Sancho made shift to overtake his master, so haggard and dismayed, that

he was scarce able to manage his beast: and when the knight perceived

his melancholy situation, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am now convinced

beyond all doubt, that this castle or inn is inchanted; for those who

made such a barbarous pastime of thy sufferings, could be no other than

phantoms and beings belonging to the other world. I am confirmed in this

opinion, from having found, that while I was by the wall of the yard, a

spectator of the acts of thy mournful tragedy, I could neither climb

over to thy assistance, nor indeed move from Rozinante, but was fixed in

the saddle by the power of inchantment; for I swear to thee, by the

faith of my character! if I could have alighted from my steed, and

surmounted the wall, I would have revenged thy wrongs in such a manner,

that those idle miscreants should have remembered the jest to their

dying day: although I know, that in so doing, I should have transgressed

the laws of chivalry, which, I have often told thee, do not allow a

knight to lift his arm against any person of an inferior degree, except

in defence of his own life and limbs, or in cases of the most pressing

necessity.’—‘So would I have revenged myself,’ said Sancho, ‘knighted or

not knighted; but it was not in my power; though I am very well

satisfied that those who diverted themselves at my cost were no

phantoms, nor inchanted beings, as your worship imagines, but men made

of flesh and bones, as we are, and all of them have Christian names,

which I heard repeated, while they tossed me in the blanket; one, for

example, is called Pedro Martinez, another Tenorio Harnandez, and the

innkeeper goes by the name of Juan Palameque the left-handed; and

therefore, Signior, your being disabled from alighting and getting over

the wall, must have been owing to something else than inchantment. What

I can clearly discern from the whole is, that these adventures we go in

search of, will, at the long run, bring us into such misventures, that

we shall not know our right hands from our left; and therefore, in my

small judgment, the best and wholesomest thing we can do, will be to jog

back again to our own habitation now, while the harvest is going on, to

take care of our crops, and leave off sauntering from post to

pillar[59], and falling out of the frying-pan into the fire, as the

saying is.’

‘How little art thou acquainted, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘with the

pretensions of chivalry! hold thy tongue and have patience; for the day

will soon arrive on which thy own eyes shall judge what an honourable

profession it is: pray, tell me, now, what greater satisfaction can

there be in this world, or what pleasure can equal that of a conqueror,

who triumphs over his adversary in battle? None, sure!’—‘That may be,’

answered the squire, ‘though I know nothing of the matter. This only I

know, that since we have taken up the trade of knights-errant, your

worship I mean, for as to my own part I have no manner of title to be

reckoned in such an honourable list, we have not gained one battle,

except that with the Biscayan; and even there your worship came off with

half an ear, and the loss of one side of your helmet: from that day to

this good hour, our lot hath been nothing but cudgelling upon

cudgelling, pummelling upon pummelling; except the advantage I have had

over your worship, in being tossed in a blanket by inchanted Moors, whom

I cannot be revenged of, in order to know how pleasant a pastime it is

to overcome one’s enemy, as your worship observes.’—‘That is the very

grievance, Sancho, under which both you and I labour,’ said Don Quixote:

‘but, for the future, I will endeavour to procure a sword tempered with

such masterly skill, that he who wears it shall be subject to no kind of

inchantment; and who knows but accident may furnish me with that which

Amadis possessed, when he stiled himself the knight of the flaming

sword; and truly it was one of the most excellent blades that ever a

warrior unsheathed; for, besides that sovereign virtue it contained, it

cut keen as a razor, and no armour, though ever so strong or inchanted,

could stand before its edge.’—‘I am so devilishly lucky,’ said Sancho,

‘that if the case was really so, and your worship should light on that

same sword, it would, like the precious balsam, be of no service or

security to any but your true knights; and we that are squires might

sing for sorrow.’—‘Thou must not be afraid of that,’ replied the knight;

‘Heaven will surely deal more mercifully with thee.’

In such conversation, Don Quixote and his squire jogged along, when the

former descrying on the road in which they travelled, a large and thick

cloud of dust rolling towards them, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘This, O

Sancho, is the day that shall manifest the great things which fortune

hath in store for me! This, I say, is the day on which the valour of

this arm shall be displayed as much as upon any other occasion; and on

which I am resolved to perform deeds that shall remain engraven on the

leaves of fame to all posterity! Seest thou that cloud of dust before

us? The whole of it is raised by a vast army, composed of various and

innumerable nations that are marching this way.’—‘By that way of

reckoning, there must be two,’ said Sancho, ‘for right over against it

there is just such another.’ Don Quixote immediately turned his eyes,

and perceiving Sancho’s information to be true, was rejoiced beyond

measure; firmly believing that what he saw were two armies in full march

to attack each other, and engage in the middle of that spacious plain;

for every hour and minute of the day his imagination was engrossed by

those battles, inchantments, dreadful accidents, extravagant amours, and

rhodomontades, which are recorded in books of chivalry; and indeed every

thing he thought, said, or did, had a tendency that way.

As for the dust he now saw, it was raised by two flocks of sheep which

chanced to be driven from different parts into the same road, and were

so much involved in this cloud of their own making, that it was

impossible to discern them until they were very near. The knight

affirmed they were armies with such assurance, that Sancho actually

believed it, and said to his master, ‘And pray now, good your worship,

what must we do?’—‘What,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘but assist and support

that side which is weak and discomfited? Thou must know, Sancho, that

yonder host which fronts us, is led and commanded by the mighty Emperor

Alifanfaron, sovereign of the great island of Trapoban; and that other

behind us belongs to his mortal enemy the king of the Garamanteans,

known by the name Pentapolin with the naked arm, because he always goes

to battle with the sleeve of his right-arm tucked up.’—‘But why are

those chieftains so mischievously inclined towards each other?’ said

Sancho. ‘The cause of their enmity,’ replied the knight, ‘is this:

Alifanfaron, who is a most outrageous Pagan, is enamoured of

Pentapolin’s daughter, a most beautiful and courteous lady, who being a

Christian, her father will by no means betroth her to the infidel

prince, unless he shall first renounce the law of his false prophet

Mahomet, and become a convert to the true faith.’—‘Now, by my whiskers!’

cried Sancho, ‘King Pentapolin is an honest man, and I am resolved to

give him all the assistance in my power.’—‘In so doing thou wilt perform

thy duty, Sancho,’ said his master; ‘for to engage in such battles as

these, it is not necessary to be dubbed a knight.’—‘That I can easily

comprehend,’ replied the other; ‘but where shall we secure the ass, that

we may be sure of finding him after the fray is over; for I believe it

is not the fashion now-a-days, to go to battle on such a beast.’—‘True,’

said the knight, ‘and I think the best way will be to leave him to his

chance, whether he be lost or not; for we shall have such choice of

steeds, when once we have gained the victory, that Rozinante himself

will run some risk of being exchanged for another: but observe and

listen attentively; I will now give thee a detail of the principal

knights that serve in these two armies; and that thou may’st see and

mark them the better, let us retire to yon rising ground, from whence we

can distinctly view the line of battle in both.’ They accordingly placed

themselves upon a hillock, whence they could easily have discerned the

two flocks of sheep which Don Quixote metamorphosed into armies, had not

the dust they raised confounded and obscured the view; but nevertheless,

beholding in his imagination that which could not otherwise be seen,

because it did not exist, he began to pronounce with an audible voice—

‘That knight whom thou seest with yellow armour, bearing in his shield a

lion crowned and crouching at the feet of a young lady, is the gallant

Laucalco, lord of the silver bridge; that other beside him, who wears

armour powdered with flowers of gold, and bears for his device three

crowns argent in a field azure, is the amorous Micocolembo, Grand Duke

of Quiracia; and he upon his right-hand, with those gigantick limbs, is

the never to be daunted Brandabarbaran de Boliche, sovereign of the

three Arabias, who comes armed with a serpent’s skin, and, instead of a

shield, brandishes a huge gate, which, it is said, belonged to the

temple that Samson overthrew, when he avenged himself of his enemies at

his death; but turn thine eyes, and behold in the front of this other

army, the ever-conquering and never-conquered Timonel de Carcajona,

prince of New-Biscay, whose arms are quartered azure, vert, argent, and

or; and the device in his shield, a cat or, in a field gules, with the

letters Miau, which constitute the beginning of his lady’s name; and

she, they say, is the peerless Miaulina, daughter of Alfeniquen, Duke of

Algarve; the other who loads and oppresses the loins of that fiery

Arabian steed, with armour white as snow, and a shield without a device,

is a noviciate knight of the French nation, called Pierre Papin, Baron

of Utrique; the third, who strikes his iron rowels into the flanks of

that spotted nimble zebra[60], is the potent Duke of Nerbia,

esparta-filardo of the wood, who bears in his shield for a device, a

bunch of asparagus, with an inscription signifying, “By destiny I am

dogged.”’

In this manner did he invent names for a great many knights in either

army, to all of whom also he gave arms, colours, mottos, and devices,

without the least hesitation, being incredibly inspired by the fumes of

a distempered fancy; nay, he proceeded without any pause, saying, ‘That

squadron forming in our front is composed of people of divers nations:

there be those who drink the delicious waters of the celebrated Xanthus,

with the mountaineers who tread the Masilican plains: and those who sift

the purest golden ore of Arabia Felix; there also may be seen the people

who sport upon the cool and famous banks of the translucent Thermodonte;

and those who conduct the yellow Pactolus in many a winding stream; the

promise-breaking Numidians; the Persians for their archery renowned; the

Parthians and the Medes who combat as they fly; the Arabians famed for

shifting habitations; the Scythians cruel as they are fair; the

thick-lipped race of Ethiopia; and an infinite variety of other nations,

whose looks I know, and can discern, though I cannot recollect their

names. In that other squadron march those men who lave in the crystal

current of the olive-bearing Betis; those whose visages are cleaned and

polished with the limpid wave of the ever rich and golden Tagus; those

who delight in the salutiferous draughts of Genil the divine; those who

scour the Tartesian fields that with fat pasture teem; those who make

merry in the Elysian meads of Herezan; the rich Manchegans crowned with

ruddy ears of corn; those cloathed in steel the bold remains of ancient

Gothick blood; those who bathe in Pisuerga, famous for its gentle

current; those who feed their flocks upon the spacious meads of the

meandring Guadiana, celebrated for its secret course; those who shiver

with the chill blasts of the woody Pyrenees; and those who feel the

snowy flakes of lofty Appenine: in fine, whatever nation Europe imbosoms

and contains.’

Heaven preserve us! what provinces did he mention! what nations did he

name! bestowing, with wonderful facility, those attributes that belonged

to each; being all the while absorpt, and, as it were, immersed in the

contents of his deceitful books. Sancho Panza listened attentively to

his master, without uttering one syllable; and from time to time turned

his eyes from one side to another to see if he could discern those

knights and giants who were thus described: but not being able to

discover one of them, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘your worship may say what you

please, but the devil a man, giant, or knight, that you have mentioned,

is there; at least I can see none: perhaps, indeed, the whole is

inchantment, like the phantoms of last night.’—‘How say’st thou?’

replied Don Quixote, ‘dost thou not hear the neighing of steeds, the

sound of clarions, and noise of drums?’—‘I hear nothing,’ answered

Sancho, ‘but abundance of bleating of ewes and lambs.’ And truly that

was the case; for by this time the two flocks were pretty near them.

‘Thy fear,’ said Don Quixote, ‘hinders thee from seeing and hearing

aright: for one effect of terror is to disturb the senses, and make

objects appear otherwise than they are; if thou art therefore under such

consternation, retire on one side, and leave me alone; for I myself am

sufficient to bestow victory on that cause which I espouse.’ So saying,

he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and putting his lance in the rest, darted

down from the hillock like lightning. In vain did Sancho bellow forth,

‘Turn, Signior Don Quixote: good your worship, turn! so help me God,

those are ewes and lambs you are going to attack! Woe be to the father

that begat me! Will you not turn? What madness possesses you! Consider,

here are no giants, nor knights, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields

quartered or whole, nor inverted azures, and the devils knows what: was

there ever such distraction? sinner that I am!’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Valiantly Charging the Herd of Sheep.]

