our prayers to grant you long life and good health, as long and as good as your amiable presence deserves.”

This man was dressed as a student, and one of the guards told Don Quixote that he was a great talker and a very fine Latinist.

Back of these came a man around thirty years of age and of very good appearance, except that when he looked at you his eyes were seen to be a little crossed. He was shackled in a different manner from the others, for he dragged behind him a chain so huge that it was wrapped all round his body, with two rings at the throat, one of which was attached to the chain while the other was fastened to what is known as a keep-friend or friend’s foot, from which two irons hung down to his waist, ending in handcuffs secured by a heavy padlock in such a manner that he could neither raise his hands to his mouth nor lower his head to reach his hands.

When Don Quixote asked why this man was so much more heavily chained than the others, the guard replied that it was because he had more crimes against him than all the others put together, and he was so bold and cunning that, even though they had him chained like this, they were by no means sure of him but feared that he might escape from them.

“What crimes could he have committed,” asked the knight, “if he has merited a punishment no greater than that of being sent to the galleys?”

“He is being sent there for ten years,” replied the guard, “and that is equivalent to civil death. I need tell you no more than that this good man is the famous Ginés de Pasamonte, otherwise known as Ginesillo de Parapilla.”

“Señor Commissary,” spoke up the prisoner at this point, “go easy there and let us not be so free with names and surnames. My just name is Ginés and not Ginesillo; and Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you make it out to be, is my family name. Let each one mind his own affairs and he will have his hands full.”

“Speak a little more respectfully, you big thief, you,” said the commissary, “unless you want me to make you be quiet in a way you won’t like.”

“Man goes as God pleases, that is plain to be seen,” replied the galley slave, “but someday someone will know whether my name is Ginesillo de Parapilla or not.”

“But, you liar, isn’t that what they call you?”

“Yes,” said Ginés, “they do call me that; but I’ll put a stop to it, or else I’ll skin their you-know-what. And you, sir, if you have anything to give us, give it and may God go with you, for I am tired of all this prying into other people’s lives. If you want to know anything about my life, know that I am Ginés de Pasamonte whose life story has been written down by these fingers that you see here.”

“He speaks the truth,” said the commissary, “for he has himself written his story, as big as you please, and has left the book in the prison, having pawned it for two hundred reales.”

“And I mean to redeem it,” said Ginés, “even if it costs me two hundred ducats.”

“Is it as good as that?” inquired Don Quixote.

“It is so good,” replied Ginés, “that it will cast into the shade Lazarillo de Tormes⁷and all others of that sort that have been or will be written. What I would tell you is that it deals with facts, and facts so interesting and amusing that no lies could equal them.”

“And what is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote.

“The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte.”

“Is it finished?”

“How could it be finished,” said Ginés, “when my life is not finished as yet? What I have written thus far is an account of what happened to me from the time I was born up to the last time that they sent me to the galleys.”

“Then you have been there before?”

“In the service of God and the king I was there four years, and I know what the biscuit and the cowhide are like. I don’t mind going very much, for there I will have a chance to finish my book. I still have many things to say, and in the Spanish galleys I shall have all the leisure that I need, though I don’t need much, since I know by heart what it is I want to write.”

“You seem to be a clever fellow,” said Don Quixote.

“And an unfortunate one,” said Ginés; “for misfortunes always pursue men of genius.”

“They pursue rogues,” said the commissary.

“I have told you to go easy, Señor Commissary,” said Pasamonte, “for their Lordships did not give you that staff in order that you might mistreat us poor devils with it, but they intended that you should guide and conduct us in accordance with his Majesty’s command. Otherwise, by the life of—But enough. It may be that someday the stains made in the inn will come out in the wash. Meanwhile, let everyone hold his tongue, behave well, and speak better, and let us be on our way. We’ve had enough of this foolishness.”

At this point the commissary raised his staff as if to let Pasamonte have it in answer to his threats, but Don Quixote placed himself between them and begged the officer not to abuse the man; for it was not to be wondered at if one who had his hands so bound should be a trifle free with his tongue. With this, he turned and addressed them all.

“From all that you have told me, my dearest brothers,” he said, “one thing stands out clearly for me, and that is the fact that, even though it is a punishment for offenses which you have committed, the penalty you are about to pay is not greatly to your liking and you are going to the galleys very much against your own will and desire. It may be that the lack of spirit which one of you displayed under torture, the lack of money on the part of another, the lack of influential friends, or, finally, warped judgment on the part of the magistrate, was the thing that led to your downfall; and, as a result, justice was not done you. All of which presents itself to my mind in such a fashion that I am at this moment engaged in trying to persuade and even force myself to show you what the purpose was for which Heaven sent me into this world, why it was it led me to adopt the calling of knighthood which I profess and take the knightly vow to favor the needy and aid those who are oppressed by the powerful.

“However, knowing as I do that it is not the part of prudence to do by foul means what can be accomplished by fair ones, I propose to ask these gentlemen, your guards, and the commissary to be so good as to unshackle you and permit you to go in peace. There will be no dearth of others to serve his Majesty under more propitious circumstances; and it does not appear to me to be just to make slaves of those whom God created as free men. What is more, gentlemen of the guard, these poor fellows have committed no offense against you. Up there, each of us will have to answer for his own sins; for God in Heaven will not fail to punish the evil and reward the good; and it is not good for self-respecting men to be executioners of their fellow-men in something that does not concern them. And so, I ask this of you, gently and quietly, in order that, if you comply with my request, I shall have reason to thank you; and if you do not do so of your own accord, then this lance and this sword and the valor of my arm shall compel you to do it by force.”