The knight, however, did not regard this exclamation: on the contrary,

he rode on, bauling aloud, ‘So ho, knights! you that attend and serve

under the banners of the valiant Emperor Pentapolin, with the naked arm,

follow me in a body, and you shall behold how easily I will avenge him,

on his adversary Alifanfaron, of Trapoban.’ Having uttered these words,

he rushed into the thickest of the squadron of sheep, and began to lay

about him, with as much eagerness and fury, as if he had been actually

engaged with his mortal enemies. The herdsmen and shepherds who were

driving the flock, called to him to forbear; but finding their

admonition had no effect, they ungirded their slings, and began to

salute his ears with stones, the least of which was as large as an

ordinary fist; but he, far from minding their missiles, rode about the

field, crying, ‘Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? face me if thou

darest; I am but a single knight, who want to prove thy prowess hand to

hand, and sacrifice thy life for the injury thou hast done to Pentapolin

Garamanta.’ Just as he pronounced these words, he received a pebble on

his side, that seemed to have buried a couple of his ribs in his belly;

and gave him such a rude shock, that he believed himself either dead or

desperately wounded; then remembering his specifick, he pulled out the

cruse, and setting it to his mouth, began to swallow the balsam; but

before he had drank what he thought a sufficient dose, there came

another such almond, so plump upon his hand and cruse, that after having

shivered the pot to pieces, it carried off in its way three or four of

his grinders, and shattered two of his fingers in a grievous manner: in

short, so irresistible were both the applications, that the poor knight

could not help tumbling from his horse. The shepherds immediately came

up, and believing him actually dead, gathered together their flock with

all imaginable dispatch; and taking their dead, which might be about

seven in number, upon their shoulders, made off without any farther

inquiry.

All this time Sancho remained upon the hill, beholding, with amazement,

the madness of his master, tearing his beard, and cursing the hour and

minute on which it was his fate to know him: and now seeing him fallen,

and the shepherds gone, he descended to his assistance, when finding him

still sensible, though in a miserable situation, ‘Did not I warn you,

Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to turn; and assure you that those you

went to attack were no armies, but flocks of innocent sheep?’—‘How

strangely can that miscreant inchanter, who is my enemy, transmography

things to thwart me? Know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for

necromancers to make us assume what shapes they please; and the

malicious wretch who persecutes me, envying the glory I should have

gained in this battle, hath doubtless metamorphosed the squadrons of the

foe into flocks of sheep: but thou shalt do one thing, I intreat thee,

Sancho, in order to be undeceived and convinced of the truth; mount thy

ass, and follow them fair and softly; and when they are at a convenient

distance from hence, thou wilt see them return to their former shapes,

and ceasing to be sheep, become men again, right and tight as I at first

described them; but do not go at present, for I have occasion for thy

service and assistance: come hither, and see how many teeth I have lost;

methinks there is not one left in my whole jaw.’

Sancho accordingly approached so near as to trust his eyes into his

master’s mouth, just at the time when the balsam began to operate in his

stomach, which, with the force of a culverin, discharged its contents

full in the beard of the compassionate squire. ‘Holy Virgin!’ cried

Sancho, ‘what is this that hath befallen me? Without doubt, this poor

sinner is mortally wounded, since he vomits blood.’ But considering the

case more maturely, he found by the colour, taste, and smell, that it

was not blood, but the balsam he had seen him drink: and such was the

loathing he conceived at this recognition, that his stomach turned, and

he emptied his bowels upon his master; so that both of them remained in

a handsome pickle. Sancho ran to his ass, for a towel to clean them, and

some application for his master’s hurt; but when he missed his bags, he

had well-nigh lost his senses; he cursed his fate again, and determined

with himself to leave the knight, and return to his habitation, even

though he should lose his wages for the time he had already served, as

well as his hopes of governing the Island of Promise.

At this juncture Don Quixote arose, and clapping his left-hand to his

cheek, in order to prevent his teeth from falling out, with the right

laid hold of the bridle of Rozinante; who, like a faithful and

affectionate servant, had never stirred from his master’s side; and went

up to the place where his squire stood, leaning upon his ass, with one

hand applied to his jaw, in the posture of a person who is exceedingly

pensive; the knight perceiving him in this situation, with manifest

signs of melancholy in his countenance, ‘Know Sancho,’ said he, ‘that

one man is no more than another, unless he can do more than another. All

those hurricanes that have happened to us prognosticate that we soon

shall have fair weather, and that every thing will succeed to our wish:

for it is impossible that either good or bad fortune should be eternal;

and therefore it follows, that our adversity having lasted so long, our

prosperity must be now at hand. Be not grieved then, at the misfortunes

that happen to me, since no part of them falls to thy share.’—‘Not to my

share!’ answered Sancho; ‘mayhap, then, he whom they tossed in the

blanket yesterday was not the son of my father; and the bags that are

lost to-day, with all the goods in them, belonged to some other

person.’—‘What, hast thou lost the bags, Sancho!’ cried Don Quixote.

‘Yes, sure,’ said the other. ‘At that rate, then, we have no victuals to

eat?’ resumed the knight. ‘That would certainly be the case,’ answered

the squire, ‘if the meadows did not furnish those herbs you say you know

with which unfortunate knights like your worship are wont to make up

such losses.’—‘Yes, but for all that,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I could at

present relish a luncheon of brown bread, or a loaf, with a couple of

red herrings, better than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even

with the annotations of Doctor Laguna; but, nevertheless, mount thy

beast, honest Sancho, and follow me. God, who provides all things, will

not be wanting to us; more especially as we are employed in his

immediate service: he faileth not to provide for the gnats of the air,

the insects of the earth, the spawn of the sea; and is so beneficent, as

to cause the sun to shine upon the good and bad, and sendeth rain to the

wicked as well as the righteous.’—‘Your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘is more

fit to be a preacher than a knight-errant.’—‘Knights-errant,’ replied

his master, ‘ever had, and ought to have, some knowledge of every thing;

nay, some there have been in times past, who would stop to make a sermon

or discourse upon the highway, with as much eloquence as if they had

taken their degrees at the university of Paris: from whence it maybe

inferred, that the lance was never blunted by the pen, nor the quill

impeded by the lance.’—‘What your worship observes may be very true,’

said Sancho; ‘but, in the mean time, let us leave this place, and

endeavour to get a night’s lodging in some house or other, where, God

grant there may be neither blankets nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor

inchanted Moors; else, may the devil confound both hook and crook!’

‘Implore the protection of God, my son,’ answered the knight, ‘and lead

me where thou wilt: for this once, I leave our lodging to thy care; but

reach hither thy hand, and feel with thy finger how many teeth I have

lost on this right side of my upper jaw, which is the place that gives

me the greatest pain.’ Sancho introduced his fingers, and having

carefully examined his gums. ‘How many teeth,’ said he, was your worship

wont to have in this place?’—‘Four, besides the dog-tooth,’ answered Don

Quixote, ‘all of them sound and whole.’—‘Consider what your worship

says,’ replied Sancho. ‘I say, four, if not five,’ resumed the knight;

‘for, in all my life, I never lost tooth or fang, either by worm, rheum,

or scurvy.’—‘At present,’ said the squire, ‘in that part of the lower

jaw, your worship has but two grinders and a half; and above, neither

half nor whole; all is smooth as the palm of my hand.’—‘Cruel fortune!’

cried Don Quixote, hearing this melancholy piece of news; ‘would they

had rather demolished a limb, so it had not been the sword-arm: for I

would have thee to know, Sancho, that a mouth without grinders, is like

a mill without a milstone; and a tooth is worth a treasure[61]; but such

mischances always attend us who profess the strict order of chivalry.

Get up, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow at thy own pace.’

Sancho complied with his desire, and took the way that seemed most

likely to lead to some accommodation, without quitting the high road,

which was thereabouts very much frequented. While they jogged on softly,

because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws would not suffer him to be quiet,

or exert himself in pushing forward, Sancho being desirous of

entertaining and diverting him with his discourse, said, among other

things, what will be rehearsed in the following chapter.

Footnote 59:

In the original, from Ceca to Mecca; a phrase derived from the customs

of the Moors, who used to go in pilgrimage to these two places. Ceca

was in the city of Cordova.

Footnote 60:

Zebra is a beautiful creature, native of Arabia, vulgarly called the

wild ass.

Footnote 61:

I have endeavoured to preserve an alliteration in tooth and treasure,

after the example of Cervantes, who seems to have intended it, in the

words _diente_ and _diamante_.

CHAP. V.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE SAGE DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS

MASTER—THE SUCCEEDING ADVENTURE OF THE CORPSE—WITH OTHER REMARKABLE

EVENTS.

‘In my opinion, my good master, all the misventures, which have this day

happened to us, are designed as a punishment for the sins committed by

your worship, in neglecting to fulfil the oath you took, not to eat off

a table-cloth, nor solace yourself with the queen; together with all the

rest that follows, which your worship swore to observe, until such time

as you could carry off that helmet of Malandrino, or how d’ye call the

Moor? for I don’t remember his right name.’—‘Thou art very much in the

right,’ said Don Quixote: ‘to deal ingenuously with thee, Sancho, that

affair had actually slipt out of my remembrance; and thou mayest depend

upon it, that affair of the blanketing happened to thee, for the fault

thou wast guilty of, in omitting to put me in mind of it in time: but I

will make an atonement; for there are methods for compounding every

thing, in the order of chivalry.’—‘Did I swear any thing?’ replied

Sancho. ‘Your not having sworn is of no importance,’ said Don Quixote;

‘it is enough that I know you to be concerned as an accessary; and

whether that be the case or not, it will not be amiss to provide a

remedy.’—‘Well, then,’ replied the squire, ‘I hope your worship will not

forget this, as you did the oath: perhaps the phantoms may take it in

their heads again to divert themselves with me, and even with your

worship, if they find you obstinate.’

In this and other such discourse, night overtook them in the midst of

their journey, before they could light on or discover any house where

they could procure lodging; and what was worse, they were almost

famished; for in their bags they had lost their whole buttery and

provision: nay, to crown their misfortune, an adventure happened to

them, that, without any exaggeration, might have actually passed for

something preternatural. Though the night shut in very dark, they

continued travelling; Sancho believing, that, as they were in the king’s

highway, they should probably find an inn at the distance of a league or

two.

Jogging on, therefore, under cloud of night, the squire exceeding

hungry, and the master very well disposed to eat, they descried upon the

road before them a vast number of lights, that seemed like moving stars,

approaching them. Sancho was confounded at the sight, the meaning of

which even Don Quixote could not comprehend: the one checked his ass,

the other pulled in his horse’s bridle, and both halted, in order to

gaze attentively at the apparition of the lights, which seemed to

increase the nearer they came. This being perceived by the squire, he

began to quake like quicksilver; and the hair bristled up on Don

Quixote’s head: nevertheless, recollecting himself a little, ‘Without

doubt, Sancho,’ said he, ‘this must be a vast and perilous adventure in

which I shall be obliged to exert my whole strength and prowess.’—‘Woe

is me!’ cried Sancho, ‘if perchance this should be an adventure of

phantoms, as I am afraid it is, where shall I find ribs for the

occasion?’—‘Phantoms or not phantoms,’ said the knight, ‘I will not

suffer them to touch a thread of thy cloaths: if they made merry at thy

expence before, it was owing to my incapacity to climb over the yard

wall; but at present we are in an open field, where I can manage my

sword as I please.’—‘But if they should benumb and bewitch you, as they

did in the morning,’ said the squire, ‘what benefit shall I receive from

being in the open field?’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I

beseech thee, Sancho, be of good courage, and thou shalt soon know by

experience how much I am master of that virtue.’ Sancho accordingly

promised to do his best, with God’s assistance. Then they both stepped

to one side of the road, and began to gaze again with great attention.

While they were thus endeavouring to discern the meaning of the lights,

they perceived a great number of persons in white; which dreadful vision

entirely extinguished the courage of Sancho Panza, whose teeth began to

chatter, as if he had been in the cold fit of an ague; and this

agitation and chattering increased, when they saw them more distinctly;

for, first and foremost appeared about twenty persons on horseback, all

of them cloathed in white, with each a lighted flambeau in his hand,

muttering in a low and plaintive tone. Behind them came a litter covered

with black, followed by six mounted cavaliers in deep mourning, that

trailed at the very heels of their mules, which were easily

distinguished from horses by the slowness of their pace.

This strange vision, at such an hour, and in such a desart place, was

surely sufficient to smite the heart of Sancho with fear, and even make

an impression upon his master; and this would have been the case, had he

been any other than Don Quixote; as for the squire, his whole stock of

resolution went to wreck. It was not so with his master, whose

imagination clearly represented to him, that this was exactly an

adventure of the same kind with those he had read in books of chivalry;

that the close litter was a bier, in which was carried some dead or

wounded knight, the revenge of whose wrongs was reserved for him alone:

wherefore, without canvassing the matter any farther, he set his lance

in the rest, fixed himself in his seat, and with the most genteel and

gallant deportment, placing himself in the middle of the road, through

which they were indispensibly obliged to pass, he raised his voice, and

called to them as they approached—

‘Halt, knights, whosoever ye are, and give an account of yourselves:

whence come ye? whither go ye? and what are you carrying off in that

bier? for, in all appearance, you have either done or received an

injury; and it is necessary and convenient that I should know it, in

order to chastise you for what you are now doing, or revenge the wrong

you have already done.’—‘We are at present in a hurry,’ replied one of

the phantoms in white; ‘the inn we intend to lodge at is far off, and we

cannot stay to give such a tedious account as you desire.’ So saying, he

spurred on his mule; while Don Quixote, mightily incensed at this reply,

laid hold of his bridle, saying, ‘Stand, and answer the questions I have

asked, with more civility; otherwise I will give battle to you all.’

The mule being skittish, was frighted in such a manner, at being seized

by the bridle, that rearing on her hind feet, she fell backward upon her

rider; and a servant on foot, seeing his master fall, began to revile

Don Quixote, whose choler being already provoked, he couched his lance,

and without hesitation attacked one of the mourners, who soon fell to

the ground, most miserably mauled; then wheeling about upon the rest, it

was surprizing to see with what dispatch he assaulted and put them to

the rout! while Rozinante acted with such agility and fury, that one

would have sworn, at that instant, a pair of wings had sprung from his

back. All the squadron arrayed in white, was composed of timorous and

unarmed people, who were fain to get out of the fray as soon as

possible, and began to fly across the plain, with their lighted torches

like so many maskers in carnival time. The mourners being involved and

intangled in their long robes, could not stir out of the way; so that

Don Quixote, without running any risk, drubbed them all round, and

obliged them at length to quit the field, much against their

inclination; for they actually believed he was no man, but a devil

incarnate, who lay in wait to carry off the dead body that was in the

litter.

All this while Sancho stood beholding with admiration the courage and

intrepidity of the knight; saying within himself, ‘This master of mine

is certainly as strong and valiant as he pretends to be.’

Meanwhile, Don Quixote, by the light of a torch that lay burning on the

ground, perceiving the first whom the mule overthrew, rode up to him,

and clapping the point of his lance to the poor man’s throat, commanded

him to yield, otherwise he would put him to death. To this declaration

the other answered, ‘Methinks I am already sufficiently quiet; for one

of my legs is broke, so that I cannot stir; I beseech your worship,

therefore, if you be a Christian, not to kill me, as in so doing you

will commit the horrid sin of sacrilege; for I am a licentiate, and have

taken holy orders.’—‘If you are an ecclesiastick, what the devil brought

you here?’ cried Don Quixote. ‘The devil, indeed, I think it was,’

answered the overthrown priest. ‘You will have to do with worse than the

devil,’ said the knight, ‘if you refuse the satisfaction I at first

demanded.’—‘That is easily granted,’ replied the other; ‘and in the

first place your worship must know, that though I just now called myself

a licentiate, I am no more than a batchelor: my name is Alonzo Lopez; I

was born at Alcovendas; and now come from the city of Baeça, in company

with eleven other priests, who are those who fled with the torches; we

are conveying to Segovia that litter which contains the corpse of a

gentleman who died at Baeça, where it was deposited till now, (as I was

saying) that we are carrying his bones to be interred at Segovia, which

was the place of his nativity.’—‘And who killed him?’ said Don Quixote.

‘God himself,’ replied the batchelor, ‘by means of a pestilential

calenture that seized him!’—‘At that rate,’ resumed the knight, ‘the

Lord hath saved me the trouble of avenging his death, as I would have

done, had he been slain by any mortal arm; but, considering how he died,

there is nothing to be done, except to shrug up our shoulders in

silence, for this is all that could happen, even if I myself should fall

by the same hand; and I desire your reverence would take notice, that I

am a knight of La Mancha, called Don Quixote, whose office and exercise

is to travel through the world, redressing grievances and righting

wrongs[62].’—‘I do not know how you can call this behaviour righting

wrongs,’ said the batchelor: ‘I am sure you have changed my right into

wrong, by breaking my leg, which will never be set to rights again so

long as I live; and the grievances you have redressed for me, have been

to aggrieve me in such a manner, as that I shall never cease to grieve

at my misventure, in meeting with you, while you was in search of

adventures.’—‘All things do not equally succeed,’ observed the knight;

‘it was the misfortune of you and your companions, Mr. Batchelor Alonzo

Lopez, to travel in the night, with these surplices and lighted

flambeaus, singing all the way, before people clad in deep mourning, so

that you seemed a company of ghosts broke from the other world,

therefore I could not help performing my duty in attacking you; and I

would have behaved in the same manner, had I actually known you to be

really and truly the inhabitants of hell; for such indeed I thought you

were.’—‘Since my hard fate would have it so,’ said the batchelor, ‘I

entreat your worship, Sir knight-errant, who have been the cause of an

unlucky errand to me, to help me from getting under the mule, which

keeps one of my legs fast jammed between the stirrup and the saddle.’—‘I

might have talked on till morning,’ said the knight; ‘why did not you

inform me of your distress sooner?’

He then called aloud to Sancho, who was in no hurry to hear him, but

busy in rummaging a sumpter-mule which those honest priests brought

along with them, well furnished with provisions. Having made a bag of

his great coat, into which he crammed as much of their victuals as it

would hold, he loaded his ass with the bundle, and then running up to

his master, helped to free Mr. Batchelor from the oppression of his

mule, on which having mounted him, with a torch in his hand, Don Quixote

advised him to follow the route of his companions; and desired him to

beg their pardon in his name, for the injury he had done them, as it was

not in his power to avoid it. Sancho, likewise interposing, said, ‘If in

case the gentleman should want to know who the valiant hero is who put

them to flight, your worship may tell them, that he is the famous Don

Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise surnamed the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance.’

Thus dismissed, the batchelor pursued his way; and the knight asked what

had induced Sancho, now, rather than at any other time, to stile him the

Knight of the Rueful Countenance. ‘Truly,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have been

looking at you some time by the light of that torch the unfortunate

traveller held in his hand; and in good faith, your worship cuts the

most dismal figure I have almost ever seen; and it must certainly be

occasioned either by the fatigue you have undergone in this battle, or

by the want of your teeth.’—‘That is not the case,’ replied his master;

‘but the sage who is destined to write the history of my exploits, hath

thought proper that I should assume some appellation, by the example of

former knights, one of whom took the title of the Flaming Sword; another

of the Unicorn; a third of the Ladies; a fourth of the Phœnix; a fifth

of the Griffin; a sixth called himself the Knight of Death; and by these

epithets and symbols they were known all over the face of the earth; and

therefore I say, that the forementioned sage hath now put it into thy

thoughts, and directed thy tongue to call me the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance; an appellation that henceforward I adopt; and that it may

suit me the better, I am resolved to have a most woeful figure painted

upon my shield, with the first opportunity.’—‘There is no occasion,’

said Sancho, ‘to throw away time and money on such a device; your

worship has nothing more to do but uncover your face; and I’ll warrant

those who behold it will call it a rueful one, without your having

recourse to pictures and shields to explain your meaning; and you may

believe I tell you nothing but the truth, when I maintain, though it be

but in jest, that hunger and want of teeth makes your worship look so

ill-favouredly, that we may very well save the expence of a rueful

picture.’

Don Quixote could not help laughing at the pleasantry of Sancho, though

he actually determined to assume that name, and have his shield and

target painted according to his fancy, ‘I know, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that

I have incurred the sentence of excommunication, for having laid violent

hands on consecrated things, according to the canon; “_Si quis suadente

diabolo, &c._” yet you know I touched them not with my hands, but with

my lance; and even then never dreamed of injuring priests, or of giving

the smallest offence to the church, which I respect and adore, like a

faithful catholick and Christian as I am; but, on the contrary, took

them for phantoms and beings of another world: but the case being as it

is, I remember what happened to the Cid Ruy Diaz, who broke to pieces

the chair of a certain king’s ambassador, in presence of his holiness

the pope; for which outrage he was excommunicated; and that very day the

worthy Rodrigo de Vivar behaved like a valiant and honourable knight.’

The batchelor being gone, as we have observed, without answering one

word, Don Quixote expressed a desire of examining the litter, to see if

it really contained a corpse; but Sancho would by no means consent to

this enquiry, saying, ‘Your worship has already finished this perilous

adventure with less damage to yourself than I have seen you receive in

any other; but the people whom you have conquered and overthrown, may

chance to recollect that they were vanquished by a single man, and be so

much ashamed and confounded at their own cowardice as to rally, and if

they find us, give us our belly-full. Dapple is at present very

comfortably furnished; there is an uninhabited mountain hard by, hunger

is craving, we have nothing to do but retreat thither at a gentle trot;

and, as the saying is, “The dead to the bier, and the living to good

cheer.”’ With these words he took the lead with his ass, and the knight

thinking there was a good deal of reason in what he said, followed him

very peaceably, without making any reply.

When they had travelled a little way between two hills, they found

themselves in a spacious and retired valley, where they alighted; Sancho

unloaded the ass, they sat down on the green turf, and with hunger for

their sauce, dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon,

and supper, at one meal; solacing their stomachs out of more than one

basket, which the ecclesiastical attendants of the defunct, who seldom

neglect these things, had brought along with them on their sumpter-mule:

but another misfortune befel them, which, in Sancho’s opinion, was the

worst that could happen: they had not one drop of wine to drink, nor

indeed of water to cool their throats, so that they were parched with

thirst; then the squire, perceiving the meadow where they sat was

overgrown with green and tender grass, made the proposal which may be

seen in the following chapter.

Footnote 62:

Knights engaged themselves, by oath, to protect the widow and the

orphan, to redress all injuries; and, in a special manner, to defend

the characters of ladies by force of arms.

CHAP. VI.

OF THE UNSEEN AND UNHEARD OF ADVENTURE

ATCHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA,

WITH LESS HAZARD THAN EVER ATTENDED ANY EXPLOIT

PERFORMED BY THE MOST RENOWNED KNIGHT ON EARTH.

‘This grass, my good master, proves beyond all contradiction, that there

must be some spring or rivulet hereabouts by which it is watered; and

therefore we had better proceed a little farther, until we find

wherewith to allay this terrible thirst, which is more painful and

fatiguing than hunger alone.’ This advice appearing rational to Don

Quixote, he took hold of Rozinante’s bridle, and Sancho leading Dapple

by the halter, after he had loaded him again with the fragments of their

supper, they began to move farther into the meadow, at a venture; for

the night was so dark, they could not distinguish one object from

another: but they had not gone two hundred paces, when their ears were

saluted with a prodigious noise of water, that seemed to rush down from

some huge and lofty rocks; they were infinitely rejoiced at the sound,

when halting to listen, that they might know whence it came, they were

all of a sudden surprized with another kind of noise, that soon damped

the pleasure occasioned by the water, especially in Sancho, who was

naturally fearful and faint-hearted; I say they heard the sound of

regular strokes, accompanied with strange clanking of iron chains,

which, added to the dreadful din of the cataract, would have smote the

heart of any other but Don Quixote with fear and consternation.

The night, as we have already observed, was dark; our travellers

happened at this time to be in a grove of tall trees, whose leaves,

moving gently by the wind, yielded a sort of dreary whisper: so that the

solitude of the place, the darkness of the night, the noise of the

water, and rustling of the leaves, concurred to inspire them with horror

and dismay; the more so, as the strokes were continued, the wind sighed

on, and the morning was far off; and all these circumstances were

aggravated by their ignorance of the place in which they were. But Don

Quixote, encouraged by his own intrepid heart, mounted Rozinante, braced

his shield, and brandishing his lance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ cried he, ‘know

that I was born by Heaven’s appointment in these iron times to revive

the age of gold, or, as it is usually called, the golden age. I am he

for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are

reserved! I am he, I say, ordained to re-establish the Knights of the

Round-table, the Twelve Peers of France, with the Nine Worthies! He

whose feats shall bury, in oblivion the Platirs, Tablantes, Olivantes,

and Tirantes, the Febuses and Belianises, together with the whole tribe

of knights-errant who lived in former times; performing such mighty and

amazing deeds of arms, as will eclipse their most renowned acts!

Consider well, thou true and loyal squire, the darkness and the solemn

stillness of this night, the indistinct and hollow whispering of these

trees, the dreadful din of that water we came to seek, which seems to

rush and rumble down from the lofty mountains of the moon; together with

these incessant strokes that strike and wound our ears: all those

circumstances united, or each singly by itself, is sufficient to infuse

fear, terror, and dismay, into the breast of Mars himself; much more in

him who is altogether unaccustomed to such adventures and events. Yet

all I have described are only incentives that awaken my courage, and

already cause my heart to rebound within my breast, with desire to

atchieve this adventure, howsoever difficult it may appear to be!

Therefore straiten Rozinante’s girth, recommend thyself to God, and wait

for me in this place, three days at farthest; within which time, if I

come not back, thou mayest return to our village; and, as the last

favour and service done to me, go from thence to Toboso, and inform my

incomparable mistress, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died in

attempting things that might render him worthy to be called her lover.’