“A fine lot of foolishness!” exclaimed the commissary. “So he comes out at last with this nonsense! He would have us let the prisoners of the king go free, as if we had any authority to do so or he any right to command it! Be on your way, sir, at once; straighten that basin that you have on your head, and do not go looking for three feet on a cat.”⁸

“You,” replied Don Quixote, “are the cat and the rat and the rascal!” And, saying this, he charged the commissary so quickly that the latter had no chance to defend himself but fell to the ground badly wounded by the lance blow. The other guards were astounded by this unexpected occurrence; but, recovering their self-possession, those on horseback drew their swords,⁹ those on foot leveled their javelins, and all bore down on Don Quixote, who stood waiting for them very calmly. Things undoubtedly would have gone badly for him if the galley slaves, seeing an opportunity to gain their freedom, had not succeeded in breaking the chain that linked them together. Such was the confusion that the guards, now running to fall upon the prisoners and now attacking Don Quixote, who in turn was attacking them, accomplished nothing that was of any use.

Sancho for his part aided Ginés de Pasamonte to free himself, and that individual was the first to drop his chains and leap out onto the field, where, attacking the fallen commissary, he took away that officer’s sword and musket; and as he stood there, aiming first at one and then at another, though without firing, the plain was soon cleared of guards, for they had taken to their heels, fleeing at once Pasamonte’s weapon and the stones which the galley slaves, freed now, were hurling at them. Sancho, meanwhile, was very much disturbed over this unfortunate event, as he felt sure that the fugitives would report the matter to the Holy Brotherhood, which, to the ringing of the alarm bell, would come out to search for the guilty parties. He said as much to his master, telling him that they should leave at once and go into hiding in the near-by mountains.

“That is all very well,” said Don Quixote, “but I know what had best be done now.” He then summoned all the prisoners, who, running riot, had by this time despoiled the commissary of everything that he had, down to his skin, and as they gathered around to hear what he had to say, he addressed them as follows:

“It is fitting that those who are wellborn should give thanks for the benefits they have received, and one of the sins with which God is most offended is that of ingratitude. I say this, gentlemen, for the reason that you have seen and had manifest proof of what you owe to me; and now that you are free of the yoke which I have removed from about your necks, it is my will and desire that you should set out and proceed to the city of El Toboso and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso and say to her that her champion, the Knight of the Mournful Countenance, has sent you; and then you will relate to her, point by point, the whole of this famous adventure which has won you your longed-for freedom. Having done that, you may go where you like, and may good luck go with you.”

To this Ginés de Pasamonte replied in behalf of all of them, “It is absolutely impossible, your Grace, our liberator, for us to do what you have commanded. We cannot go down the highway all together but must separate and go singly, each in his own direction, endeavoring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth in order not to be found by the Holy Brotherhood, which undoubtedly will come out to search for us. What your Grace can do, and it is right that you should do so, is to change this service and toll that you require of us in connection with the lady Dulcinea del Toboso into a certain number of Credos and Hail Marys which we will say for your Grace’s intention, as this is something that can be accomplished by day or night, fleeing or resting, in peace or in war. To imagine, on the other hand, that we are going to return to the fleshpots of Egypt, by which I mean, take up our chains again by setting out along the highway for El Toboso, is to believe that it is night now instead of ten o’clock in the morning and is to ask of us something that is the same as asking pears of the elm tree.”

“Then by all that’s holy!” exclaimed Don Quixote, whose wrath was now aroused, “you, Don Son of a Whore, Don Ginesillo de Parapilla,, or whatever your name is, you shall go alone, your tail between your legs and the whole chain on your back.”

Pasamonte, who was by no means a long-suffering individual, was by this time convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in the head, seeing that he had been guilty of such a folly as that of desiring to free them; and so, when he heard himself insulted in this manner, he merely gave the wink to his companions and, going off to one side, began raining so many stones upon the knight that the latter was wholly unable to protect himself with his buckler, while poor Rocinante paid no more attention to the spur than if he had been made of brass. As for Sancho, he took refuge behind his donkey as a protection against the cloud and shower of rocks that was falling on both of them, but Don Quixote was not able to shield himself so well, and there is no telling how many struck his body, with such force as to unhorse and bring him to the ground.

No sooner had he fallen than the student was upon him. Seizing the basin from the knight’s head, he struck him three or four blows with it across the shoulders and banged it against the ground an equal number of times until it was fairly shattered to bits. They then stripped Don Quixote of the doublet which he wore over his armor, and would have taken his hose as well, if his greaves had not prevented them from doing so, and made off with Sancho’s greatcoat, leaving him naked; after which, dividing the rest of the battle spoils amongst themselves, each of them went his own way, being a good deal more concerned with eluding the dreaded Holy Brotherhood than they were with burdening themselves with a chain or going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

They were left alone now—the ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote: the ass, crestfallen and pensive, wagging its ears now and then, being under the impression that the hurricane of stones that had raged about them was not yet over; Rocinante, stretched alongside his master, for the hack also had been felled by a stone; Sancho, naked and fearful of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote, making wry faces at seeing himself so mishandled by those to whom he had done so much good.