When Sancho heard these last words of his master, he began to blubber

with incredible tenderness. ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘why your

worship should attempt such a terrible adventure: it is now dark, and

nobody sees us; therefore we may turn out of this road and avoid the

danger, though we should not taste liquor these three days; and if

nobody sees us, we run no risk of being accused of cowardice; besides, I

have heard the curate of our town, whom your worship knows very well,

remark in his preaching, “He that seeketh danger perisheth therein;”

therefore it must be a sin to tempt God by engaging in this rash

exploit, from whence there is no escaping without a miracle; and Heaven

hath wrought enow of them already, in preserving you from being

blanketed as I was, and bringing you off conqueror, and sound wind and

limb, from the midst of so many adversaries as accompanied the dead man:

and if all this will not move you, nor soften your rugged heart, sure

you will relent, when you consider and are assured that your worship

will be scarce gone from hence, when I shall I through pure fear yield

my life to any thing that may chuse to take it. I left my habitation,

wife and children, to come and serve your worship, believing it would be

the better, not the worse for me so to do; but as greediness bursts the

bag, so is the bag of my hopes bursten; for when they are at the highest

pitch, in expectation of that curst unlucky island your worship has

promised me so often, I find in lieu of that, you want to make me amends

by leaving me in this desart, removed from all human footsteps: for the

love of God, dear master, do me not such wrong; or if your worship is

resolved to attempt this atchievement at any rate, at least delay it

till morning, which, according to the signs I learned when I was a

shepherd, will appear in less than three hours; for the muzzle of the

bear is at the top of his head[63], and shews midnight in the line of

the left paw.’

‘How canst thou perceive,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that line, or head, or

muzzle, thou talked of, when the night is so dark that there is not a

star to be seen?’—‘It is so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but fear hath many eyes;

and I can at present behold things that are hid within the bowels of the

earth; much more those that appear in the firmament above: a man of

sound judgment, like me, can easily foretel that it will soon be

day.’—‘Let it come when it will,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘it shall not be

said of me, either now or at any other time, that I was diverted by

tears and intreaties from doing what I owed to the customs of chivalry;

I therefore beseech thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace; for God, who hath

put it in my heart to attempt this dreadful and unseen adventure, will

doubtless take care of my safety, and comfort thee in thy affliction:

thy business at present is to gird fast Rozinante, and remain in this

place, for dead or alive I will soon return.’

Sancho finding this was the final resolution of his master, and how

little all his tears, advice, and intreaties availed, determined, to

make use of stratagem to detain the knight, if possible, till morning:

with this purpose, under pretence of adjusting the girth of Rozinante,

he fair and softly, without being perceived, tied two of the horse’s

feet together with the halter of his ass, in such a manner, that when

Don Quixote attempted to depart, he found it impossible, because his

steed could move no otherwise than by leaps. The squire perceiving the

success of his invention, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you may see that Heaven,

melted by my tears and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante shall not

stir; and if you obstinately persist in spurring and driving him on, you

will only give offence to Providence, and, as the saying is, “Kick

against the pricks.”’

The knight actually despaired of making him go forward, because the more

he goaded his horse, the less was he inclined to stir; and therefore,

without guessing a tittle of the ligature, thought proper to submit and

wait with patience, either till morning, or such time as Rozinante

should recover the use of his limbs; believing for certain, that his

disappointment was owing to another cause than the craft of his squire,

to whom he said, ‘Since Rozinante is incapable of moving, I am content

to wait for the dawn, though I cannot help lamenting its delay.’—‘You

shall have no cause for lamentation,’ answered Sancho; ‘I will entertain

your worship with telling stories till day, unless you chuse to alight,

and take a nap on the soft grass according to the custom of

knights-errant, that you may find yourself refreshed when day breaks,

and ready to undertake the unconscionable adventure that awaits

you.’—‘Talk not to me of alighting or sleeping,’ said Don Quixote; ‘dost

thou imagine me to be one of those knights who seek their repose in

times of danger? Sleep thou who wast born to sleep, or follow thy own

inclinations; for my own part, I will behave as becomes a person of my

pretensions.’—‘Let not your worship be offended; for that was not my

intention when I spoke;’ answered Sancho; who coming close to him, laid

hold of the saddle before and behind, and stood embracing his master’s

left thigh, without daring to stir a finger’s breadth from the spot;

such was his consternation, inspired by the strokes, which all this time

sounded alternately in his ears.

Then Don Quixote claiming his promise of entertaining him with some

story; ‘I would with all my heart,’ said Sancho, ‘if the dread of what I

hear would allow me; but nevertheless I will try to force out one story,

which if I hit it aright, without letting it slip through my hands, is

the best tale that ever was told; therefore I would have your worship be

attentive, for thus I begin.

‘There was, so there was; the good that shall fall, betide us all; and

he that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil. Your worship may take

notice, that the beginning of ancient tales is not just what came into

the head of the teller: no, they always began with some saying of Cato

the censor of Rome, like this of, “He that seeks evil, may he meet with

the devil.” And truly it comes as pat to the purpose as the ring to my

finger, in order to persuade your worship to remain where you are,

without going in search of evil in any manner of way; or else to turn

into another road, since we are not bound to follow this in which we

have been surprized with fear and terror.’—‘Follow thy story, Sancho,’

said Don Quixote; ‘and as to the road we have to follow, leave the care

of that to me.’—‘To proceed, then,’ said Sancho; ‘in a certain village

of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd; I mean, one that

kept goats; and this shepherd or goatherd, as the story goes, was called

Lope Ruyz; and it came to pass, that this Lope Ruyz fell in love with a

shepherdess whose name was Torralva; which shepherdess, whose name was

Torralva, was the daughter of a rich herdsman; and this rich herdsman—’

‘If thou telleth thy tale in this manner,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘repeating

every circumstance twice over, it will not be finished these two days:

proceed therefore connectedly, and rehearse it like a man of

understanding; otherwise thou hadst better hold thy tongue.’—‘In my

country,’ answered Sancho, ‘all the old stories are told in this manner;

neither can I tell it in any other; nor is it civil in your worship to

desire I should change the custom.’—‘Take thy own way,’ said the knight;

‘and since it is the will of fate that I should hear thee, pray go on.’

‘Well, then, good master of mine,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same

shepherd, as I have already remarked, fell in love with the shepherdess

Torralva, who was a thick, brawny wench, a little coy, and somewhat

masculine; for she wore a sort of mustachios: methinks I see her now for

all the world.’—‘Then thou knewest her?’ said the knight. ‘Not I,’

answered the squire; ‘but the person who told me the story, said it was

so true and certain, that if ever I should chance to tell it again, I

might affirm upon oath that I had seen it with my own eyes—And so, in

process of time, the devil, who never sleeps, but wants to have a finger

in every pye, managed matters in such a manner, that the shepherd’s love

for the shepherdess was turned into malice and deadly hate: and the

cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of small

jealousies she gave him, exceeding all bounds of measure. And such was

the abhorrence the shepherd conceived for her, from that good day

forward, that, in order to avoid the sight of her, he resolved to absent

himself from his own country, and go where he should never set eyes on

her again. Torralva, finding herself despised by Lope, began to love him

more than ever.’—‘That is the natural disposition of the sex,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘to disdain those who adore them, and love those by whom they

are abhorred: but proceed, Sancho.’

‘It so fell out,’ said Sancho, ‘that the shepherd put his resolution in

practice, and driving his goats before him, travelled through the plains

of Estremadura, towards the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, having got an

inkling of his design, was soon at his heels, following him on foot,

aye, and barefoot too, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand, and a wallet

at her back, in which, as the report goes, she carried a bit of a

looking-glass, a broken comb, and a kind of phial of wash for her

complexion: but howsomever, whether she carried these things or not, I

shall not at present take upon me to aver; but only say what is

recorded, that the shepherd came with his flock to the river Guadiana,

which at that time was very high, having almost forsaken its channel;

and finding at the place neither boat nor bark to carry himself and his

flock to the other side, he was very much in the dumps, because he saw

Torralva behind him, and knew what he must suffer from her tears and

complaints: but looking about, he at last perceived hard by him a

fisherman in a boat, that was so small as to contain only one person and

one goat: nevertheless, they struck up a bargain, by which the man was

to ferry over the shepherd with his three hundred goats. Accordingly the

fisherman took one goat into the boat, and carried it over; then he

returned and carried over another, then he returned again to fetch

another. Pray, good your worship, keep an exact account of the goats, as

the fisherman ferried them over; for, if one only should be lost in the

reckoning, the story will break off, and it will be impossible for me to

relate one word more. To be short, then, I say, the landing-place on the

other side being full of mud and slippery, was a great hindrance to the

fisherman in his going and coming; but however he returned for the other

goat, and then for some more, and then for another.’

‘Suppose them all passed over at once,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for if thou

goest backwards and forwards in this manner, thou wilt not have them all

ferried over in a year.’—‘How many have already passed?’ said the

squire. ‘How the devil should I know?’ answered the knight. ‘Did not I

tell you to keep a good account?’ said Sancho; ‘now, before God, the

tale is ended, and it is impossible to proceed!’—‘How can that be?’

replied Don Quixote; ‘is it so essential to the story to know the number

of goats as they passed, so precisely, that if I misreckon one, thou

canst not proceed?’—‘Certainly, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘I can proceed in no

manner of way: for when I desired your worship to tell me what number of

goats had passed, and you answered you did not know; at that instant the

whole of the story that remained untold, vanished from my remembrance;

and, upon my conscience! it was very curious and entertaining.’—‘At that

rate, then, the story is at an end?’ said Don Quixote. ‘As much at an

end,’ replied the squire, ‘as the mother that bore me.’

‘In good sooth,’ resumed the knight, ‘thou hast related the strangest

fable, tale, or story, that ever was invented; and finished thy relation

in such a manner as never was or will be heard again in this world; but

nothing else was to be expected from thy sound judgment; and indeed it

is a matter of no admiration with me, because I take it for granted,

that these incessant strokes have disordered thy understanding.’—‘Not

unlikely,’ said Sancho; ‘but this I know, that there is no more to be

said of the tale, which ended in that place where the mistake began

about the passage of the goats.’—‘In good time end it according to thy

own pleasure,’ replied the knight, ‘and now let us see if Rozinante will

move.’ So saying, he began again to spur, and the horse to leap without

moving from his station, so effectually had Sancho fettered him.

About this time, whether it was owing to the coolness of the morning

that approached, or to his having supped upon something that was

laxative; or, which is more probable, to the operation of nature; Sancho

was seized with an inclination and desire of doing that which could not

be performed by proxy; but such was the terror that had taken possession

of his soul, that he durst not move the breadth of a nail-pairing from

his master’s side; at the same time it was as impossible for him to

resist the motion of his bowels; and therefore, to compromise the

matter, he slipped his right-hand from the hinder part of the saddle,

and without any noise softly undid the slip-knot by which his breeches

were kept up; upon which they of themselves fell down to his heels,

where they remained like a pair of shackles; he then gathered up his

shirt behind as well as he could, and exposed his posteriors, which were

none of the smallest, to the open air: this being done, and he imagined

it was the chief step he could take to deliver himself from the pressing

occasion and dilemma in which he was, another difficulty still greater

occurred, namely, that he should not be able to disincumber himself

without noise; he therefore began to fix his teeth close, shrug up his

shoulders, and hold in his breath with all his might. But,

notwithstanding these precautions, he was so unlucky in the issue, as to

produce a rumbling sound very different from that which had terrified

him so much. It did not escape the ears of Don Quixote, who immediately

cried, ‘What noise is that, Sancho?’—‘I know not, Sir,’ said the squire;

‘it must be some new affair, for adventures and misventures never begin

with trifles.’ He tried his fortune a second time; and, without any more

noise or disorder, freed himself from the load which had given him so

much uneasiness. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smelling was altogether

as acute as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him that

the vapours ascended towards him almost in a direct line, he could not

exclude some of them from paying a visit to his nose. No sooner was he

sensible of the first salutation, than, in his own defence, he pressed

his nose between his finger and thumb, and, in a snuffling tone,

pronounced, ‘Sancho, thou seemest to be in great fear.’—‘I am so,’

answered the squire; ‘but how comes your worship to perceive my fears

now more than ever?’—‘Because at present thou smellest more than ever,

and that not of amber,’ replied the knight. ‘That may be,’ said Sancho;

‘but I am not so much to blame as your worship, who drags me at such

unseasonable hours into these uninhabited places.’—‘Retire three or four

steps farther off, friend,’ resumed Don Quixote, stopping his nose all

the time, ‘and henceforth take more heed of thy own person, and remember

what thou owest to mine; for I find the frequent conversation I maintain

with thee, hath engendered this disrespect.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ replied

Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks I have been doing something I ought

not to have done.’—‘The more you stir it, friend Sancho,’ said the

knight, ‘the more it will stink.’

In this and other such discourse, the master and his squire passed the

night; but Sancho perceiving the day begin to break apace, with great

care and secresy unbound Rozinante, and tied up his breeches. The beast,

which was naturally none of the briskest, seemed to rejoice at his

freedom, and began to paw the ground; for as to curvetting, with his

leave be it spoken, he knew nothing of the matter. Don Quixote, finding

him so mettlesome, conceived a good omen from his eagerness, believing

it a certain presage of his success in the dreadful adventure he was

about to atchieve. Aurora now disclosed herself, and objects appearing

distinctly, Don Quixote found himself in a grove of tall chesnut-trees,

which formed a very thick shade. The strokes still continuing, though he

could not conceive the meaning of them, he, without farther delay, made

Rozinante feel the spur; then turning to take leave of Sancho, commanded

him to wait three days at farthest, as he had directed before; and if he

should not return before that time was expired, he might take it for

granted that God had been pleased to put a period to his life in that

perilous adventure; he again recommended to him the embassy and message

he should carry from him to his mistress Dulcinea, and bade him give

himself no uneasiness about his wages; for he had made a will before he

quitted his family, in which he should find his services repaid, by a

salary proportioned to the time of his attendance: but if Heaven should

be pleased to bring him off from that danger, safe, sound, and free, he

might, beyond all question, lay his account with the government of the

island he had promised him. Sancho, hearing these dismal expressions of

his worthy master repeated, began to blubber afresh, and resolved not to

leave him until the last circumstance and issue of the affair.

From these tears, and this honourable determination of Sancho Panza, the

author of this history concludes, that he must have been a gentleman

born, or an old Christian at least. His master himself was melted a

little at this testimony of his affection, but not so much as to

discover the least weakness: on the contrary, disguising his sentiments,

he rode forward towards the place from whence the noise of the strokes

and water seemed to come; Sancho followed on foot, and according to

custom, leading by the halter his ass, which was the constant companion

of his good and evil fortune. Having travelled a good way among those

shady chesnut-trees, they arrived in a small meadow lying at the foot of

a huge rock, over which a stream of water rushed down with vast

impetuosity. Below appeared a few wretched huts, that looked more like

ruins than houses; and they observed that from them proceeded the

horrible din of the strokes, which had not yet ceased.

Rozinante being startled at the dreadful noise of the strokes and water,

Don Quixote endeavoured to soothe him, and advanced by little and little

towards the huts, recommending himself in the most earnest manner to his

mistress, whose favour he implored in the atchievement of that fearful

enterprize: neither did he omit praying to God for his protection.

Sancho, who never stirred from his side, thrust his neck as far as he

could between the legs of Rozinante, in order to discover the objects

that kept him in such terror and suspence; and when they had proceeded

about a hundred paces farther, at the doubling of a corner, stood fully

disclosed to view the very individual and undoubted cause of this

tremendous sound and terrible noise, which had filled them with such

doubts and consternation all night long.

This was no other, (be not offended, gentle reader) than six

fulling-hammers, which, by their alternate strokes, produced that

amazing din. Don Quixote was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight;

Sancho looked at him, and found his head hanging down upon his breast,

and other manifest signs of his being out of countenance. The knight, in

his turn, looked at the squire, and saw his mouth shut, his cheeks

puffed up, with other symptoms of his being ready to burst with

laughing. This comical situation of the squire, in spite of all his own

melancholy, obliged the master to begin; and Sancho no sooner beheld the

severity of the knight’s features relaxed, than he opened the

flood-gates of his mirth, which broke forth with such violence, that he

was under the necessity of supporting his sides with both fists, that

they might not be rent to pieces by the convulsion. Four times did he

exhaust, and as often renew the laugh with the same impetuosity as at

first; for which Don Quixote already wished him at the devil, more

especially when he heard him pronounce, by way of sneer, ‘Know, friend

Sancho, that I was born by Heaven’s appointment, in these iron times, to

revive the age of gold, or the Golden Age! I am he for whom strange

perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved!’ And in this

manner he proceeded, repeating all, or the greater part of the knight’s

exclamation, when they first heard the terrible noise.

Don Quixote finding that Sancho made a jest of him, was so much ashamed

and provoked, that, lifting up his lance, he bestowed upon him two or

three thwacks, which, had they fallen upon his head, as they lighted on

his shoulders, would have saved his master the trouble of paying his

salary, unless it might be to his heirs. Sancho feeling his joke turned

into such disagreeable earnest, which he was afraid might not be as yet

over, addressed himself to his master with great humility, saying, ‘Good

your worship, forbear; before God, I was only in jest.’—‘Though you was

in jest,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I was not quite so merrily disposed:

come hither, Mr. Joker; don’t you think, that if, instead of

fulling-hammers, these had been some very dangerous adventure, I have

shewn courage enough to undertake and atchieve it? Am I, who am a

knight, obliged, for sooth, to distinguish sounds, and know which

proceed from fulling-mills, and which do not? especially as it may be

the case, and it really is so, that I never saw one before; though it is

otherwise with thee, base plebeian as thou art, who was born and bred up

among them: but see if thou canst metamorphose these six hammers into so

many giants, and bring them within arm’s length of me, one by one, or

all together; and if I don’t make them lie with their heels uppermost,

make a jest of me as much as you please.’

‘Enough, dear master,’ replied Sancho, ‘I confess I have exceeded a

little in my pleasantry; but, pray tell me now, that we are at peace

again, as God shall deliver your worship from all succeeding adventures

as safe and sound as you have been extricated from this, is not the

terror with which we were seized, a thing to be laughed at and repeated?

I mean, my own terror; for, as to your worship, I know you are an utter

stranger to terror and dismay!’—‘I do not deny,’ answered Don Quixote,

‘that what hath happened to us is ridiculous enough; but, nevertheless,

it ought not to be repeated; because every body has not discretion to

take things by the right handle.’—‘I am sure,’ replied Sancho, ‘that

your worship knows how to handle your lance, with which, while you

wanted to handle my head, you happened to salute my shoulders; thanks be

to God, and my own activity, in avoiding the blow: but all that, when it

is dry, will rub out; and I have often heard it said, “He that loves

thee well, will often make thee cry.” Nay, it is a common thing for your

gentry, when they have said a harsh thing to a servant, to make it up

with him by giving him a pair of cast breeches; though I don’t know what

they used to give after having beaten him, unless it be the practice of

knights-errant, after blows, to give islands, or kingdoms on the main

land.’

‘Who knows,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the dice may run that way, and all

that thou hast mentioned come to pass. I ask pardon for what is past,

since you are resolved to be more discreet for the future; and as the

first emotions are not in a man’s own power, I must apprize thee

henceforward to be more reserved, and abstain from speaking so freely to

me; for in all the books of chivalry I have read, and they are almost

infinite, I never found that any squire talked so much to his master as

thou hast talked to thine: and really both you and I are very much to

blame; thou, in regarding me so little; and I, in not making myself

regarded more. Was not Gandalin, squire of Amadis de Gaul, count of the

Firm Island? and yet we read of him, that he always spoke to his master

cap in hand, with an inclination of his head, and his body bent in the

Turkish manner. What need I mention Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who

was so reserved, that, in order to express the excellence of his

surprizing silence, his name is mentioned but once in the whole course

of that equally vast and true history. From what I have said, Sancho,

thou art to draw this inference, that there is a necessity for

maintaining some distinction between the master and his man, the

gentleman and his servant, and the knight and his squire: wherefore,

from this day forward, we are to be treated with more respect and less

provocation; for if ever I am incensed by you again, in any shape

whatever, the pitcher will pay for all. The favours and benefits I have

promised will come in due time; and if they should fail, your wages at

least will be forthcoming, as I have already informed you.’

‘All that your worship observes is very just,’ said Sancho; ‘but I

should be glad to know, since if the benefits come not in time, I must

be fain to put up with the wages, what was the hire of a knight-errant’s

squire in those days; and whether they agreed by the month or the day,

like common labourers?’—‘I do not believe,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that

they were retained for hire, but depended altogether on favour; and

though I have bequeathed a sum to thee in my will, which I have left

signed and sealed at home, it was done in case of the worst; for one

does not know how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times: and I

would not have my soul punished in the other world for so small a

matter; for, let me tell thee, Sancho, in this there is not a more

dangerous course than that of adventures.’—‘That I know to be true,’

answered the squire, ‘since the noise of a fulling-mill could daunt and

disturb the heart of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship: but

this I assure you of, that from this good hour, my lips shall never give

umbrage to your worship in turning your affairs to jest again; but, on

the contrary, honour you as my natural lord and master.’—‘In so doing,’

replied Don Quixote, ‘thou shalt live long upon the face of the earth;

for, after your father and mother, you ought to respect your master as

another parent.’

Footnote 63:

In Castilian, _bocina_ signifies a cornet, or hunting-horn, to which

the Spaniards suppose the constellation of Ursa Minor bears some

resemblance.

CHAP. VII.

OF THE SUBLIME ADVENTURE AND SHINING ACQUISITION OF MAMBRINO’S

HELMET—WITH OTHER ACCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.

About this time some rain beginning to fall, Sancho proposed that they

should shelter themselves in the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had

conceived such abhorrence for it on account of what was past, that he

would by no means set foot within its walls; wherefore, turning to the

right-hand, they chanced to fall in with a road different from that in

which they had travelled the day before: they had not gone far, when the

knight discovered a man riding with something on his head, that

glittered like polished gold; and scarce had he descried this

phænomenon, when turning to Sancho, ‘I find,’ said he, ‘that every

proverb is strictly true; indeed all of them are apothegms dictated by

Experience herself, the mother of all science; more especially that

which says, “Shut one door, and another will soon open:” this I mention,

because if last night Fortune shut against us the door we sought to

enter, by deceiving us with the fulling-hammers; to-day another stands

wide open, in profering to us another greater and more certain

adventure, by which if I fail to enter, it shall be my own fault, and

not imputed to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or the darkness of the

night. This I take upon me to say, because, if I am not egregiously

mistaken, the person who comes towards us, wears upon his head the very

helmet of Mambrino, about which I swore the oath which thou mayest

remember.’

‘Consider well what your worship says, and better still what you do!’

said Sancho. ‘I should not chuse to meet with more fulling-mills to mill

us and maul us altogether out of our senses.’—‘The devil take the

fellow,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what affinity is there between a

fulling-mill and a helmet?’—‘Truly, I know not,’ answered the squire;

‘but in good faith, if I were permitted to speak freely, as usual, I

could perhaps give such reasons as would convince your worship, that you

are mistaken in what you say.’—‘How can I be mistaken, scrupulous

traitor?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘seest thou not yonder knight who rides

this way upon a dapple steed with a golden helmet on his head?’—‘What I

perceive and discern,’ said Sancho, ‘is no other than a man upon a grey

ass, like my own, with something that glitters on his head.’—‘And that

is the very helmet of Mambrino,’ replied the knight: ‘stand aside, and

leave me alone to deal with him: thou shalt see, that without speaking a

syllable, in order to spare time, this adventure will be concluded by my

acquisition of the helmet I have longed for so much.’—‘Yes, I will take

care to get out of the way,’ answered Sancho; ‘and God grant,’ cried he,

as he went off, ‘that this may turn out a melon rather than a

milling[64].’—‘I have already warned thee, brother,’ said the knight,

‘not to mention, nor even so much as think of the mill again: else, by

Heaven! I’ll say no more, but mill the soul out of thy body.’

Sancho was fain to hold his tongue, dreading the performance of his

master’s oath, which had already struck him all of a heap. The whole

affair of the helmet, steed, and knight, which Don Quixote saw, was no

more than this: in that neighbourhood were two villages, one of them so

poor and small, that it had neither shop nor barber: for which reason,

the trimmer of the larger that was hard by, served the lesser also, in

which, at that time, there was a sick person to be blooded, and another

to be shaved; so that this barber was going thither with his brass bason

under his arm; but, as it chanced to rain while he was on the road, that

he might not spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he sheltered

his head under the bason, which being clean scoured, made a flaming

appearance, at the distance of half a league; and, as Sancho had

observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which gave occasion to Don Quixote to

believe he was some knight with a helmet of gold, mounted upon a dapple

steed; for he accommodated every thing he saw, with incredible facility,

to the extravagant ravings of his disordered judgment. When he,

therefore, saw this unlucky knight approach, without the least

expostulation, he put Rozinante to full speed, and couching his lance in

the rest, resolved to run him through the body at once; but, when he was

almost up with him, without checking the impetuosity of his career, he

cried aloud, ‘Defend thyself, wretched caitiff, or voluntarily yield

what so justly belongs to me.’

The poor barber, who neither dreaded nor dreamed of any such demand,

seeing this phantom coming full speed upon him, could find no other

means to defend himself from the stroke of the lance, than to throw

himself down over the buttocks of his ass: then getting up, before he

had scarce touched the ground, with the nimbleness of a stag, he began

to fly across the plain so swift, that the wind itself could not

overtake him: but he left his bason upon the spot, with which Don

Quixote was satisfied, saying, ‘The pagan hath acted with discretion, in

imitating the beaver, which, seeing itself chaced by the hunters, tears

off with its teeth, by natural instinct, these parts for which it is

pursued.’ Then, he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet, which the

squire having examined all round, ‘Egad!’ said he, ‘it is a special good

bason, well worth a piece of eight, if it be worth a farthing!’ and gave

it to his master, who putting it on his head, and turning it round and

round, without being able to find the vizor, said, ‘Without doubt, the

pagan for whom this renowned helmet was first forged, must have had a

most capacious head: but the worst of it is, that one half is wanting.’

When Sancho heard him call the bason a helmet, he could not refrain from

laughing; but, remembering the indignation of his master, checked his

mirth all of a sudden; and when Don Quixote asked what he laughed at,

replied, ‘I cannot help laughing when I think of the huge head of the

pagan who owned that helmet, which looks for all the world like a

barber’s bason.’—‘Why, truly Sancho,’ said he, ‘I imagine that this very

individual inchanted helmet, by some strange accident or other, must

have fallen into the hands of somebody who did not know its inestimable

value, but seeing it was made of the purest gold, melted down one half

of it for sale, and left the other in this shape, resembling, as thou

sayest, a barber’s bason: but be that as it may, since I am satisfied of

its real worth and identity, the transmutation is of small consequence;

for I will order it to be repaired in the first village where we can

find a blacksmith, in such a manner as to be unexcelled, nay even

unequalled by that which Vulcan forged and finished for the god of war;

meanwhile, I will wear it in this manner, for it is still better than

nothing at all, and will be sufficient to defend me from any shower of

stones that may chance to fall.’

‘Yes, if they come not out of slings, as was the case in the skirmish

between the two armies, when they demolished your worship’s grinders,

and broke the cruse which contained that blessed balsam, which made me

vomit up my liver and lights!’—‘That loss gives me not much uneasiness,’

answered the knight, ‘because thou knowest, Sancho, I retain the receipt

of it in my memory.’—‘So do I,’ replied the squire. ‘But, Lord, let me

never stir from the place where I now stand, if ever I either make or

meddle with it for the future; especially as I hope I never shall have

occasion for it again, being resolved, with the assistance of my five

senses, to avoid being hurt myself, and also to refrain from hurting any

person whatsoever. As to another bout of blanketing, I have little to

say: such misfortunes are not easily prevented; but when they happen,

there is nothing else to be done, but to shrug up our shoulders, hold in

our breath, shut our eyes, and leave ourselves to the determination of

chance and the blanket.’

‘Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, when he heard

these words; ‘for once you receive an injury, you never forget it; but

know it is peculiar to noble and generous minds to overlook such

trifles: hast thou got a leg lamed, a rib fractured, or thy head broke

in the prosecution of that jest, that thou canst not forget it? for the

affair, when duly considered, was no more than jest and pastime; had I

not understood it so, I should have returned ere now, and done more

mischief in revenging thy quarrel, than the Grecians did for the rape of

Helen; who, it she had lived in this age, or if my Dulcinea had

flourished in her time, would not have been so renowned for beauty.’

Here he fetched a profound sigh, and sent it to the clouds. ‘Let it

pass, then, for a joke,’ said Sancho, ‘since there is no likelihood of

its being revenged in earnest: but I know what sort of jokes and

earnests those are; and I believe they will scarce slip out of my

memory, while they remain engraven on my shoulders. But, setting this

aside, I wish your worship would tell me what I shall do with this

dapple steed so like a grey ass, which was abandoned by that caitiff,

whom your worship overthrew; for by the swiftness of his heels, when he

ran away, he seems to have no thoughts of returning; and by my whiskers

’tis an excellent beast!’

‘It is never my custom,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to plunder those I overcome;

neither is it according to the laws of chivalry, to take them from their

horses and leave them on foot, unless the conqueror hath lost his own

during the engagement; in which case we are allowed to take the horse of

the vanquished as the lawful spoils of war: wherefore, Sancho, leave

that horse or ass, or what thou wilt, where he now stands, and perhaps

his master, perceiving we are gone, will return and find him.’—‘God is

my witness,’ answered Sancho, ‘I should be glad to carry him off, or at

least exchange him for my own, which seems to be the worst of the two:

truly the laws of chivalry are too confined; and since they do not

extend to the exchange of one ass for another, I would fain know if they

allow me to change the furniture of the one for that of the other?’—‘I

am not quite clear in that particular,’ replied the knight; ‘and in such

a dubious case, till such time as we can get better information, I think

thou mayest exchange the furniture, if the necessity for so doing be

extreme.’—‘It is so extreme,’ said Sancho, ‘that if it were for my own

particular wearing, I could not want it more.’ Thus provided with a

licence, he made the exchange of caparisons, and equipped his beast with

such finery, that he looked ten per cent. the better.

This exploit being performed, they went to breakfast on the remains of

what they had plundered from the sumpter-mule, and quenched their thirst

with the water from the fulling-mills, without turning their heads that

way, so much did they abhor them on account of the dread which they had

inspired. The rage of hunger and anxiety being thus appeased, they

mounted, and without following any determined course, (for it is the

practice of true knights-errant to keep no certain road) they left the

choice of their route to the will and pleasure of Rozinante, which was

always a rule to his master, as well as to the ass, that followed

whithersoever he led, like a trusty friend and companion. In

consequence, therefore, of his determination, they returned into the

high-road, in which they travelled at random without any particular

scheme.

While they thus jogged on, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘I wish

your worship would allow me to confer a little with you; for, since you

imposed that severe command of silence upon me, divers things have

perished in my stomach; and this moment I have somewhat at my tongue’s

end, which I would not for the world have miscarry.’—‘Speak then,’ said

Don Quixote, ‘and be concise in thy discourse; for nothing that is

prolix can relish well.’—‘I say, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘that for some

days past I have been considering how little is to be got and saved by

going in quest of those adventures your worship hunts after, through

these cross-paths and desarts, where, though you conquer and atchieve

the most perilous exploits, there is nobody present to be witness of

your prowess; so that it may remain in everlasting silence, contrary to

the intention, and prejudicial to the merits of your worship; wherefore,

in my opinion, with submission to your better judgment, our wisest

course would be to go into the service of some emperor or great prince,

who hath a war upon his hands, in whose service your worship may have

occasion to shew your personal valour, your great strength, and greater

understanding; which being perceived by the king we serve, he cannot

chuse but reward each of us according to his deserts; neither will there

be wanting some person to write the history of your worship’s exploits,

for a perpetual memorial: I shall not mention my own, because they

cannot exceed the bounds of a squire’s province; though this I will

venture to say, that if it was customary in chivalry to recount the

atchievements of our fraternity, I don’t think but mine might be

inferred between the lines of the book.’

‘Thou art not much in the wrong,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but before it

comes to that issue, a knight must travel up and down the world as a

probationer in quest of adventures, until by his repeated atchievements

he shall have acquired a sufficient stock of fame; so that when he

arrives at the court of some mighty monarch, he may be immediately known

by his works. In that case, as soon as he shall be seen to enter the

gates of the city, all the boys will surround and follow him, shouting

and crying, “Behold the knight of the sun,” or the serpent, or of any

other badge under which he hath performed his great exploits. “Behold,”

they will say, “the man who vanquished in single combat the mighty giant

Brocarbruno, and delivered the great Mamaluke of Persia from the strange

inchantment that prevailed over him for the space of nine hundred

years.” Thus shall they proceed, recounting his exploits from mouth to

mouth; until, surprized at the noise of the children and populace, the

king of that country shall appear at one of the palace-windows; and no

sooner behold the knight, than knowing him immediately by his armour, or

the device upon his shield, he will certainly exclaim, “So ho, there!

let all the knights belonging to my court go forth and receive the

flower of chivalry that comes yonder.”

‘At this command all of them will come out, and the king himself advance

to meet him on the middle of the stair-case, where he will embrace him

most affectionately, giving him the kiss of friendship and welcome; then

taking him by the hand, will he conduct him to the queen’s closet, where

he will find her majesty with the princess her daughter, who is one of

the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies that ever was seen in

the known world. In this interview she will immediately fix her eyes

upon the knight, who at that instant shall be gazing at her, and each

will appear to the other something supernatural; without knowing how or

wherefore, they will find themselves presently caught and intangled in

the inextricable net of love, and be infinitely concerned because they

have no opportunity of conversing together, and of disclosing the

reciprocal anxiety of their thoughts. After this audience, he will,

doubtless, be carried to some apartment of the palace richly furnished,

where, after they shall have taken off his armour, they will clothe him

in a rich scarlet robe brought for the purpose; and if he made a fine

appearance in armour, he will look infinitely more genteel in his

doublet. At night he will sup at the same table with the king, queen,

and infanta, upon whom he will fix his eyes as often as he can, without

being perceived by the by-standers; while she will practise the same

expedient with equal sagacity: for, as I have already observed, she must

be a young lady of vast discretion.

‘The table being uncovered, there will enter at midnight through the

hall-door, a little deformed dwarf, followed by a beautiful lady,

guarded by two giants; and he will propose a certain adventure,

contrived by a most ancient sage, which whosoever shall finish, will be

deemed the most valiant knight in the whole world: then the king will

order every warrior in waiting to attempt it; but all of them shall fail

except the strange knight, who will perform and accomplish it very much

to his own credit, as well as to the satisfaction of the princess, who

will think herself extremely happy, and well requited, for having placed

her affections so worthily. What is better still, this king or prince,

or whatever he is, being at that time engaged in a most obstinate war

with a potentate of equal strength, his guest, after having staid a few

days at court, begs leave to go and serve him in the field; and the king

granting his request with pleasure, the knight most politely kisses his

hand for the great honour he hath done him; that same night he goes to

take his leave of his mistress the infanta, through the rails of a

garden adjoining to the chamber in which she lies; where they have

already at different times enjoyed each other’s conversation, by the

means of a damsel, who being the infanta’s confidante, is privy to the

whole amour: on this occasion he will sigh most piteously, she will

actually faint away; the damsel will run for water, and the knight will

be extremely concerned, because the day begins to break, and he would

not for the world be discovered to the prejudice of the lady’s

reputation. In fine, the princess recovers, and reaches her fair hand

through the rails to the knight, who kisses it a thousand times, and

bathes it with his tears; then is concerted between them some method by

which he is to inform her of his good or bad success, and the infanta

intreats him to return as soon as possible: he swears solemnly to comply

with her request, kisses her hand again, and bids her farewel with such

affliction as well-nigh deprives him of life: from thence he retreats to

his chamber, throws himself upon the bed, but cannot sleep, so grieved

is he at parting; he rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of

the king, queen, and infanta; their majesties accordingly bid him

farewel, after having informed him that the princess is indisposed, and

cannot see company; the knight imputing her disorder to her sorrow for

his departure, is pierced to the soul, and well-nigh betrays his own

anxiety. The confidante being present all the while, takes notice of

every circumstance, which she imparts to her lady, who listens with

tears in her eyes, and observes that nothing gives so much uneasiness as

her ignorance of the knight’s pedigree, and her impatience to know

whether or not he is of royal extraction: the damsel assures her, that

so much politeness, gentility, and valour as he possessed, could never

be united except in a dignified and royal disposition; the afflicted

infanta consoles herself with this observation, and endeavouring to

regain her serenity, that she may not give cause of suspicion to her

parents, in two days appears again in publick.

‘The knight having set out for the army, comes to battle, overcomes the

king’s adversary, takes many towns, makes divers conquests, returns to

court, visits his mistress in the usual manner, and the affair being

concerted between them, demands her in marriage, as the reward of his

service; her father refuses to grant the boon, on pretence of not

knowing who this hero is: but, nevertheless, either by stealth, or some

other way, the infanta becomes his wife; and at last the king is

overjoyed at his good fortune, when this knight proves to be the son of

a valiant monarch of some unknown country, for I suppose it could not be

found in the map. The father dies, the infanta succeeds, and in two

words the knight becomes king; this, then, is the time to reward his

squire, and all those who helped him to ascend the throne. The squire

accordingly is married to a damsel belonging to the infanta, who

doubtless must be she that was privy to her amour, and daughter of some

powerful duke.’

‘This is what I want,’ cried Sancho, ‘and what with fair play I

shall obtain; for all that you have mentioned will exactly happen to

your worship, under the title of The Knight of the Rueful

Countenance.’—‘Never doubt it, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for in

the same manner, and by the same steps I have recounted, knights

errant rise, and have risen to the rank of kings and emperors. Our

only business now is to look out for some Christian or Pagan king

who is at war, and hath a beautiful daughter; but there will be time

to think of that, since, as I have already told thee, renown must be

acquired elsewhere, before we repair to court; nay, another

difficulty occurs, namely, that though we should find a king at war

who has a beautiful daughter, after I shall have acquired incredible

glory through the whole universe; I do not know how it can be proved

that I am of royal extraction, or even second cousin to an emperor;

and no king will grant his daughter to me in marriage, until he is

first thoroughly satisfied in that particular, though my famous

exploits should merit a much more valuable reward; wherefore, on

account of this defect, I am afraid I shall lose that which the

prowess of my arm may well deserve. True it is, I am a gentleman of

an ancient and honourable family, not without property, possession,

and a title to the revenge of the five hundred sueldos[65]; and it

is not impossible, that the sage ordained to write my history, may

furnish up my parentage and pedigree in such a manner, as to prove

me descended in the fifteenth or sixteenth generation from a king;

for I must tell thee, Sancho, there are two sorts of pedigree in the

world; one that brings and derives its original from princes and

monarchs, which time hath defaced by little and little, till at last

it ends in a point like a pyramid; the other owes its beginning to

people of mean degree, and increases gradually to nobility and

power; so that the difference is, the one was once something, but is

now nothing; and the other was once nothing, but is now something!

perhaps, therefore, I may be one of the first mentioned division;

and my origin, upon enquiry, be found high and mighty; a

circumstance that ought to satisfy the king, who is to be my

father-in-law; and if it should not have that effect, the infanta

will be so enamoured of me, that in spite of her father, she will

receive me as her lord and husband, even though she were certain of

my being the son of a porter; but should she be shy, then is the

time to carry her away by force, to any corner of the earth I shall

chuse for my residence, until time or death shall put an end to the

resentment of her parents.’

‘And here,’ cried Sancho, ‘nothing can be more pat to the purpose, than

what some of your unconscionable fellows often say, “Who would beg a

benison, that for the taking may have venison[66]?” though it would

still be more proper, if they had said, “Better thieve than grieve[67].”

This I observe, that in case the king, your worship’s father-in-law,

should not prevail upon himself to give you the infanta his daughter,

you may, as your worship says, steal and convey her off by main force;

but the misfortune is, that while the peace is on the anvil, and before

you come to the peaceable enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire may

chew his cud in expectation of his recompense, unless that confidante

damsel, who is to be his spouse, should make her escape with the

princess, and be content to join her evil fortune to his, until such

time as Heaven shall ordain it otherwise; for I believe his master may

very safely give her away in lawful marriage.’—‘That thou mayest depend

upon,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Since it is so, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘we

have nothing to do but recommend ourselves to God, and let fortune take

its own course.’—‘The Lord conduct it,’ replied the knight, ‘according

to my desires and my necessity; and small be his grace, who counts

himself base.’—‘A God’s name be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘for my own part I

am an old Christian, and therefore fit to be a lord.’—‘Aye, to be

greater than a lord,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and even if thou wast not

so well qualified, it would be of no signification[68], because I being

king, can confer nobility upon thee, without putting thee to the expence

of purchasing, or of subjecting thyself to any kind of servitude; for,

in creating thee an earl, behold thou art a gentleman at once; and let

people say what they will, in good faith, they must call thee your

lordship, if it should make their hearts ache.’—‘And do you reckon that

I should not know how to give authority to the portent?’ said the

squire. ‘Patent, thou wouldst say, and not portent,’ replied the knight.

‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I insist upon it, that I should

demean myself very decently; for once in my life-time I was beadle of a

corporation, and the gown became me so well, that every body said I had

the presence of a warden: then what shall I be when I am clothed in a

ducal-robe, all glittering with pearls like a foreign count? Upon my

conscience, I believe people will come a hundred leagues on purpose to

see me.’—‘You will make a very good appearance,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but

thou must take care to keep thy beard close shaved; for it is so thick,

matted, and unseemly, that unless thou hast recourse to the razor, every

second day at least, they will see what thou art a gun-shot off.’—‘What

else have I to do,’ said the squire, ‘but to hire a barber, and keep him

constantly in the house; and if I find occasion for it, even make him

follow me as a master of the horse follows one of your grandees.’

‘How do’st thou know,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that our grandees are attended

by their masters of horse?’—‘That you shall be satisfied in,’ answered

the squire: ‘heretofore I was a whole month at court, where I saw a very

little gentleman, who they told me was a very great lord, passing to and

fro, and a man following him a horseback, turning ever and anon as he

turned, as if he had been the nobleman’s own tail: when I asked why the

man did not overtake the other, but always kept behind him; they

answered, that he was his master of horse, and that it was a fashion

among the great, for each to be attended by an officer of that name.

Ever since that time I have remembered their office so distinctly, that

I believe I shall never forget it.’—‘I think thou art much in the

right,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in resolving to carry thy barber along with

thee; for customs come not all together, because they were not invented

all at once; therefore thou mayest be the first earl that ever went

attended by a shaver; and truly it is an office of greater confidence to

trim the beard than to saddle the horse.’—‘Leave that affair of the

barber to my management,’ said Sancho, ‘and be it your care to make

yourself a king, and me an earl, with all convenient speed.’—‘That shall

be done,’ replied the knight; who lifting up his eyes, perceived that

which shall be recounted in the succeeding chapter.

Footnote 64:

_Oregano_, in the original, signifies sweet marjoram; as if Sancho had

wished his master might find a nosegay, rather than a bloody nose.

Footnote 65:

The Spaniards of old paid a tribute of five hundred sueldos, or pieces

of coin, to the Moors, until they were delivered from this imposition

by the gallantry of the gentlemen or people of rank, from which

exploit a Castilian of family used to express the nobility and worth

of his extraction, by saying he was of the revenge of the Sueldos.

Footnote 66:

Literally, ‘Never beg when you can take.’

Footnote 67:

In the original, ‘A snatch from behind a bush is better than the

prayer of good men.’

Footnote 68:

This seems to have been intended as a stroke of satire against those

princes who sell nobility to the highest bidder, without any regard to

the merit of the purchaser.

CHAP. VIII.

DON QUIXOTE SETS AT LIBERTY

A NUMBER OF UNFORTUNATE PEOPLE,

WHO, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS,

WERE GOING ON A JOURNEY THAT WAS NOT AT ALL TO THEIR LIKING.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, recounts in this

solemn, sublime, minute, pleasant, and fanciful history, that the

conversation between the renowned Don Quixote, and his squire Sancho

Panza, as related in the foregoing chapter, was no sooner concluded,

than the knight lifting up his eyes, beheld upon the road before him

about twelve men on foot, strung together like beads, with a great iron

chain fastened to their necks, and he perceived shackles upon the arms

of each. They were conducted by two men on horseback, and the like

number on foot: the horsemen armed with firelocks, and the foot with

javelins and swords. Sancho seeing them advance, ‘That,’ said he, ‘is

the chain of slaves compelled by the king to work in the gallies.’—‘How,

compelled!’ cried the knight; ‘is it possible the king compels people

into his service?’—‘I don’t say so,’ answered Sancho; ‘those people are

condemned for their crimes to serve in the king’s gallies on

compulsion.’—‘In short,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘be that as it will, they

go not voluntarily, but are driven by force.’—‘Certainly,’ said Sancho.

‘Since that is the case,’ resumed his master, ‘here the execution of my

office is concerned, to annul force, and bring succour to the

miserable.’—‘Pray, good your worship, take notice that justice, which is

the king himself, never uses violence nor severity to such people,

except as a punishment for their crimes.’

By this time the chain of galley-slaves being come up, Don Quixote, with

much courtesy, desired the guards would be pleased to inform him of the

cause or causes for which those people were treated in that manner: one

of the horsemen replied, that they were slaves belonging to his majesty

going to the gallies, and that was all he could say, or the enquirer had

occasion to know of the matter. ‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the knight, ‘I

am desirous of knowing from each in particular the occasion of his

misfortune.’ To these be added other such courteous entreaties to induce

them to satisfy his desire, that the other man on horseback said,

‘Though we have got along with us the register and certificate of the

sentence of each of those malefactors, we have no time at present to

take it out and give you the reading of it; but if you have a mind to go

and question themselves, they will answer every thing you ask, to the

best of their knowledge; for they are a set of miscreants, who delight

in recounting as well as in acting their roguery.’

With this permission, which he would have taken if they had not granted

it, Don Quixote approached the chain and asked of the foremost, for what

offence he travelled in that equipage. ‘Only for being in love,’

answered the criminal. ‘For that only!’ replied the knight. ‘If they

condemn people for being in love, I might have been tugging in the

gallies long ago.’—‘But my love,’ answered the slave, ‘was quite

different from what your worship imagines. I fell deeply in love with a

basket crammed full of white linen, and locked it so fast in my embrace,

that if justice had not tore it from my arms by force, I should not have

quitted it willingly to this good hour: the thing being flagrant, there

was no room for putting me to the torture, and therefore the cause was

soon discussed; my shoulders were accommodated with a cool hundred, I

was advised to divert myself three years in the gurapas, and so the

business ended.’—‘Pray what are the gurapas?’ said Don Quixote. ‘The

gurapas are the gallies,’ answered the thief; who was a young fellow,

about twenty years of age, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.

The knight put the same question to the second, who seemed so

overwhelmed with grief and melancholy, that he could not answer one

word; but the first saved him the trouble, by saying, ‘This man, Sir,

goes to the gallies for being a canary bird; I mean, for his skill in

vocal musick.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘are people sentenced to the

gallies for their skill in musick.’—‘Yes, Sir,’ answered the other, ‘for

nothing is worse than to sing in the heart-ache.’—‘On the contrary,’

said Don Quixote, ‘I have always heard it observed, that musick and play

will fright sorrow away.’—‘But here,’ replied the slave, ‘the case is

quite different; for he that sings but once will have cause to weep for

ever.’ Don Quixote saying he could not comprehend his meaning, one of

the guards explained it. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘to sing in the heart-ache, is

a term used by these miscreants to express a criminal who confesses

under the torture; and it hath been applied to that delinquent, he owned

his crime, which was horse-stealing; accordingly, having received two

hundred lashes he was condemned for six years to the gallies, and he

appears always pensive and sad, because his brother-rogues who keep him

company, continually maltreat, upbraid, despise, and scoff at him, for

having confessed out of pure pusillanimity. “For,” say they, “No

contains as many letters as Ay: an offender is very lucky, when his life

or death depends upon his own tongue, and not upon the evidence of

witnesses;” and truly I think they are not far mistaken.’

‘I am of the same opinion,’ said Don Quixote; and passing on, repeated

his former question to the third, who, with great readiness and

alacrity, answered, ‘I am going to pay a visit of five years to Lady

Gurapa, for having wanted ten ducats.’—‘I will give twenty with all my

soul,’ replied the knight, ‘to ease you of your misfortune.’—‘That,’

resumed the slave, ‘is like giving money to a man perishing with hunger

at sea, where there is no food to be bought. I say this, because had I

been master in time of those twenty ducats your worship now offers, I

would have anointed the secretary’s pen, and quickened my lawyer’s

invention with them, to so good purpose, that I should be now standing

at liberty in the square of Zocodover in Toledo, and not dragging like a

hound to the gallies; but Heaven is above—Patience and—that is enough.’

Don Quixote then advanced to the fourth, who was a man of a venerable

aspect, with a long white beard hanging down to his girdle; and he no

sooner heard the knight ask the cause of his being in that situation,

than he began to weep bitterly, without answering one word; but the

fifth criminal lent him his tongue, saying, ‘That honourable gentleman

is going to the gallies for four years, after having made his publick

appearance on horseback with great solemnity.’—‘That is, I suppose,’

said Sancho, ‘after having been exposed to publick shame[69].’—‘Even

so,’ replied the slave, ‘and that punishment was inflicted upon him for

being an ear-broker, or rather a broker for the whole body: to be plain

with you, the gentleman was convicted of pimping, and giving himself out

for a conjurer.’—‘Were it not for the addition of his conjuring scheme,’

said Don Quixote, ‘he is so far from deserving to row in the gallies for

pure pimping, that it rather intitles him to the command of them[70], as

general in chief; for if the office of a pander was well regulated, it

would be a most honourable and necessary employment in a well-ordered

commonwealth, reserved for people of birth and talents, and like the

other places of trust, laid under the inspection of proper comptrollers,

and limited to a certain number, like the brokers of merchandize: such a

regulation would prevent many mischiefs, which are now occasioned by

that employment’s being in the hands of idiots or simple wretches, such

as silly women, pages, and buffoons, without either age or experience;

who, upon the most urgent occasions, when there is need of the most

important contrivance, let the morsel freeze between the dish and the

mouth, and can scarce distinguish betwixt their right-hands and their

left. I could proceed and advance many arguments to prove how

advantageous it would be in a commonwealth to make proper distinctions

in the choice of those who exercise such a necessary employment; but

this is no place to settle that affair in; and one day I may chance to

recommend it to the consideration of those who can both discern and

provide a suitable remedy for this defect. I shall only at present

observe, that the compassion I feel at sight of these grey hairs, and

that venerable countenance in distress for having been a pander, is

extinguished by the additional crime of sorcery; though I am well

apprized there are no conjurers in the world, who can force or alter the

will, as some weak minded people imagine: for the inclination is free,

and not to be enslaved by any incantation whatsoever. The practice of

some simple women, and knavish impostors, is to compose poisonous

mixtures, to deprive people of their senses, under pretence of causing

them to be beloved; it being a thing impossible, as I have said, to

compel the will.’—‘What your honour says is very true,’ replied the good

old man; ‘and really, Sir, as to the affair of conjuring, I am not

guilty; though I cannot deny that I have been a pimp; but I never

thought I was to blame in that capacity, because my whole intention was,

that all the world should enjoy themselves, and live in peace and quiet

without quarrels and anxiety. Yet the uprightness of my intention was of

no service in preventing my being sent to a place from which I shall

never return, oppressed as I am with years and a violent strangury, that

will not allow me a moment’s rest.’ So saying, he began to weep again,

as before; and his tears raised the pity of Sancho to such a degree,

that he took a rial out of his bosom, and gave it in charity to the

distressed senior.

Then Don Quixote addressed himself to the next, who answered his

question, not with less, but infinitely more vivacity than that of the

former; saying, ‘I trudge in this manner, for having jested a little

extravagantly with two of my female cousins, and with two more, who,

though not related to me, were in the same degree of blood to each

other: in short, I jested with them so long, that in the end there was

such an intricate increase of kindred as no casuist could unravel. Every

thing was proved against me, I had neither interest nor money, and ran

some risk of having my windpipe stopped; but they only condemned me for

six years to the gallies; I submitted to the sentence, as the punishment

of my crime: youth is on my side, life may be long, and time brings

every thing to bear; if your worship, Sir knight, will part with any

small matter for the comfort of poor wretches like us, God will requite

you in heaven, and we upon earth will take care to petition him for long

life and health to your worship, that you may be as happy as by your

goodly appearance you deserve to be.’ The person who spoke in this

manner appeared in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he

was a great orator and excellent Latin scholar.

After all these came a man of a good mien, about thirty years of age,

who squinted so horribly, that his eyes seemed to look at each other: he

was equipped in a very different manner from the rest; his foot being

loaded with a huge chain that went round his whole body, and his neck

adorned with two iron rings, to one of which the chain was fastened; and

the other was called a keep-friend, or friend’s-foot; from which

descended to his middle a couple of iron bolts fitted with a pair of

manacles for his arms, secured by a large padlock, in such a fashion, as

to hinder him from lifting up his hands to his mouth, and to disable him

from bending his head to his hands. Don Quixote enquiring why that man

was more fettered than all the rest, one of the guard answered, ‘Because

he is a greater rogue than all the rest put together, and so daring a

villain, that although he is shackled in that manner, we are under some

apprehension that he will give us the slip.’—‘What crime has he

committed,’ said the knight, ‘that deserves no greater punishment than

that of going to the gallies?’—‘He goes for ten years,’ replied the

guard, ‘which is a kind of civil death; but you need not enquire any

farther, when you know that this honest gentleman is the famous Gines de

Passamonte, alias Genisello de Parapilla.’—‘Softly, Mr. Commissary,’

said the slave, hearing these words, ‘don’t transmography names and

sir-names in that manner. Gines is my name, and not Ginesello, and

Passamonte the title of my family; not Parapilla, as your worship says:

let every body turn about and look at home, and he will have business

enough.’—‘Speak with less insolence, Mr. Thief above sterling,’ replied

the commissary, ‘or else I shall make you hold your peace with a

vengeance.’—‘It appears by this oppression,’ answered the galley-slave,

‘that God’s will must be done; but one day somebody shall know whether

or not my name is Ginesello de Parapilla.’—‘An’t you called so, you

lying vagabond?’ said the guard. ‘Yes, yes, I am so called,’ answered

Gines; ‘but I will make them change that name, or their skins shall pay

for it, if ever I meet them in a place I don’t chuse at present to

name.—Sir knight, if you have any thing to bestow, pray let us have it,

and the Lord be with you, for you only tire us with enquiring about

other people’s affairs; if you want to be informed of my history, know,

I am that Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these ten

fingers.’

‘He tells nothing but the truth,’ said the commissary; ‘for he has

actually written his own history, as well as could be desired, and

pawned the manuscript in gaol for two hundred rials.’—‘Aye, and I shall

redeem it,’ said Gines, ‘if it were for as many ducats.’—‘What! is it so

entertaining?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Yes,’ answered Gines, ‘it is so

entertaining, that woe be unto Lazarillo de Tormes, and all who have

written or shall write in that manner. What I can affirm of mine is,

that it contains truths, and such ingenious and savoury truths, as no

fiction can equal.’—‘And what is the title of your book?’ said the

knight. ‘The Life of Gines de Passamonte,’ replied the other. ‘Is it

finished?’ said Don Quixote. ‘How can it be finished,’ answered the

author, ‘when my natural life is not yet concluded? I have already

written my whole history from my birth till the last time I was sent to

the gallies.’—‘You have visited them before now then?’ said the knight.

‘For the service of God, and the good of my country, I have already

served in them, during the space of four years, and know the difference

between the biscuit and the bull’s pizzle,’ answered the thief; ‘and my

journey to them now gives me no great pain, for there I shall have time

to finish my book, and set down a great many things I have to say: there

being spare time enough in the gallies of Spain for that purpose, which

does not require much leisure, as I have every circumstance by

heart.’—‘You seem to be an ingenious fellow,’ said Don Quixote. ‘And

unfortunate,’ answered Gines; ‘for genius is always attended by evil

fortune.’—‘Evil fortune ought to attend villains like you,’ said the

guard. ‘I have already desired you, Mr. Commissary, to proceed fair and

softly,’ answered Passamonte; ‘your superiors did not give you that rod

to maltreat us poor wretches, but to conduct and carry us to the place

of our destination, according to his majesty’s command: and by the life

of—but ’tis no matter. The spots we received in the inn, may one day be

rubbed out in washing. Mum’s the word. Let us live while we can, speak

while we may, and at present pursue our journey; for this joke has

already lasted too long.’

The commissary lifted up his rod, in order to give a proper reply to the

threats of Passamonte; but Don Quixote interposing, begged he would not

chastise him; because it was not to be wondered at, if one whose limbs

were so shackled, should take such liberties with his tongue: then

addressing himself to the prisoners, ‘From all that you have told me,

dear brethren,’ said he, ‘I clearly perceive, that although you ought to

be chastised for your crimes, the punishment you are going to suffer is

not much to your liking; on the contrary, you make this journey very

much against your inclination; and perhaps, the pusillanimity of one of

you under the torture, this man’s want of money, and that others

scarcity of friends, and last of all, the partiality of the judge, may

have been the cause of your perdition, in depriving you of that justice

your several cases entitled you to. Which consideration now operates

within me, suggesting, persuading, and even compelling me to shew in

your behalf, the end and aim for which Heaven sent me into this world,

and made me profess the order of knight-errantry, by which I am bound by

oath, to succour the needy and oppressed; but because I know, that one

maxim of prudence is, not to do that by foul means which can be

accomplished by fair, I beseech Mr. Commissary and the guards to unchain

and let you depart in peace. The king will not want people to serve him

on better occasions; and I think it is very hard to enslave those whom

God and nature have made free. Besides, gentlemen soldiers,’ added the

knight, ‘those poor people have committed no offence against you: and

every body hath sins to answer for. There is a God in heaven, who will

take care to chastise the wicked and reward the righteous: and it is not

seemly, that honest men should be the executioners of their

fellow-creatures, on account of matters with which they have no concern.

This favour I entreat in a mild and peaceable manner; and if you grant

my request, will thank you heartily: whereas, if you refuse to do

quietly what I desire, this lance and sword, with the valour of my

invincible arm, shall make you do it on compulsion.’

‘A fine joke, truly!’ replied the commissary; ‘he has brought his

harangue to a very merry conclusion; desiring us to set at liberty the

king’s prisoners, as if we had authority to grant, or he to demand,

their discharge. I wish your worship would go about your business, and

set to rights that bason on your skull, without going in quest of a cat

with three feet.’—‘You are a cat, and a rat, and a scoundrel to boot!’

replied the knight, attacking him with such wonderful dispatch, that he

had not time to put himself in a posture of defence, so was thrown from

his horse, dangerously wounded by a thrust of the knight’s lance. And it

happened luckily that this was one of the two who had firelocks. The

rest of the guard were at first astonished and confounded at this

unexpected assault; but they soon recollected themselves, and the

horsemen drawing their swords, while those on foot handled their

javelins, set upon Don Quixote in their turn, who waited for them with

vast composure; and doubtless he would have fared ill, if the

galley-slaves, seeing a fair occasion offered of gaining their liberty,

had not made shift to obtain it, by breaking the chain with which they

were fettered. Such was the confusion, that the guards, between their

endeavours to detain the slaves that were unbound, and their efforts

against Don Quixote who assaulted them, could do nothing at all

effectual. Sancho, for his part, assisted in disengaging Gines de

Passamonte, who being the first that leaped free and disencumbered on

the plain, attacked the wounded commissary, and robbed him of his sword

and musket, with which pointing at one, and taking aim at another,

without firing, however, in a trice there was not one of the guards to

be seen; for they made the best of their way, not only from Passamonte’s

firelock, but also from the shower of stones which was rained upon them

by the rest of the slaves, who had by this time disengaged themselves.

Sancho was infinitely grieved at this event, representing to himself,

that those who fled would instantly give notice of the affair to the

holy brotherhood, which, upon the tolling of a bell, would immediately

sally forth in search of the delinquents. This supposition he suggested

to his master, whom he entreated to depart forthwith, and conceal

himself somewhere in the neighbouring mountain. ‘That may be a very good

expedient,’ said the knight; ‘but I know what is proper for me to do at

present.’ He then called to the slaves, who were all in confusion, and

after they had plundered and stripped the commissary to the skin, they

assembled round him in a circle in order to receive his commands, and he

accosted them in this manner: ‘It is the duty of honest men to be

thankful for benefits received: and one of the sins that gives the

greatest offence to God, is ingratitude. This truth I observe,

gentlemen, because you must be sensible, by manifest experience, of that

which you have received from me; as an acknowledgment for which, it is

my will and pleasure, that you set out immediately, loaded with that

chain from which I have delivered your neck, and repairing to the city

of Toboso; there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,

and tell her that her Knight of the Rueful Countenance hath sent you to

her, with his hearty commendations. You shall also punctually recount to

her every circumstance of this famous adventure, even to the granting

you that liberty you so ardently wished for: and this duty being

performed, you may go a God’s name whithersoever ye list.’

To this command Gines de Passamonte, in the name of all the rest,

answered, ‘What your worship commands, most worthy deliverer, is of all

impossibilities the most impossible to fulfil. For we must by no means

travel in a body, but single and divided, and each by himself endeavour

to abscond within the bowels of the earth, in order to avoid the holy

brotherhood, which will doubtless come out in search of us. But your

worship may, and it is but justice you should, change that service and

tribute intended for my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, into a certain number

of Ave maria’s and Credo’s, which we will say for your prosperity; and

this is a duty we can fulfil by night as well as by day, in motion and

at rest, and in peace as well as in war: but to suppose that we will now

return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean, to the carriage of our chain,

and take the road to Toboso, is to suppose that it is now midnight,

though it wants little more than two hours of noon; and indeed, to

expect this condescension of us, is like expecting pears from an elm.’

‘Then, by heavens!’ said Don Quixote in a rage, ‘Don Son of a Whore, Don

Ginesello de Parapilla, or whatsoever is thy name, you shall go alone,

with your tail between your legs, and carry the whole chain upon your

own shoulders.’ Passamonte, who was none of the most passive people in

the world, having already smoaked the knight’s weak side, from the mad

action he had committed in giving them their freedom, and finding

himself treated by him in this haughty manner, tipped the wink to his

companions; who retiring with him at a little distance, began to shower

forth such a number of stones upon their deliverer, that he could not

contrive how to cover himself with his shield; and poor Rozinante minded

the spur no more than if he had been made of brass. Sancho retired

behind his ass, which sheltered him from the storm of hail that

descended on them both; but his master could not screen himself so well,

as to avoid an infinite number of pebble-shot which took place upon

different parts of his body, some of them with such force, that he came

tumbling to the ground; and no sooner was he fallen, than the student

set upon him, and snatching the bason from his head, made a most furious

application of it to the knight’s shoulders, and then dashed it upon the

ground with such force, that it went into a thousand pieces. They

likewise stripped him of a jacket[71] he wore above his armour; and

would even have taken his hose, had not his greaves been in the way:

they plundered Sancho of his great coat, leaving him in his doublet and

hose; and dividing the spoils of the battle among them, each took his

own separate route, more anxious to escape the holy brotherhood, which

they dreaded, than to load themselves with the chain again, and go to

present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were the only persons

remaining on the field. Dapple, with his head hanging down in a pensive

attitude, and every now and then shaking his ears, as if he imagined the

hurricane of stones that whizzed about them was not yet over; Rozinante

lying stretched upon the ground, to which, like his master, he was

humbled by a pebble: Sancho, in his doublet, terrified at the thoughts

of the holy brotherhood; and Don Quixote excessively out of humour, at

seeing himself so ill requited by those people whom he had served in

such an essential manner.

Footnote 69:

A crime that is punished by the pillory in England, is in Spain

expiated by the convict’s being mounted upon an ass, in a particular

dress, and led through the streets by a crier, who proclaims the

transgression.

Footnote 70:

This is a good hint for a reforming legislature.

Footnote 71: