The knight relished his advice, which he thought savoured more of the

philosopher than of the ideot; and said to him, ‘Now, Sancho, if thou

wouldst do that for me which I am going to mention, my relief would be

more certain, and my affliction diminished: my proposal is, that while I

sleep, in compliance with thy advice, thou wouldst go aside a little

farther, and, exposing thy flesh to the air, bestow upon it, with the

reins of Rozinante’s bridle, three or four hundred stripes, of the three

thousand three hundred which thou hast undertaken to endure for the

disinchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a lamentable circumstance that the

poor lady should remain so long inchanted, through thy carelessness and

neglect.’—‘There is much to be said on that subject,’ replied Sancho:

‘let us both go to sleep in the mean time; and afterwards God must

ordain that which will come to pass. Your worship must know, that it

requires great resolution in a man to scourge himself in cold blood;

especially when the stripes fall upon a body which is poorly fed and

supported: let my Lady Dulcinea have a little patience; when she least

thinks of it, she will see my body scourged into a perfect sieve; and

while there is life there is hope; my meaning is, that while I hold

life, I shall never quit the desire of performing my promise.’

Don Quixote, thanking him for his good-will, took a little sustenance,

Sancho ate voraciously, and then both laid themselves down to sleep,

leaving Rozinante and Dapple, those two friends and inseparable

companions, at full liberty to feed, without restraint, upon the

luxuriant grass with which the meadow abounded.

The day being far spent before they awoke, they remounted their cattle,

and pursued their journey with uncommon expedition, in order to reach an

inn which they descried at a league’s distance. I say, an inn, because

it was so called by Don Quixote, contrary to his former custom of

mistaking every inn for a castle. When they arrived at this place of

entertainment, they asked if they could be accommodated with lodging;

and the landlord replied in the affirmative, telling them at the same

time, that his house afforded as good conveniences and entertainment as

could be found in the whole city of Saragossa. They alighted

accordingly, and Sancho carried his bags into an apartment, of which the

innkeeper gave him the key; then he led the cattle to the stable, where

he gave them their allowance; from thence he went to receive the

commands of his master, who had sat down upon a bench, and thanked

Heaven, in a particular manner, that Don Quixote had not committed his

usual mistake. They retired to their chamber, and supper-time

approaching, Sancho desired to know what they could have for that meal.

To this interrogation mine host replied, that his taste should be fitted

to a hair, and that he might bespeak what he liked best; for, as far as

the birds of the air, the fowls of the land, and the fish of the sea

could go, he would find the house provided. ‘Less than all that will

serve,’ answered Sancho: ‘we shall be satisfied with a couple of

chickens roasted; for my master has a very delicate taste, and eats but

little; and as for myself, I am not a very unconscionable cormorant.’

The other frankly owned he had no chickens; for the kites had destroyed

the whole brood. ‘Well, then, Mr. Landlord,’ said the squire, ‘you may

order a pullet to be put to the fire; but see it be very tender.’—‘A

pullet!’ cried the innkeeper; ‘body o’ my father! now, as I’m an honest

man, I sent above half a hundred yesterday to market; but setting aside

pullets, you may have what you will.’—‘If that be the case,’ said

Sancho, there will be no want of veal or kid.’—‘At present,’ replied the

innkeeper, ‘there is really none in the house; we are just out of these

articles; but next week she shall have enough and to spare.’—‘To be

sure, we shall be much the better for that!’ answered Sancho; ‘I’ll lay

a wager all these wants will be supplied with plenty of eggs and

bacon.’—‘’Fore God!’ said the host, ‘my guest has an admirable knack at

guessing; I have told him there is neither hen nor pullet in the house,

and he would have me treat him with eggs[201]! Shift about, if you

please, to some other delicacies, and think no more of poultry.’

‘Body o’ me!’ cried Sancho, ‘let us come to some resolution; tell me at

once what is in the house, and pray, Mr. Landlord, no more of your

shiftings.’—‘What I really and truly can afford,’ said the innkeeper,

‘is a dish of cow-heel, so delicate they might be taken for calves-feet;

or you may call them calves-feet, that might pass for cow-heel. They are

stewed with pease, onions, and bacon, and this blessed minute cry—“Come,

eat me; come, eat me.”’—‘I mark them for my own,’ cried Sancho, ‘from

henceforth for ever, amen. Let no man touch the mess, for which I will

pay you handsomely; for nothing in the whole world could be more

agreeable to my taste; and, provided I have cow-heel, the calves-feet

may go to the devil.’—‘No man shall interfere with you,’ replied the

landlord; ‘as for the other company in the house, they, out of pure

gentility, bring along with them their own cook, butler and sumpter

mule.’—‘Nay, as for gentility,’ said the squire, ‘no man has more of

that than my master; but his profession will not admit of travelling

stores and butteries: lack-a-day! we lay ourselves down in the middle of

a green field, and fill our bellies with medlars and acorns.’ Such was

the conversation that passed between the innkeeper and Sancho; who would

not, however, go any greater lengths in satisfying the curiosity of mine

host, who was very desirous to know the office or profession of his

master.

Supper being ready, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, whither the

landlord brought the pot just as it was, and very decently sat down to

partake of the meal. At that instant, the knight heard people talking in

the next room, from which he was divided only by a partition of lath,

and could plainly distinguish these words: ‘As you hope to live, Don

Geronimo, I conjure you, as supper is not yet ready, to read another

chapter of the second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha.’

The knight, hearing his own name mentioned, started up immediately, and

listening with great attention, heard Geronimo reply to this effect:

‘What pleasure can you have in reading such absurdities, Don John? No

person who has seen the first part of the history of Don Quixote de La

Mancha, can possibly be entertained with this which is called the

second.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don John, ‘it will not be amiss to read a

little; for there is no book so bad as to contain nothing that deserves

regard. What displeases me most in this performance is, the author’s

describing Don Quixote as altogether disengaged and detached from

Dulcinea del Toboso.’

The knight, hearing this remark, was filled with rage and vexation, and

exclaimed aloud, ‘If any person whatever affirms that Don Quixote de La

Mancha either has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will,

with equal arms, make him know and own, that his affection is far

distant from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot

possibly be forgot; nor is Don Quixote susceptible of forgetfulness: his

motto is Constancy, which he professes to maintain with gentleness and

suavity of manners.’—‘Who is he that answers?’ cried the voice. ‘Who

should it be,’ replied Sancho, ‘but Don Quixote de La Mancha, in his own

person, who will make good whatever he has said, and whatever he shall

say; for, “A good paymaster wants no pawn.”’

Scarce had the squire pronounced these words, when two gentlemen, for

such they appeared, entered the apartment; and one of them throwing his

arms about Don Quixote’s neck, ‘Your appearance,’ said he, ‘does not

belye your name, and your name cannot but give credit to your

appearance. Without all doubt, you, Signior, are the true Don Quixote de

La Mancha, the north-star and luminary of knight errantry, maugre and in

despite of him who has thought proper to usurp your name, and annihilate

your exploits; I mean, the author of this here book:’ which he took from

his companion, and put into the hand of Don Quixote; who, without

answering one word, began to turn over the leaves, and in a very little

time gave it back to the stranger, saying—‘In the little I have read, I

find three things worthy of reprehension in the author; first, some

expressions in the prologue or preface; secondly, his using the

Arragonian dialect, and writing sometimes without articles; and thirdly,

that which confirms my opinion of his ignorance, his erring and

deviating from the truth in the most material circumstances of the

history; for he says, the wife of my squire Sancho Panza, is called Mary

Gutierrez, whereas her name is Teresa Panza; now, if he blunders in such

an essential circumstance, we may justly conclude that his whole history

is full of mistakes[202].’

‘A pleasant historian, i’faith!’ cried Sancho: ‘he must be well

acquainted with our adventures, to be sure, when he calls my dame Teresa

by the name of Mary Gutierrez! Take the book again, Signior, and see if

he has lugged me in, too, under a borrowed name!’—‘From what you have

said, friend,’ replied Don Geronimo, ‘I find you must certainly be

Sancho Panza, squire to Signior Don Quixote.’—‘Even so,’ answered the

squire; ‘and I am proud of the occupation.’—‘Then, in good sooth!’ said

the cavalier, ‘this author has not treated you so handsomely as from

your appearance I conclude you deserve; he represents you as a

gormandizer, a simpleton without the least vein of humour or pleasantry;

and, in short, quite different from the Sancho described in the first

part of the history of your master!’—‘The Lord in heaven forgive him!’

cried Sancho: ‘he might have let me sleep in my corner, without

remembering there was such a sinner as me upon the face of the earth:

for, “He that has skill should handle the quill[203];” and I know that

St. Peter is well at Rome.’

The two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their

apartment, as they knew the inn could not afford any thing proper for

his entertainment; and the knight, who was always the pink of courtesy,

complied with their request; so that Sancho remained undisputed master

of the pot. _Cum mero mixto imperio_, he seated himself at the head of

the table, in company with the landlord, who vied with him in affection

for the cow-heel and calves-feet.

Don John, in the course of the conversation at supper, asked what news

Don Quixote had concerning the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he begged to

know if she was married, brought to-bed, or in a state of pregnancy; or,

if still single, she, as far as modesty and decorum would permit, smiled

upon the passion of her lover Don Quixote. ‘Dulcinea,’ answered the

knight, ‘is still unmarried, and my passion more intense than ever: our

correspondence stands on the old footing, and her beauty is transformed

into the appearance of a base-born, rustick wench.’

Then he, in a very circumstantial manner, related the inchantment of his

mistress, together with his adventure in the cave of Montesinos, and the

means prescribed by the sage Merlin for her relief; namely, the

flagellation of Sancho.

Unspeakable was the satisfaction which the two cavaliers enjoyed in

hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and

they were equally astonished at the folly of his adventures and the

elegance with which he related them: here they esteemed him as a man of

sound understanding; and there he slipped through their opinion into the

sink of madness; so that they could not determine what rank he should

maintain between lunacy and discretion.

Meanwhile, Sancho having finished his meal, left his landlord more than

half seas over; and entering the chamber where his master sat,

‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I’ll be hanged if the author of that book your

worships were talking of, has any mind or inclination that he and I

should be messmates. Since he has given me the character of a glutton,

as your worships have observed, I wish he may not have likewise called

me a drunkard.’—‘He has indeed,’ replied Don Geronimo: ‘but I do not

remember the expression, though I know the words are very scurrilous and

false above measure, as I can plainly perceive in the physiognomy of

honest Sancho here present.’—‘Take my word for it, noble gentlemen,’

said the squire, ‘the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history must be

persons quite different from those recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, who

are no other than we ourselves, here standing and sitting in your

presence: my master, valiant, sagacious, and enamoured; and I simple,

and withal pleasant, but neither sot nor gormandizer.’—‘I believe what

you say,’ replied Don John: ‘and wish it were possible to obtain a

mandate, prohibiting any person or persons from presuming to meddle with

the affairs of the great Don Quixote, excepting Hamet, his original

author; in the same manner as Alexander the Great decreed that no

painter but Apelles should draw his portrait.’—‘Any body may draw my

portrait,’ said the knight; ‘but let no man maltreat my character; for

patience often falls to the ground, when it is overloaded with

injuries.’—‘No injury can be done to Don Quixote, but what he can easily

revenge,’ answered Don John: ‘unless he chuse rather to ward it off with

the buckler of his patience, which, I believe, is both strong and

ample.’

In this and other such conversation they spent great part of the night;

and although Don John would fain have persuaded Don Quixote to read a

little more of the book, that they might hear him descant upon

particulars, he could not accomplish his purpose; the knight assuring

him he considered it as good as read, and pronounced the whole an heap

of absurdities; nor did he chuse that the author, who might perhaps hear

it was in his hands, should have the satisfaction of thinking he had

perused his performance; for, from objects of obscenity and turpitude,

not only the eyes but even the imagination ought to be kept sacred. When

they asked, whither his course was at present directed, he told them he

was bound for Saragossa, in order to signalize himself in the

prize-jousts which are yearly solemnized in that city.

Then Don John gave him to understand that the new history gives an

account of the spurious Don Quixote’s having been in that place at a

course, the description of which was barren of invention, low in stile,

miserably poor in devices, and rich in nothing but folly and

impertinence.—‘For that very reason,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will not set

foot in Saragossa, and so demonstrate to the wide world, the falshood of

this modern historian, and let the nations see I am not the Don Quixote

whom he has described.’—‘I applaud your resolution,’ replied Don

Geronimo; ‘and there will be a tournament in Barcelona, where Don

Quixote will have an opportunity to signalize his valour.’—‘And that I

shall surely embrace,’ answered the knight: ‘at present, gentlemen, as

it is high time, you will give me leave to retire to bed; and I beg you

will esteem and place me among the number of your most sincere friends

and humble servants.’—‘And me also,’ said Sancho: ‘peradventure my

service may be good for something.’ They accordingly took their leave,

and retired to their apartment, leaving Don John and his companion

astonished at the medley of sense and madness they had observed in his

discourse: they believed, without hesitation, these to be the real Don

Quixote and Sancho, and not the persons described by the Arragonian

author.

Don Quixote rising early next morning, tapped at the partition, and bade

farewel to his entertainers: and Sancho paid his reckoning like a

prince; advising the landlord, however, either to furnish his house

better, or to brag less of his accommodations.

Footnote 201:

Why might not this innkeeper have had eggs in his house, as he had

sent no less than fifty pullets to market the very day before?

Footnote 202:

I am apt to believe that this remark was intended as an ironical

sarcasm on the trivial observations of hypercriticks: for we cannot

suppose Cervantes did not know, by this time, that he himself had more

than once, in the first part of this history, actually called Sancho’s

wife by the name of Mary Gutierrez; an oversight which I have taken

notice of in the proper place.

Footnote 203:

The proverb in the original, alludes to a kind of tabor: as if one

should say, ‘He alone should attempt to play, who knows how to beat

the tabor.’

CHAP. VIII.

OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE IN HIS WAY TO BARCELONA.

The morning was cold, and seemed to promise but little less for the day

on which Don Quixote departed from the inn, after having informed

himself of the nearest road to Barcelona which he could travel without

touching at Saragossa; so eager he was to fix the lye upon the new

historian by whom they said he was so scurvily treated.

So it happened that he met with nothing worthy of record within six

days; at the end of which, having quitted the high road, he was

benighted among a thick cluster of oak or cork-trees; for, in this

particular, Cid Hamet has not preserved his usual punctuality. The

master and man alighting from their beasts, and accommodating themselves

at the roots of two separate trees, Sancho, who had laid in a good

afternoon’s luncheon, entered the gates of sleep abruptly, and without

hesitation; whereas the knight, who was kept awake more by fancy than by

hunger, could not close an eye; but, on the contrary, rambled in his

imagination through a thousand different scenes. Sometimes he conceived

himself to be in the cave of Montesinos; sometimes he thought he saw

Dulcinea skipping and leaping upon her ass, in that dismal state of

rustick transformation; and then his ears seemed to tingle with the

words of the sage Merlin, who pronounced the conditions and endeavours

to be observed and exerted for the disinchantment of his mistress. He

was driven almost to desperation, when he reflected on the sloth and

uncharitable disposition of his squire Sancho, who, to the best of his

belief, had hitherto given himself only five stripes; a number poor and

inconsiderable in comparison with the infinite score unpaid: and this

consideration overwhelmed him with such anxiety and chagrin, that he

thus argued with his own bosom.

‘If Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian knot, on the

supposition that cutting would be as effectual as untying it; and

notwithstanding this violence, became sole master of all Asia, the same

success may now attend my efforts in disinchanting Dulcinea, should I

scourge Sancho against his own consent; for if the condition of this

remedy be, that Sancho shall receive three thousand three hundred

stripes, what signifies it to me whether they are bestowed by his own

hand, or that of some other person, seeing the essential point is in his

receiving them, from what quarter soever they may come?’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Attempts to Scourge Sancho Panza.]

Inspired with this notion, he took the reins of Rozinante’s bridle,

which he formed into an instrument of flagellation; and, approaching the

sleeping squire, began to untruss his points: indeed, it is the general

opinion, that he had but one before which kept up his breeches. But

scarce had he began to perform this operation, when Sancho, shaking off

the fetters of slumber at one start, exclaimed aloud, ‘What’s the

matter? Who the devil is that so busy untrussing me while I’m

asleep?’—‘It is I,’ answered the knight, ‘who mean to atone for thy

omissions, and remedy my own misfortunes. I come to scourge thee,

Sancho, and discharge some part of the debt which thou art obligated to

pay. Dulcinea pines in a state of transformation; and, while thou livest

at thine heart’s ease, I am dying with desire: untie these points,

therefore, of thy own free-will; for mine, I assure thee, is to afflict

thy posteriors with two thousand stripes at least, before we quit this

unfrequented place.’—‘By no manner of means!’ cried Sancho; ‘I advise

your worship to be quiet, or, by the God of Israel! the deaf shall hear

us: the stripes I have obliged myself to receive, must be given with my

own free-will and consent, not by force or compulsion; and, at present,

I have not the least inclination to discipline my own flesh: let it

suffice, I give your worship my word and honour, that I will flog and

fly-flap my carcase as soon as ever I find myself disposed for such

exercise.’—‘I must not leave it to thy courtesy,’ replied the knight;

‘for thou hast a stony heart, and though a peasant, art very tender of

thy flesh.’ He accordingly struggled with all his might to unbreech the

squire; who, finding the affair become very serious, started up from the

ground, sprung upon his master, and closing with him in a trice, tripped

up his heels, so that the knight came instantly to the ground, where he

lay with his face uppermost: then the victor, clapping his right knee to

the breast of the vanquished party, and griping him fast by both wrists,

hampered him in such a manner, that he could scarce either breathe or

move. Nevertheless he made shift to pronounce these words: ‘How now,

traitor! dost thou presume to rebel against thy master and natural lord,

whose bread thou hast eaten?’—‘I neither exalt kings nor dethrone them,’

answered Sancho; ‘but, being my own master, I stand up in my own

defence: if your worship will promise to be quiet, and think no more of

scourging me for the present, I will forthwith free and disencumber you

from these bonds: otherwise, here thou shalt die, traitor and enemy to

Donna Sancha.’

The knight subscribed to the conditions, swearing by the life of his

inclinations, that he would not touch the nap of his garment, but leave

him at full liberty to begin the flagellation when he himself should

think proper. On these considerations Sancho arose, and went aside a

good away to another tree, at whose root he resolved to take his lodging

for the remaining part of the night. There he felt something bob against

his head, and putting up his hand, found two legs provided with shoes

and stockings: trembling with affright, he moved with great expedition

to another tree, where he met with the same salutation, which increased

his terror to such a pitch, that he roared aloud for assistance. His

master hearing this exclamation, ran towards the place, and enquired

into the cause of his fear and confusion; when the squire gave him to

understand that all these trees were loaded with human legs and feet.

The knight reaching up his hand, immediately conceived the meaning of

this strange circumstance, and said to Sancho, ‘Thou needest not be

afraid, for those legs and feet which thou hast felt without seeing,

certainly belong to some robbers and outlaws who are hanged upon the

trees; for, when they are apprehended in this place, the officers of

justice string them up by twenties and thirties; and from this

particular, I am convinced that we must now be near Barcelona.’ And,

indeed, his conjecture was right. Soon as objects were rendered visible

by the dawn, they lifted up their eyes, and saw that the clusters

depending from the trees were no other than the bodies of banditti. The

morning forthwith ushered in the day; and if they were scared by the

dead, they were no less aghast when they found themselves all of a

sudden surrounded by above forty living robbers, who called to them in

the Catalonian language to be quiet, and stand still until their captain

should arrive.

Don Quixote being a-foot, his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against

a tree, and, in short, his person without any means of defence, he

thought proper to cross his arms upon his breast, and hung his head,

reserving himself for a better season and more happy conjuncture.

Meanwhile, the robbers made such dispatch in plundering Dapple, that in

the twinkling of an eye there was not the least crumb left in the wallet

and pillion; and lucky it was for Sancho that he had secured, in a

concealed girdle, the duke’s crowns and the money he had brought from

home; nay, notwithstanding this precaution, those honest gentlemen would

have searched and rummaged him in such a manner as to have found the

cash, even though it had been hidden between the flesh and the skin, had

not they been interrupted by the seasonable arrival of their captain,

who seemed to be about four and thirty years of age, of a robust make,

middling stature, grave countenance, and brown complexion; he rode a

strong horse, was provided with a coat of mail, and he had slung a pair

of pistols with firelocks at each side of him. Seeing his squires (for

so they call the gentlemen of that profession) very busy in rifling

Sancho Panza, he ordered them to desist; and, as they immediately obeyed

his command, the girdle happily escaped. Surprized to see a lance

leaning against a tree, a shield lying on the ground, and Don Quixote

armed at all points and in manifest despondence, exhibiting the most

rueful and melancholy figure that Melancholy herself could have formed,

he approached the knight, saying, ‘Be not so dejected, honest friend;

you have not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but of those of

Roque Guinart, who has more of compassion than cruelty in his

disposition.’

‘My dejection,’ answered the knight, ‘does not proceed from my having

fallen under thy power, O valiant Roque, whose fame the limits of this

earth cannot confine; but from the consciousness of my own neglect, in

consequence of which thy soldiers found me unprepared: whereas I am

bound by the order of chivalry, which I profess, to be always alert and

vigilant, and to stand as it were at all times sentry upon myself; and

give me leave to tell thee, O renowned Roque! they would not have found

it such an easy task to subdue me, had I been on horseback, armed with

my lance and shield: for know, I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose

exploits are celebrated through this whole terraqueous globe.’

Roque Guinart immediately perceived that the knight’s infirmity partook

more of madness than of valour; and although he had frequently heard him

named, he looked upon his atchievements as altogether fabulous, and

could not believe that such a humour did ever prevail in the heart of

man: he was therefore extremely well pleased with this encounter, that

he might with his own eyes see immediately before him what he had heard

reported afar off. ‘Valiant knight,’ said he, ‘do not vex yourself, or

consider your present situation in the light of a misfortune; perhaps,

by stumbling in this manner your crooked fate may be made straight; for

Heaven, by strange unforeseen windings, which mankind cannot comprehend,

is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy.’

Don Quixote’s mouth was already open to thank him for his courteous

behaviour, when they heard behind them a noise like that of a whole

troop of horse, though there was only one, upon which came at full speed

a youth who seemed to be about the age of twenty, dressed in green

damask laced with gold, long breeches, a loose coat, a hat cocked in the

Walloon fashion, with strait waxed boots and spurs; armed with a gold

hilted sword and dagger, a small fusil in his hand, and a case of

pistols by his side.

Roque hearing the noise, turned about, and was surprized with the sight

of this handsome figure, who accosted him in these terms: ‘In search of

thee, courageous Roque! I came hither, hoping by thy means to find, if

not a remedy, at least an alleviation, of my misfortune: and, to keep

thee no longer in suspense, as I am certain you never saw me before,

know that I am Claudia Geronima, daughter of Simon Forte, who is thy

intimate friend, as well as the particular enemy of Clauquel Torellas,

thy inveterate foe, as being head of the party which thou hast always

opposed. This Torellas, thou knowest, has a son called Don Vincente

Torrellas, at least he was, two hours ago, distinguished by that name. I

will be as brief as possible in the account of my disaster, and explain

the occasion of it in a few words. That youth happened to see me, and

courted my good graces; I listened to his addresses, and gave him my

heart, without the knowledge of my father; for there is no woman

whatsoever so retired and mewed up, but she will find a time to execute

and gratify her irresistible desires. In a word, he promised to be my

husband, I consented to become his wife, and this was the farthest

extent of our correspondence. Yesterday I was informed, that, forgetting

this obligation, he intended to marry another woman, and that this

morning he had set out to celebrate his nuptials. My brain was

disturbed, and my indignation arrouzed to such a degree by these fatal

tidings, that, taking the advantage of my father’s absence, I disguised

myself in this apparel, pursued a-horseback my perfidious lover, whom,

having overtaken about a league from this place, I, without staying to

make complaints, or hear apologies, discharged upon him this fusil and

these two pistols; so that, I believe, he has more than a brace of

bullets in his body: thus I opened a gate through which my honour,

though bathed in his blood, may escape, and left him in the hands of his

servants, who neither could nor presumed to exert themselves in his

defence. Thence I came in quest of thee, to beg that thou wilt conduct

me safely to France, where I have relations; and, at the same time,

promise to defend my father from the numerous kindred of Don Vincente,

who may otherwise sacrifice him to their insatiable revenge.’

Roque was struck with admiration at the gallantry, gay appearance,

genteel mien, and adventure of the beauteous Claudia, to whom he

replied, ‘Come, Madam, let us first see whether or not your enemy is

actually dead, and then we will consider about the most proper measures

to be taken in your behalf.’ Here Don Quixote, who had listened with

great attention to Claudia’s address, and Roque’s reply, interposing in

the conversation, exclaimed, ‘No man has any occasion to give himself

the least trouble about the defence of this lady, which I take upon my

own shoulders. Give me my horse and my arms, and stay where you are; I

will go in quest of the gentleman, and dead or alive compel him to

perform the promise he hath made to so much beauty.’—‘Who doubts that!’

cried Sancho; ‘adad! my master has an excellent hand at match-making; a

few days ago, he compelled another person who likewise refused to keep

his word with a young woman; and if those plaguy inchanters who

persecute him so much, had not transmographied the gallant into a

lacquey, that very hour, She that was a maid before, would have been a

maid no more[204].’

Roque, whose attention was engrossed by the adventure of the beautiful

Claudia, paid very little regard to what was said either by the master

or the man; but, ordering his squires to restore the spoils of Dapple to

Sancho, and retire to the place appointed for their quarters that night,

he set out with Claudia, in great haste, to reconnoitre the situation of

the dead or wounded Don Vincente. When they arrived at the spot where he

had been overtaken by the young lady, they found nothing but some recent

blood; but, casting their eyes around, they discovered some people on

the side of a hill, and conjectured they could be no other than the

servants of Don Vincente carrying their master to a proper place, where

he might be cured, if alive, or buried, if dead. Their supposition was

just; and spurring up their horses, they soon overtook the unhappy

cavalier, whom they found in the arms of his attendants, whom he

entreated, with a faint and languid voice, to let him die where he was;

for the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to proceed farther. Then

Claudia and Roque approached him, to the great terror of his servants,

who stood aghast at sight of this famous free-booter; but Claudia was

greatly disturbed at the melancholy situation of Don Vincente; and

agitated by the conflicting passions of tenderness and resentment, took

him by the hand, saying, ‘Hadst thou given me this of thy own accord,

conformable to the mutual promise subsisting between us, thou wouldst

never have been in this condition.’

The wounded cavalier opened his eyes, which were almost shut for ever,

and recognizing Claudia, ‘I plainly perceive,’ said he, ‘most beautiful

and misled young lady, that I owe my death to your hand; a punishment

altogether unmerited and unsuited to my inclinations, which, as well as

my conduct, were, in regard to your person, altogether void of

offence.’—‘What!’ cried Claudia, ‘is it not true, that you, this

morning, intended to marry Leonora, daughter of the rich

Balvastro?’—‘No, surely,’ replied Don Vincente; ‘my evil genius must

have alarmed you with such information, that, your jealousy being

inflamed, you might deprive me of life, which, as I leave it in your

arms, and your embrace, I consider as happily lost; and, that you may be

convinced of my sincerity, give me your hand, and, if you please,

receive me for your husband, this being the only satisfaction I can make

for the offence I was supposed to have given.’ Accordingly, Claudia and

he joined hands and hearts together, in such a manner that she fainted

away upon his bloody breast, and he sunk into a mortal paroxism.

Roque being confounded and perplexed, the servants ran for water which

they sprinkled upon their faces, and Claudia recovered from her swoon;

but this was not the case with her unhappy lover, who had already

breathed his last. The young lady, perceiving her beloved husband was no

more, rent the air with her groans, wounded the heavens with her

lamentation, tore her locks and scattered them to the winds, and

disfigured her face with her own nails, exhibiting all the marks of the

most severe grief that ever took possession of an afflicted bosom. ‘O

cruel and inconsiderate woman!’ she cried; ‘how easily wast thou

provoked to execute such dire revenge! O furious jealousy! to what dire

despair dost thou conduct all those who give thee harbour in their

breasts! O my dear husband! whose unhappy fate, in being mine, hath made

thy marriage-bed thy grave!’

Such were the melancholy exclamations of Claudia, which brought water

into the eyes of Roque, who had seldom or never shed tears before; their

servants wept bitterly; the young lady swooned almost at every step, and

this whole circuit seemed to be the scene of sorrow, and field of

misfortune. At length Roque Guinart ordered the servants to carry their

master’s body to his father’s country-seat, which was hard by, that it

might be buried according to the old gentleman’s directions; and Claudia

expressed her desire of retiring to a certain monastery, the abbess of

which was her aunt, where she intended to finish her life, in company of

a better and more eternal husband. Roque applauded her design, and

offered to conduct her to the place, promising, at the same time, to

defend her father from the kindred of Don Vincente, and all the world,

should they conspire against his peace. She would by no means avail

herself of his attendance; but, thanking him for his obliging offers in

the most courteous terms she could use, took her leave of him, shedding

a torrent of tears: the servants of Don Vincente carried off the body,

Roque returned to his gang, and thus ended the amour of Claudia

Geronima; a catastrophe not to be wondered at, when we consider that the

web of her melancholy fate was woven by the baleful and invincible force

of jealousy.

Roque Guinart found his squires in the place where he had ordered them

to take up their night’s lodging, and in the midst of them Don Quixote

upon Rozinante, exhorting them in a long harangue, to quit that way of

life, so dangerous both to soul and body; but as the greatest part of

them were Gascons, a brutal and disorderly sort of people, the knight’s

arguments made but little impression. The chief arriving, asked Sancho

Panza if the men had restored the furniture and effects they had taken

from Dapple; and the squire replied in the affirmative, excepting,

however, three night-caps worth as many royal cities. ‘What the devil

does the fellow say!’ cried one of the gang; ‘here they are, and any

body may see they would not sell for three rials.’

‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but my squire values them at that rate, on

account of the person of whom I received them in a present.’ Roque

commanded the man to restore them instantly; then, forming his people

into a line, gave orders for bringing before them all the cloaths,

jewels, money, and every thing they had acquired by robbery since the

last partition; then, making a short valuation, and reducing the

indivisibles into cash, he shared the whole among his company, with such

equity and discretion, that in the most minute article, he neither

exceeded nor fell short of distributive justice.

Having made this partition, with which every individual was perfectly

well satisfied and contented, Roque turning to Don Quixote, ‘If we did

not observe this punctuality,’ said he, ‘there would be no living among

such a crew.’ To this declaration Sancho replied, ‘From what I have

seen, I find justice so excellent in itself, that the practice of it is

necessary even among thieves.’

One of the squires overhearing the remark, lifted up the butt-end of his

musket, with which, in all probability, he would have shattered Sancho’s

scull, had not the general commanded him to desist; while Panza,

trembling in every limb, resolved never to open his lips again so long

as he should sojourn among such ruffians.

About this time arrived one of the gang, who was placed centinel on the

road to reconnoitre travellers, and bring intelligence; and riding up to

their chief, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘not far from hence, there is a large

company of people travelling to Barcelona.’—‘Have you perceived,’

answered Roque, ‘whether they are such as we seek, or such as are in

quest of us.’ When the squire replied that they were such as he sought;

‘Set out, then, all together,’ said he, ‘and bring the whole company

hither, without suffering one to escape.’

This whole gang departed accordingly, leaving their chief alone with Don

Quixote and Sancho, to wait the issue of their expedition; and during

this interval, Roque addressing himself to the knight, ‘This life of

ours,’ said he, ‘must appear very strange to Don Quixote, exposed as it

is to infinite adventures and incidents replete with danger; and,

indeed, I do not wonder that it should appear in that light; for I must

know there can be no situation so full of terror and disquiet as that in

which I live, and into which I was misled by the desire of revenge,

which is often powerful enough to disturb the most philosophick breast.

I am naturally benevolent and compassionate; but, as I have already

observed, the desire of revenging an injury which I received, hath

overturned all my virtuous inclinations in such a manner, that I

persevere in this career, maugre and in despite of my own understanding;

and, as deep calleth unto deep, and sin unto sin, different schemes of

revenge are so linked together, that I undertake not only my own, but

also those of other people; yet, by the blessing of God, although I find

myself thus involved in a labyrinth of confusion, I have not lost the

hope of being, one day, happily extricated from all my troubles.’

Don Quixote was surprized to hear Roque talk so sensibly and with such

moderation; for he imagined, that among those who were in the daily

practice of assaulting, robbing, and murdering their fellow-creatures,

there could not surely be one single person of sense and reflection.

‘Signior Roque,’ said he, ‘the beginning of health is the knowledge of

the disease, and the patient’s desire to comply with the physician’s

prescription. You are now in the diseased condition, sensible of your

infirmity, and Heaven, or rather God himself, who is the great

physician, will apply those medicines which are proper for the cure of

your distemper; but these remedies are wont to operate slowly, not in a

sudden miraculous manner; and sensible sinners are much more likely to

recover, than delinquents of little understanding. Now, as your

discourse evinces your discretion, be of good chear, and courageously

wait for the perfect recovery of your conscience. If you are in earnest

inclined to quit this road, and enter at once into that which leads to

salvation, come along with me and learn to be a knight-errant, in which

capacity you will undergo such toils and disasters as will be deemed

sufficient penance, and exalt you to Heaven in the turning of two

balls.’

Roque could not help smiling at Don Quixote’s advice; but changing the

conversation, he recounted the tragical adventure of Claudia Geronima,

at which Sancho was exceedingly grieved; for he had been hugely pleased

with the beauty, vivacity, and demeanor of the young lady.

About this time they were joined by the squires of the booty, who

brought along with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on

foot, and a coach full of women, attended by six servants, partly

mounted, and partly footmen, together with two muleteers, who waited

upon the gentlemen. These came all in a troop surrounded by the squires,

and universal silence prevailed among the victors and the vanquished;

both sides expecting, with resignation, the commands of the great Roque

Guinart, who, approaching the gentlemen, asked who they were, whither

they were going, and what money they had.

To these interrogations one of them replied, ‘Signior, we are captains

of the Spanish infantry, our companies are in Naples; our intention is

to embark on board of four gallies, which, they say, are now in the

harbour of Barcelona, ready to sail for Sicily; and our funds amount to

two or three hundred crowns, with the possession of which we thought

ourselves rich and happy, considering the narrow appointments of a

soldier, which will not permit him to heap up a great deal of wealth.’

Then Roque putting the same questions to the pilgrims, they answered,

that their design was to embark for Italy, in order to visit Rome; and

that, between both, they could muster about sixty rials. He likewise

desired to know the quality of those who were in the coach, the place to

which they were going, and the state of their finances. In these

particulars he was satisfied by one of the horsemen, who said, ‘The

company in the coach consists of my Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones, wife

to the regent of the vicariate of Naples, her little daughter a damsel,

and a duenna; I am one of the six servants who attend them, and her

ladyship’s cash may amount to six hundred crowns.’—‘At that rate, then,’

replied the mighty Roques, ‘here are nine hundred crowns and, sixty

rials; I have sixty soldiers; see what each man’s share will come to,

for I am but an indifferent arithmetician.’ The robbers hearing this

decision, cried aloud, ‘Long life to Roque Guinart, and confusion to the

knaves who endeavour to effect his ruin!’

The captains exhibited evident marks of affliction, my lady regent

assumed a very sorrowful countenance, and the pilgrims did not at all

rejoice at this confiscation of their effects. Although Roque kept them

for some time in suspense, he had no mind to protract their melancholy,

which was plainly perceivable a gunshot off; but, turning to the

captains, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘be so good as to lend me sixty crowns,

and my lady regent will favour me with fourscore, in order to satisfy my

squadron; you know, The abbot must not want, who for his bread doth

chant; then you may prosecute your journey without fear or molestation,

by virtue of a safe conduct I will grant; in consequence of which, you

will be exempted from plunder, in case you should fall in with any other

of those squadrons which I have posted up and down in different

divisions; for it is not my intention to aggrieve either soldiers or

ladies, especially ladies of quality.’

Infinite and well turned were the compliments in which the captains

acknowledged their obligation to Roque for his politeness and

liberality, for such they accounted it, in leaving them possessed of

their own money. My Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones would have thrown

herself from the coach, in order to kiss the feet and hands of the great

Roque; but he would by no means accept such marks of submission: on the

contrary, he begged pardon for the injury which he was compelled to do

them, in compliance with the precise duty of his wicked profession. The

lady ordered her servant to pay instantly the eighty crowns which were

demanded; the captains had already disbursed threescore; and the

pilgrims were going to surrender their miserable pittance; when Roque

desired them to desist, and turning to his gang, ‘Of these crowns,’ said

he, ‘two shall fall to the share of each man, and then there will be an

overplus of twenty, one half of which I give to the pilgrims, and the

other ten to this honest squire, that he may make a favourable report of

the adventure.’

After this decision, he took pen, ink, and paper, with which he was

always provided, and writing a safe conduct directed to the chiefs of

his squadrons, gave it to the company, whom he courteously dismissed,

and they proceeded on their journey, struck with admiration at his noble

demeanour, gallant disposition, and strange conduct, looking upon him

rather as an Alexander the Great, than a notorious robber. One of the

squires, displeased at the booty, said in his Catalonian dialect, ‘This

captain of ours is fitter for praying than preying; if henceforth he has

a mind to shew his generosity, let it be from his own purse, and not

what is ours by right of conquest.’

The unhappy wretch did not speak so softly, but that he was overheard by

Roque, who instantly unsheathing his sword, cleft his head almost in

two, saying, ‘Thus I chastise mutiny and presumption.’ All the rest of

the gang were terrified at this execution, and not one of them durst

open his lips, so much were they over-awed by the character of their

chief.

As for Roque, he went aside and wrote a letter to a friend at Barcelona,

giving him to understand how he had met with the famous Don Quixote de

La Mancha, that knight-errant whose exploits were in every body’s mouth;

and, he assured him, that the adventurer was the most agreeable and

understanding man in the whole world: he likewise gave him notice, that

in four days from the date of the letter, on the feast of St. John, the

said knight-errant would appear on the beach of the city, armed

cap-a-pee, mounted on Rozinante, and accompanied by his squire Sancho

upon an ass. He, therefore, desired his correspondent to communicate

this intelligence to his friends the Nearri, that they might enjoy the

character of Don Quixote, and wished his enemies the Cadelli might not

partake of the diversion. But that was a vain desire, because the

mixture of madness and discretion in the knight, and the pleasantries of

his squire, were such as could not fail to yield entertainment to the

whole world in general.

This letter was dispatched by one of his squires; who, disguising

himself in the habit of a peasant, entered Barcelona, and delivered it

according to the direction.

Footnote 204:

This rhime is substituted in lieu of Sancho’s playing on the word

_fuera_, in the original.

CHAP. IX.

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON HIS ENTRANCE INTO BARCELONA—WITH

OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES THAT PARTAKE MORE OF TRUTH THAN OF DISCRETION.

Three days and three nights did Don Quixote remain with Roque, and had

he staid as many hundred years, he would not have wanted subject for

enquiry and admiration at their way of life: they lodged in one place,

dined in another; sometimes they fled from they knew not what, sometimes

waited for they knew not whom. They slept standing, and even that

slumber was often interrupted; they shifted from place to place; in a

word, their whole time was spent in appointing spies, examining

centinels, and blowing matches for their musquets, though they had but

few; for they chiefly used firelocks. As for Roque, he passed the night

by himself, in private haunts and places concealed even from the

knowledge of his own gang; for the repeated proclamations issued by the

viceroy of Barcelona, setting a price upon his head, had rendered him

restless, diffident, and fearful; so that he durst not confide in any

person whatever, being apprehensive that even his own followers would

either murder or deliver him up to justice; a life, of all others,

assuredly the most tiresome and miserable! At length, this renowned

freebooter, accompanied by Don Quixote and Sancho, and attended by six

of his own squires, set out for Barcelona, through unfrequented roads,

short cuts, and private paths, and arrived upon the strand, after it was

dark, on the eve of St. John.

Here Roque, embracing Don Quixote, and giving to Sancho the ten crowns,

which, though promised, had not hitherto been paid, took his leave and

returned to his station, after mutual protestations of friendship had

passed between him and our hero, who resolved to sit on horseback as he

was till day, which was not far off. Accordingly, they had not tarried

long in this situation, when Aurora disclosed her rosy face through the

balconies of the east, infusing vigour and seeming joy into every plant

and flower, instead of gratifying the ear, which, however, was also that

instant regaled with the sound of waits and kettle-drums, together with

the noise of morrice bells; the clatter of horses upon the pavement, and

the repetition, of ‘Clear the way!’ pronounced by the couriers who came

forth from the city. Aurora vanished before the sun; who, with a

countenance ample as a target, gradually arose from below the horizon;

then Don Quixote and Sancho, extending their view all around, perceived

the sea, which they had never before beheld, and which seemed to be

infinitely vast, and abundantly more spacious than even the lakes of

Ruydera, which they had seen in La Mancha: they likewise beheld the

gallies in the road, which, when their awnings were furled, displayed a

glorious sight of pendants, flags, and streamers, that wantoned in the

wind, and kissed and brushed the surface of the deep; while they were

surrounded with clarions, trumpets, and other sorts of musick, which

filled the air, for many leagues around, with sweet and martial accents.

Now they began to move, and forming themselves into line of battle,

exhibited the representation of a naval fight upon the tranquil bosom of

the sea. At the same time, a mock skirmish was acted on the shore, by a

great number of gentlemen, mounted on beautiful horses, who came forth

from the city, in gay attire, with splendid liveries. The soldiers of

the gallies discharged an infinite number of fire-arms, which were

answered from the wall and forts of the city; and to the great guns,

which seemed to rend the air with their tremendous sound, the midship

cannons of the gallies made a suitable reply; the joy that resounded on

board, the pleasure that appeared on shore, together with the serenity

of the air, which was sometimes disturbed by the smoke of the artillery,

seemed to infuse and engender a sudden flow of spirits and delight in

every breast. As for Sancho, he could not conceive how those great hulks

could use such a number of feet in moving through the sea.

About this time, the cavaliers so richly caparisoned, crying, hallooing,

and shouting, in the Moorish manner, came riding up to the place where

Don Quixote sat on horseback, overwhelmed with surprize and

astonishment; and one of their number, who had been apprized by Roque,

exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Welcome to our city, thou mirrour; lanthorn,

planet, and polar star, of all chivalry in its utmost extent! Welcome,

valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, not the false, fictitious, and

apocryphal adventurer, lately in spurious history described; but the

real, legal, and royal knight recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, the

flower of historians.’

Don Quixote answered not a word; nor did the cavaliers wait for his

reply; but, with their followers, began to wheel and turn, and curvet in

a circle round the knight; who, addressing himself to Sancho, ‘As these

people know us so well,’ said he, ‘I will lay a wager they have read our

history, and even that of the Arragonian, which hath been lately

printed.’ The gentleman who had at first accosted him returning, renewed

his address in these words; ‘Signior Don Quixote, be so good as to go

along with us, who are all the intimate friends and humble servants of

Roque Guinart.’ To this entreaty the knight replied, ‘If courtesy

engenders courtesy, yours, Signior Cavalier, is the daughter, or, at

least, nearly allied to that which I experienced in the gallant Roque.

Conduct me whither you please to go; my will shall, in all respects, be

conformable to yours, and I should be proud if you would employ it in

your service.’

The gentleman answered this compliment with expressions equally polite;

and all his companions surrounding the knight in a body, they, to the

musick of the waits and kettle-drums, conducted him to the city, his

entrance into which was attended with a small misfortune. That mischief,

from which all mischief is produced, ordained, that two bold and

impudent boys, more mischievous than mischief itself, should squeeze

themselves through the crowd, and approaching Rozinante and Dapple, clap

a handful of furze under the tail of each: the poor animals, feeling the

severity of this new kind of spurs, augmented the pain, by pressing

their tails more closely to their buttocks; so that, after a thousand

plunges, they came with their riders to the ground, to the unutterable

shame and indignation of Don Quixote; who, with great dispatch,

delivered the posteriors of his companion from this disagreeable

plumage; while Sancho performed the same kind office for his friend

Dapple.

The gentlemen would have willingly chastised the boys for their

presumption; but it was not in their power to give the strangers that

satisfaction; for, they had no sooner executed their purpose, than they

concealed themselves among the crowd of above a thousand youngsters who

followed the cavalcade: so that Don Quixote and Sancho were obliged to

pocket the affront; and remounting their beasts, proceeded with the same

musick and acclamation to the house of their conductor, which was large

and magnificent, and in all respects suitable to the rank of an opulent

cavalier. Here, then, we shall leave him for the present; for such is

the will of Cid Hamet Benengeli.

CHAP. X.

CONTAINING THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD—WITH OTHER TRIVIAL

INCIDENTS, WHICH, HOWEVER, MUST NOT BE OMITTED.

Don Quixote’s landlord was called Don Antonio Moreno, a wealthy

gentleman of good understanding, who loved a joke in a fair and

good-humoured way; so that finding our knight safely housed under his

roof, he began to contrive means for extracting diversion from the

madness of his guests, without prejudice to his person; for those are no

jests that give pain; nor is that pastime to be indulged which tends to

the detriment of a fellow-creature. His first step was to unarm Don

Quixote, and in that strait shamoy doublet, which we have already

painted and described, expose him to publick view in a balcony that

jetted out into one of the chief streets in the city, where he was

surveyed by the people and the children, who gazed upon him as if he had

been a monster or baboon. While he stood in this situation, the

gentlemen with the rich liveries performed their courses before him, as

if for his sake only, and not in order to celebrate the festival, they

had provided all their finery; and Sancho was ravished with the thoughts

of having so luckily found, without knowing how or wherefore, another

wedding of Camacho, another house like that of Don Diego de Miranda, and

another place equal to the duke’s castle, where he had been so

hospitably entertained.

Don Antonio had that day invited some friends to dinner, and all of them

paid particular respect to Don Quixote, whom they treated as a renowned

knight-errant, a circumstance that elevated his vanity to such a pitch,

that he could scarce contain his satisfaction; and Sancho’s conceits

flowed so fast and humourous, that all the servants of the family, and

all who heard his sallies, seemed to hang upon his lips. While he waited

at table, Don Antonio accosting him, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘we are

informed you are such a lover of fowls and balls of forced meat, that,

when you can eat no longer, you pocket what remains for next day.’—‘No,

Signior,’ answered Sancho; ‘that is not the case, and your worship must

have been misinformed; I am a cleanly squire, and no such filthy

glutton; for my master, here present, knows very well, that we have

often passed eight whole days, without any other sustenance than an

handful of nuts or acorns. True it is, If ever the heifer is offered,

the tether is at hand; my meaning is, I eat what I get, and ride the

ford as I find it[205]. If, therefore, any person whatever hath said

that I am an exceeding glutton and foul feeder, your worship may take it

for granted that he is in a mistake; and I would tell him my mind in

another manner, if it was not for the respect I bear to the honourable

beards of this company.’—‘Assuredly,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Sancho’s

cleanliness, and moderation in eating, might be inscribed and engraved

on tables of brass, for an everlasting memorial and example to

succeeding ages. True it is, when very hungry, he may seem to be a

little voracious; for he eats with precipitation, chewing with both

sides of his jaws; but cleanliness he punctually maintains; and, while a

governor, learned to eat so delicately, that he took up grapes, and even

the grains of a pomegranate, with a fork.’—‘How!’ cried Don Antonio,

‘hath Sancho been a governor?’—‘Yes, sure,’ replied the squire; ‘and

that of an island called Barataria, which I governed according to my own

will and pleasure, for the space of ten days, during which I lost my

natural rest, and learned to despise all the governments upon earth: I,

therefore, fled from it as I would fly from the devil, and tumbled into

a cavern, from whence, though I gave myself up as a dead man, I was

brought up alive by a perfect miracle.’ Then Don Quixote gave them a

circumstantial account of Sancho’s government, which afforded

extraordinary entertainment to the whole audience.

Dinner being ended, and the table uncovered, Don Antonio took our hero

by the hand, and conducted him into a private apartment, where there was

no furniture but a table, that seemed to be of jasper, supported by one

foot of the same substance; and upon this table was placed a bust of

bronze, from the breast upwards, representing a head of one of the Roman

emperors. Don Antonio, after having traversed the room with his guest,

and more than once walked round the table, ‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said

he, ‘now that I am assured no person overhears us, as nobody listens,

and the door is bolted, I will impart to your worship one of the rarest

adventures, or rather one of the greatest rarities, that ever was known;

on condition, however, that you will deposit the secret in the most

hidden recess of your heart.’—‘I swear to the condition,’ answered Don

Quixote: ‘and, for the greater security, will put a tomb-stone over

whatever you shall communicate; for, know, Signior Don Antonio,’ (by

this time he had learned his name) ‘your worship is talking to one, who,

though he has ears to hear, has never a tongue to tattle; so that you

may securely transfuse the contents of your own breast into mine, and

take it for granted, you have ingulphed them in the abyss of

silence.’—‘On the faith of that promise,’ replied Don Antonio, ‘I will

excite your worship’s admiration with what you shall see and hear; and

I, myself, will enjoy some alleviation of the pain I have felt from

having no person to whom I could communicate the secret, which is not to

be trusted to every body’s discretion.’ Don Quixote waited with

impatience and surprize to see the result of this preamble; when his

entertainer, taking him by the hand, made him feel all around the bust,

the table, and the jasper foot upon which it was supported; then

accosting him with great solemnity of aspect: ‘This bust, Signior Don

Quixote,’ said he, ‘was made and contrived by one of the greatest

inchanters and necromancers that ever the world produced. He was, I

think, a native of Poland, and disciple of the famous Escotillo[206], of

whose knowledge such wonders are reported. As he chanced to be in this

part of the world, I took him into my house, where, in consideration of

a thousand crowns which I paid, he wrought this head, in which is

centered the surprizing power and virtue of answering every question

communicated to its ear. The master performed certain rites, erected

schemes, consulted the stars, and carefully observed the lucky and

unlucky minutes, until, at length, he brought it to that perfection

which we shall perceive to-morrow; for on Fridays it is mute, and this

being Friday, we must wait till another day: in the mean time, your

worship may consider and prepare your questions, which I know by

experience it will truly answer.’ Don Quixote was confounded and

astonished at this property and virtue of the head, and indeed, almost

tempted to disbelieve Don Antonio’s account; but, seeing how little time

was required to make the experiment, he would not mention his

incredulity; but, in very polite terms, thanked his entertainer for

having entrusted him with such an important secret. They accordingly

quitted the apartment, and Don Antonio having locked the door, returned

to the rest of the company, who were highly entertained with Sancho’s

recapitulation of many adventures and incidents to which his master had

been exposed.

The same evening, they persuaded Don Quixote to make a progress along

the streets with them, not in his armour, but in a loose coat of

tawny-coloured cloth, which would have made ice itself sweat at that

season; and, in the mean time, they directed their servants to amuse

Sancho within doors, that he might not come forth and spoil their

diversion. The knight was not mounted on Rozinante, but accommodated

with an ambling mule, gaily caparisoned; and, upon the back of his coat

or cloak, they, without his knowledge, pinned a parchment inscribed in

large letters, ‘This is Don Quixote de La Mancha.’ The procession no

sooner began, than this scroll attracted the eyes of the people; and,

when they read it aloud, the knight was astonished to find himself

known, and hear his name repeated by all the spectators. He, therefore,

turning to Don Antonio, who rode by his side, ‘Great,’ said he, ‘is the

prerogative that centers in knight-errantry, the professors of which are

known and celebrated through all the corners of the earth: take notice,

Signior Don Antonio, how my name is repeated by the very boys who never

saw me before.’—‘It is even so, Signior Don Quixote,’ replied Antonio;

‘for, as light cannot be shut up and concealed, so neither can virtue

remain unknown; and, that which is acquired by the profession of arms,

shines with superior splendor over all other acquisitions.’

While our knight thus proceeded amidst the acclamation of the crowd, a

certain Castilian happened to pass, and reading the scroll, exclaimed

aloud, ‘Now, the devil take thee, Don Quixote de La Mancha! how hast

thou made shift to come so far without expiring under some of those

infinite drubbings which thy ribs have received? A madman thou surely

art: and if the defect of thine understanding affected thyself only, and

was confined within the gates of thy own madness, the misfortune would

be the smaller; but thy frenzy is of such a peculiar nature as to turn

the brains of all those with whom thou hast any commerce or

communication; witness these gentlemen by whom thou art now accompanied.

Return to your own house, Mr. Goose-cap, mind your family-concerns; look

after your wife and children; and discard these vain maggots, which have

eaten and burrowed into your brain, and skimmed off the very cream of

your understanding.’—‘Hark ye, brother,’ said Don Antonio, ‘go about

your business; and do not pretend to offer your advice to those who want

none of your counsel: Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha is renowned for

wisdom, and we who accompany him are not so mad as you may imagine.

Virtue ought to be honoured wheresoever it is found: therefore be gone

with a vengeance; and seek not to meddle in those affairs with which you

have no concern.’—‘’Fore God! your worship is in the right,’ replied the

Castilian: ‘advising that honest man is kicking against the pricks.

Nevertheless, I am extremely sorry that the good sense, which, they say,

this madman displays in some things, should be unprofitably wasted

through the canal of his knight-errantry: and may that vengeance which

your worship imprecated, overtake me and all my posterity, if, from this

day forwards, I give advice to any person whatever, asked, or unasked,

even though I should live to the age of Methusalem!’ So saying, this

counsellor went away, and the procession went on; but the throng was so

great, occasioned by the boys and other idle people who pressed in to

read the scroll, that Don Antonio was fain to take it off, on pretence

of freeing the knight from some other annoyance.

In the twilight they returned to the house of Don Antonio, where they

found a ball prepared by his lady, who was a woman of birth, beauty,

good humour, and discretion; and had invited a number of friends to come

and honour her guest, and enjoy the strange peculiarities of his

madness: they accordingly came, and after supper, at which they were

entertained in a very splendid manner, the ball began about ten o’clock.

Among the company were two ladies who had a turn for satire, accompanied

with a great deal of humour; and who, though persons of unblemished

honour, indulged themselves with uncommon freedom of behaviour, in order

to keep up the spirit of the diversion, that it might not flag. This

pair of female wags persisted with incredible eagerness, in dancing with

Don Quixote, until not only his body, but even his very soul, seemed

fainting with fatigue; and nothing could be more ludicrous than the

figure of the knight, so long, so lank, so lean, so yellow, capering

about in a straight shamoy doublet, with an air unspeakably aukward, and

legs that were never designed for such exercise. The young ladies

affected to court his good graces by stealth; and he privately treated

their advances with disdain, until, finding them become more and more

pressing, he pronounced aloud, ‘_Fugite partes adversæ!_ disturb not my

repose, ye unwelcome thoughts! avaunt, ladies, with your unruly desires;

for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, will not

consent that I should surrender or be subject to any other than her

own!’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Dancing.]

So saying, he sat down upon the floor in the middle of the hall, quite

exhausted and demolished with the violent exercise he had undergone; so

that Don Antonio gave orders for his being carried forthwith to bed; and

the first person who touched him in obedience to this order, was his own

squire Sancho Panza; who, as he endeavoured to raise him upon his legs,

could not help reprehending him in these words: ‘What a plague tempted

your worship to fall a capering? Did you suppose every valiant man was

as nimble as an harlequin, or that all knights-errant must needs be

masterly dancers? If that was your opinion, I say you were much

deceived: for there be men who would rather undertake to slay a giant,

than to cut a caper. Had it been the shoe-slapping horn-pipe, I could

have supplied your place; for I slap like a jerfaulcon; but as for your

figured dances, I know not a stitch of the matter.’ With this address

Sancho raised a laugh from the assembly, and his master from the floor,

and carrying the knight to bed, covered him up very warm, that he might

sweat out the cold caught in dancing.

Next day Don Antonio thought proper to try the experiment of the

inchanted head, and for this purpose entered the apartment, accompanied

by Don Quixote, Sancho, a couple of friends, with our hero’s two waggish

partners, who had staid all night with Antonio’s lady. The door being

fast bolted, he explained the property of the bust, after having laid

injunctions on the company to keep the secret, and declared this was the

day on which he intended to make the first trial of the virtue contained

in the inchanted head[207]. Indeed, except his two friends, no other

person knew the mystery; and if they had not been previously informed by

Don Antonio, they would certainly have shared in the same admiration

which necessarily seized the rest who were present at the execution of a

scheme so artfully contrived.

The first who approached the ear of this inchanted head was Don Antonio

himself, who said in a low voice, but so as to be overheard by all

present, ‘Tell me, O head, by thy inherent virtue, what are my present

thoughts?’ To this interrogation the head, without moving its lips,

replied in a clear and distinct voice, which was heard by the whole

company, ‘I do not pretend to investigate the thoughts.’ Those who knew

not the plot were confounded at hearing this answer, as they plainly

perceived there was not a living soul under the table or in the whole

apartment to utter this reply. Don Antonio addressing himself again to

it, asked, ‘How many persons are here in company?’ and was answered in

the same key, ‘You and your wife[208], two friends of yours, and two of

her companions, with a famous knight called Don Quixote de La Mancha,

and his squire Sancho Panza by name.’ Here was fresh amazement! here was

their hair standing on end with affright; while Don Antonio, stepping

aside from the table, said, ‘This is enough to convince me that I have

not been deceived by the person of whom I purchased thee; thou sage,

speaking, oracular, and admirable head! Let some other person go and

question it at will.’

As women are usually very curious and impatient, the next who approached

was one of the two ladies, and her question was this: ‘Tell me, O head,

what I shall do to be extremely beautiful?’ She received for answer, ‘Be

extremely virtuous;’ and replied, ‘I ask no more.’ Then her companion

advanced, saying, ‘I want to know, sagacious head, whether or not I am

fondly beloved by my husband?’ and she was answered, ‘That you will

learn by observing his behaviour.’ The married lady retired, observing

that it required no magick to solve that question; for, in effect, an

husband’s behaviour to his wife will always declare the state of his

affection. The third person that approached the table was one of Don

Antonio’s friends, who asked, ‘What am I?’ and when the voice answered,

‘Thou knowest best,’ he replied, ‘That is not the purport of my

question; I desire thou wilt tell me if thou knowest my name?’—‘Yes,’

said the oracle; ‘I know thou art Don Pedro Noriez.’—‘Then I am

satisfied,’ answered Don Pedro; ‘for that answer is sufficient to

convince me, O head, that thou knowest every thing.’ Then he withdrew,

and was succeeded by the other gentleman; who, advancing to the table,

‘Tell me, O head,’ said he, ‘the wish of my eldest son?’—‘I have already

owned that I cannot dive into the thoughts of men,’ said the voice;

‘nevertheless, I will tell thee, that the wish of thy son is to bury his

father.’—‘That is indeed his wish,’ replied the cavalier; ‘I see it with

my eye, I touch it with my finger, and do not chuse to ask another

question.’ Don Antonio’s lady approached, saying, ‘I know not how to

interrogate thee, O head; but I should be glad to know if I shall long

enjoy my good husband?’—‘Yes, you will,’ replied the voice; ‘his healthy

constitution, and moderate way of life, promise a long succession of

years and a good old age, of which many men deprive themselves by their

own intemperance.’

Don Quixote now took his turn, and addressing himself to the bust, ‘Tell

me then, whatsoever thou art,’ said he, ‘is my account of what befel me

in the cave of Montesinos really fact, or only the illusion of a dream?

Will the flagellation of my squire Sancho be certainly accomplished? and

will the disinchantment of Dulcinea take effect?’—‘With respect to the

cave,’ replied the oracle, ‘much may be said; the adventure partakes

both of truth and illusion. The flagellation of Sancho will proceed

slowly; but Dulcinea will be disinchanted in process of time.’—‘And that

is all I desire to know,’ cried the knight; ‘for, in the disinchantment

of Dulcinea, I shall reckon all my wishes at once happily fulfilled.’

The last interrogator was Sancho; who, approaching the table, ‘Pray,

good Mr. Head,’ said he, ‘shall I peradventure obtain another

government? shall I ever rise above the humble station of a squire? and

lastly, shall I ever see again my wife and children?’ To these questions

he received these answers: ‘If it be thy fate to return to thy own

house, thou wilt govern thy family, and see thy wife and children; and

in ceasing to serve, thou wilt cease to be a squire.’—‘’Fore God! an

excellent response!’ cried Sancho; ‘that I could have foretold myself,

and the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.’—‘What answer would

you have, you beast?’ said Don Quixote; ‘is it not sufficient that the

responses delivered by the head, correspond with the questions you have

asked?’—‘It shall suffice,’ replied the squire; ‘but I wish it had

explained itself a little more fully, and told me some more of my

fortune.’

Thus ended the questions and answers, but not the admiration of the

whole company; except Antonio’s two friends, who had been let into the

secret; which Cid Hamet Benengeli will now explain, that the world may

not be kept longer in suspense, or imagine that any necromantick

talisman or extraordinary mystery was contained in this wonderful bust.

He gives us, therefore, to understand, that Don Antonio Moreno, in

imitation of such another head which he had seen at Madrid, contrived by

a statuary, ordered this to be made in his own house for his private

amusement, and with a view to surprize the vulgar; and in this manner

was the whole fabricated. The table was of wood painted and varnished

like jasper, and the foot that supported it of the same materials,

carved into the resemblance of four eagles talons, which kept it firm

and steady in its position. The head formed from the medal of one of the

Roman emperors, and covered with a copper colour, was hollow, as well as

the table, in which it was so nicely fixed, that no eye could perceive

the joining; the foot was likewise hollow, and answered to the neck and

breast of the bust; and the whole corresponed with another chamber

below, by means of a concealed tin pipe which passed through the bust,

the table, and the foot. In this lower apartment, communicating with

that of the inchanted head, did the person who uttered the responses fix

his mouth to the pipe, so as that the voice ascended and descended in

distinct and articulate sounds, and it was impossible for any person to

discover the deception. The respondent was Antonio’s nephew, a student

of acute parts, and a well-cultivated understanding, who, being

previously informed by his uncle of the number and names of the persons

whom he intended to introduce into the chamber of the inchanted head,

was enabled to answer the first question with great facility and

precision; and to the rest he replied by conjectures which were equally

ingenious and discreet.

Cid Hamet moreover relates, that for ten or twelve days the virtue of

this wonderful machine continued in full force; but a report diffusing

itself through the city, that Don Antonio had in his house an inchanted

head, which could answer all manner of questions, he began to be afraid

that these tidings might reach the ears of the vigilant centinels of our

faith; for which reason he explained the whole affair to the fathers of

the inquisition, who forbade him to proceed with the deception, and gave

orders that the head should be broke in pieces, lest it should give

umbrage to the superstitious vulgar: but, in the opinion of Don Quixote

and Sancho Panza, it passed for a head that was really inchanted and

oracular; though it had given more satisfaction to the knight than the

squire.

The gentlemen of the city, in complaisance to Don Antonio, and for the

entertainment of Don Quixote, whom they wanted to furnish with an

opportunity of discovering his diverting follies, appointed a running at

the ring to be performed in six days; but this was prevented by an

incident which will be explained in the sequel. Meanwhile, the knight

was desirous of going out and viewing the city at leisure, and afoot;

fearing that, should he appear on horseback, he would again be

persecuted by the boys and vulgar. He accordingly went forth, attended

by Sancho, and two of Antonio’s servants, whom their master had chosen

for that purpose; and chancing to lift up his eyes in passing through

one of the streets, he saw inscribed over a gate, in capital letters,

‘This is a printing-house;’ a circumstance which gave him uncommon

satisfaction, as hitherto he had never seen a printing-press, and longed

much to know something of that art: he therefore entered the house with

all his train, and saw people casting off in one part, correcting in

another, composing in a third, revising in a fourth, and, in short, the

whole œconomy of a large printing-house. Going up to one box, he asked

what was doing; and being informed by the workmen, expressed his

admiration, and proceeded to a second. Among others, he went up to one,

and putting the same question, the workman replied, ‘Signior, that there

gentleman,’ pointing to a grave person of a very prepossessing

appearance, ‘has translated a book from the Tuscan into the Castilian

language, and I am now composing it for the press.’—‘What is the name of

the book?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Signior,’ answered the author, ‘the book

in the original is called, _Le Bagatelle_.’—‘And what is the

signification of Le Bagatelle in our language?’ resumed the knight. ‘_Le

Bagatelle_,’ replied the author, ‘is, as if we should say, in Castilian,

_Juquetes_[209]: and, although the title of the book be so humble, it

includes and contains a great deal of excellent and substantial

writing.’—‘I am not altogether ignorant of the Tuscan language,’ said

Don Quixote, ‘for I value myself upon singing some stanzas of Ariosto;

but, pray tell me, Signior, (and what I am going to ask is not with any

intention to sound your genius, but merely to satisfy my own curiosity)

have you ever, in composing your books, met with the word

_pignatta_?’—‘Yes, frequently,’ replied the author. ‘And how do you

translate it into Castilian?’ resumed the knight. ‘How should I

translate it,’ said the other, ‘but by the word _olla_?’—‘Body o’me!’

cried Don Quixote, ‘what progress you have made in the knowledge of the

Tuscan idiom! I will lay a good wager that you translate _piace_ into

_plaze_, _piu_ into _mas_, _su_ into _arriba_, and _giu_ into

_abaxo_.’—‘Certainly,’ said the author, ‘because these words of the two

languages correspond with one another.’—‘Notwithstanding all your

learning,’ replied the knight, ‘I could almost swear you are hitherto

unknown to the world, which is ever averse to remunerate a flourishing

genius, and works of merit. What talents are lost, what abilities

obscured, and what virtues are undervalued, in this degenerate age! yet,

nevertheless, a translation from one language to another, excepting

always those sovereign tongues the Greek and Latin, is, in my opinion,

like the wrong side of Flemish tapestry, in which, though we distinguish

the figures, they are confused and obscured by ends and threads, without

that smoothness and expression which the other side exhibits: and to

translate from easy languages, argues neither genius nor elocution, nor

any merit superior to that of transcribing from one paper to another;

but from hence I would not infer that translation is not a laudable

exercise, for a man may employ his time in a much worse and more

unprofitable occupation. At any rate, my observation cannot affect our

two famous translators, Doctor Christoval de Figueroa, in Pastor Fido,

and Don Juan de Xaurigui in Aminta, two pieces they have so happily

executed, as to render it doubtful which is the original and which the

translation: but pray, Signior, is this book printed on your own

account, or have you sold the copy to a bookseller?’—‘I publish it on my

own account,’ replied the author, ‘and expect to gain a thousand ducats

at least upon the first impression, of which there will be two thousand

copies, that will fetch six rials a piece in the turning of a

straw.’—‘That is a very clear and comfortable reckoning,’ answered Don

Quixote; ‘but you seem to be very little acquainted with the outgoings

and the incomings, the schemes, conspiracies, and cabals of booksellers:

when you find your back burdened with two thousand copies, I give you my

word both your mind and body will be terribly fatigued; especially if

the books should be harsh, or a little deficient in point of

spirit.’—‘What!’ said the author, ‘your worship thinks, then, I ought to

offer my performance to a bookseller, who would give me three maravedis

for the copy, and insist upon it that he had done me a favour into the

bargain? I do not publish with a view to acquire reputation in the

world, where, thank Heaven, I am already well known by my works; I print

for profit, without which, reputation is not worth a doit.’—‘God send

you good luck, Signior,’ answered the knight; who, advancing to another

box, where he saw the corrector employed on the sheet of a book,

intitled, ‘The Light of the Soul;’—‘Aye,’ said he, ‘these are the books

that ought to be printed; for, although there is already a pretty large

number of this kind in print, numerous are the sinners for whose use

they are intended; and for such multitudes who are in darkness, an

infinite number of lights is required.’ He proceeded in his enquiry, and

when he asked another corrector the name of a book on which he saw him

at work, he understood it was the second part of The Sage Hidalgo Don

Quixote de La Mancha, written by a certain person a native of

Tordesillas. ‘I have heard of this performance,’ said the knight; ‘and

really, in my conscience, thought it was long before this time burned

into ashes, or pounded into dust, for the impertinence it contains; but,

as we say of hogs, “Martinmas will come in due season[210].” Works of

imagination are the more useful and entertaining the nearer they

approach to truth, and the more probability they contain; and even

history is valued according to its truth and authenticity.’

So saying, he quitted the printing-house with some marks of displeasure;

and that same day, Don Antonio proposed that he should go on board, and

see the gallies in the road; a proposal which was extremely agreeable to

Sancho, who had never seen the inside of a galley in the whole course of

his life; and he sent a message to inform the commodore of his intention

to visit him in the evening, with his guest the renowned Don Quixote de

La Mancha, whose name and person were already well known to this

commander and all the citizens of Barcelona. What passed during this

visit, will be related in the following chapter.

Footnote 205:

Literally, ‘Use the times as I find them.’

Footnote 206:

This was Michael Scot, who lived in the thirteenth century, and was

such an adept in medicine, mathematicks, chymistry, alchymy, and other

branches of natural knowledge, that the vulgar looked upon him as a

wizard or magician. But as this philosopher died in 1291, and this

conversation between Don Antonio and our knight must have happened

after the year 1605, when the first part of Don Quixote was licensed,

how could the disciple of Scot be in the house of Don Antonio? Yet

this anachronism might easily pass upon Don Quixote, as it related to

matters of inchantment.

Footnote 207:

But in this very chapter he has already told Don Quixote, that he knew

the virtue of the head from experience.

Footnote 208:

Antonio’s wife must have been here before the others entered: for she

is not in the list of those who went in with her husband.

Footnote 209:

Trifles.

Footnote 210:

About Martinmas they killed the hogs designed for bacon.

CHAP. XI.

OF THE MISFORTUNE WHICH BEFEL SANCHO PANZA ON BOARD OF THE GALLIES,

AND THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL MOOR.

Manifold and profound were the self-deliberations of Don Quixote on the

response of the inchanted head, without his being able to discover the

deceit; and the result of all his reflections was the promise of

Dulcinea’s being disinchanted, on which he reposed himself with the most

implicit confidence. This was the goal of all his thoughts, and he

rejoiced, in full assurance of seeing it suddenly accomplished. As for

Sancho, although he abhorred the office of a governor, as we have

already observed, he could not help wishing for another opportunity of

issuing out orders and seeing them obeyed; a misfortune which never

fails to attend the exertion of power, even though founded on mock

authority.

In a word, that very evening his landlord Don Antonio Moreno, and his

two friends, went on board of the gallies with Don Quixote and Sancho;

and the commodore being apprized of the visit intended by two such

famous personages, no sooner perceived them coming towards the sea-side,

than he ordered the awnings to be struck and the musick to play; the

barge was hoisted out, covered with rich carpets, and furnished with

velvet cushions, and the minute Don Quixote embarked, the cannon

a-midships of the captain-galley was discharged, and the others followed

her example. When the knight ascended the accommodation-ladder, on the

starboard side, the whole crew saluted him with three cheers, a

compliment usually paid to persons of the first quality; and the

general, for by this name we shall henceforth call him, who was a noble

Valentian, presented his hand, and embracing Don Quixote, ‘This day,’

said he, ‘will I mark with a white stone, as one of the happiest I shall

ever enjoy, on account of seeing the renowned Signior Don Quixote de La

Mancha, in whom the whole worth of knight-errantry is cyphered and

concentered.’ No less courteous and polite was the reply of Don Quixote,

who rejoiced above measure at seeing himself treated with such respect.

The whole company having ascended the poop, which was very gaily

ornamented, and seated themselves upon benches, the boatswain repaired

to the gangway, and making a signal with his whistle for all the slaves

to strip, was obeyed in an instant, to the no small discomposure of

Sancho, who was terrified at the sight of so many naked backs; nor did

his apprehension abate, when he saw the awning stretched with such

incredible dispatch, that he thought all the devils in hell had assisted

in the operation. Yet this was nothing but cakes and gingerbread to what

I am going to relate.

The squire sat upon the stentril, close by the aftermost rower on the

starboard side; who, in consequence of the previous instructions he had

received, lifted up Sancho in his arms, and while the whole crew of

slaves stood up, alert with the prospect of the joke, tossed him like a

tennis-ball to his fellow, who in the same manner committed him to a

third; and thus he was bandied forwards on the starboard side, from

slave to slave, and bench to bench, with such expedition, that poor

Panza lost his eyesight entirely, and firmly believed himself in the

possession of the fiends: nor did they desist from this exercise, until

he was reconveyed by the larboard-side to the poop, where this miserable

object lay bruised, breathless, and covered with a cold sweat, and in

such perturbation of spirits that he scarce knew what he had undergone.

Don Quixote seeing Sancho flying in that manner without wings, asked the

general, if it was a ceremony practised upon every person at his first

going on board; for, in that case, as he himself did not intend to make

profession of a seafaring life, he had no ambition to perform such an

exercise; and he vowed to God, if any man should attempt to seize him,

as a fit subject for flying, he would spurn his soul out of his body; in

confirmation of which resolve, he started up, and laying his hand upon

his sword, put himself in a posture of defence.

At that instant the awning was furled, and the main-yard lowered with

such a terrible noise, that Sancho imagined the heavens were tore from

off their hinges and tumbling down upon his head, which he forthwith

shrunk between his legs in an agony of terror: nor was all serene in the

breast of Don Quixote; who, while his legs trembled under him, shrugged

up his shoulders, and changed colour. The crew having hoisted the

main-yard, with the same expedition and noise which were made in its

descent; while they themselves continued as silent as if they had been

altogether without breath or utterance, the boatswain piped all hands to

weigh anchor, and leaping into the middle of the gangway, began to ply

their shoulders with his supple-jack, or bull’s-pizzle, and the galley

by little and little stood out to sea.

Sancho beholding such a huge body, moved by so many painted feet, for

such he took the oars to be, said within himself, ‘This, indeed, is

really inchantment; but what my master takes for it is no such matter.

What have these miserable wretches done to be scourged in this manner?

and I wonder how the devil that single man, who skips up and down,

piping and whistling, dares whip and flog so many people; now, on my

conscience, I believe this is hell itself, or purgatory at least!’

Don Quixote perceiving with what attention the squire observed every

circumstance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘with what facility and dispatch

might you now, if you please, strip yourself from the middle upwards,

and taking your place among these gentlemen, finish at once the

disenchantment of Dulcinea; for, amidst the distress of so much good

company, you would hardly be sensible of bodily pain: and who knows, but

the sage Merlin would reckon each of these stripes, which are bestowed

with goodwill, equivalent to ten of these, which, at the long run, you

must receive from your own hand.’ The general had just opened his mouth

to enquire about the nature of this flagellation, and Dulcinea’s

disenchantment, when a mariner came and told him, that the fort of

Munjuy had made signal of a rowing bark upon the coast, to the westward.

He no sooner received this intelligence, than advancing into a gang-way,

‘Pull away, my lads!’ cried he, ‘let not this corsair brigantine escape;

for certainly she must be a vessel belonging to Algiers which the castle

has discovered.’

The other three gallies ranging alongside of the admiral to receive

orders, the general directed that two of them should stand out to sea,

and the other keep along shore, so that the Algerine should not escape.

The slaves immediately began to ply their oars, which impelled the

gallies with such velocity, that they seemed to fly; while the two that

put to sea, at the distance of two miles, discovered a bark, which, from

the view, they judged to have fourteen or fifteen banks, and their

conjecture was right. This vessel no sooner descried the gallies, than

she made the best of her way, in hope of being able to escape by her

nimbleness; but she was baffled in this expedition; for the admiral

being one of the swiftest gallies that ever sailed, came up with her

apace, and the captain of the brigantine perceiving plainly that he

could not escape, desired the rowers to quit their oars and strike, that

he might not by his obstinacy incense the officer who commanded the

gallies: but fate, which conducted their affairs in another manner,

ordained, that even after the admiral was within hearing, and ordered

them to strike, two Toraquis, that is, a couple of drunken Turks,

belonging to the brigantine, discharged two firelocks, which killed as

many soldiers who chanced to be in the head of the galley; an incident

which was no sooner perceived by the general, than he swore he would not

leave one person alive in the brigantine, which he ordered his people to

board with all expedition; nevertheless, she, for the present, escaped

under the oars, and the galley had such way, that she shot a-head to a

good distance, so that the people on board the chace, seeing themselves

in danger of being destroyed, hoisted their sails and put before the

wind, while the galley tacked and pursued with all her force of canvas

and of oars. The diligence and dexterity of the Algerines did not turn

out so much to their advantage, as their presumption conduced to their

prejudice; for, the admiral running along-side, grappled with the

brigantine, and took the whole crew prisoners. The other two gallies

came up, and all returned with the prize to the road, while a great

concourse of people stood on the beach, to see the contents of the ship

they had taken. The general anchored close by the shore, and

understanding the viceroy of the city was among the spectators, he

ordered the barge to be hoisted out to fetch him on board, and commanded

the yard to be lowered for the convenience of hanging the master of the

brigantine, and the other Turks he had taken, to the number of

thirty-six, all stout young fellows, and mostly Turkish musqueteers.

When he asked who commanded the brigantine, one of the prisoners, who

was afterwards known to be a Spanish renegado, answered in Castilian,

‘That there young man is our master;’ pointing to one of the most

beautiful and genteel youths that human imagination can conceive, whose

age to all appearance was under twenty. ‘Ill-advised dog,’ said the

general, ‘what induced thee to kill my soldiers, when thou sawest it was

impossible to escape? Is that the respect which is due to

admiral-gallies? Dost thou not know, that rashness is not valour, and

that doubtful hopes ought to make men resolute, but not desperate?’

The Moor was about to reply, but the general could not at that time hear

his answer, because he was obliged to go and receive the viceroy, who

had just entered the galley, with some of his own servants, and a few

other persons. ‘General,’ said this nobleman, ‘you have had a fine

chace.’—‘Aye, so fine,’ replied the other, ‘that your excellency shall

see it presently hoisted up at the yard-arm.’—‘For what reason?’ said

the viceroy. ‘I mean, the master of the brigantine and his crew,’

answered the commodore, ‘who have, against all law, reason, and custom

of war, killed two of the best soldiers that ever served on board; so

that I have sworn to hang all the prisoners, especially this youth who

was their captain,’ pointing to the handsome Moor; who, by this time,

waited for execution, with his hands tied, and a rope about his neck.

The viceroy, surveying this unhappy prisoner, (whose beauty, genteel

mien, and humility, served him instead of a recommendation) was seized

with the desire of saving his life, and approaching him, ‘Tell me,

corsair,’ said he, ‘art thou a Turk, Moor, or Renegado?’ To this

question the youth answered, in the Castilian tongue, ‘I am neither

Turk, Moor, or Renegado.’—‘Then, what art thou?’ resumed the viceroy. ‘A

Christian woman,’ replied the captive. ‘A Christian woman,’ cried the

viceroy, ‘in such dress and situation! this is a circumstance more

worthy of admiration than of credit.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said the youth, ‘be

so good as to suspend my execution, until I shall have recounted the

particulars of my story; and that small delay will not much retard the

accomplishment of your revenge.’ What heart could be so obdurate as not

to relent at this address; so far at least, as to hear the story of the

afflicted youth? The general, accordingly, told him he might proceed

with his relation, but by no means expect pardon for the crime of which

he was convicted. With this permission he began in these terms.

‘I was born of that nation, more unfortunate than wise, which hath been

lately overwhelmed by a sea of trouble: in other words, my parents were

Moors; and, in the torrent of their misfortune, I was carried by two

uncles into Barbary, notwithstanding my professing myself a Christian;

not one of those impostors, who are so only in appearance, but a true

and faithful Roman catholick. This declaration did not avail me with

those who had the charge of our miserable expulsion; nor was it believed

by my uncles, who, on the contrary, supposing it no more than a lye, and

expedient, by which I thought to obtain permission to remain in my

native country, hurried me along with them in a forcible manner. My

mother was a Christian, and my father a prudent man of the same

religion: I sucked in the catholick faith when an infant at the breast,

and was trained up in the ways of virtue; nor do I think I have ever

given the least marks of Mahometanism, either in word or deed. In equal

pace with my virtue, (for I really think my life was virtuous) my

beauty, such as it is, hath ever walked; and notwithstanding the

extraordinary reserve in which I lived, concealed from publick view, it

was my fate to be seen by a young cavalier, called Don Gregorio, eldest

son of a gentleman who had an estate in our neighbourhood. How he became

desperately enamoured of me, and how I grew fond of him to distraction,

it would be tedious to relate, considering my present situation,

standing as I am, with the fatal cord between my tongue and throat: I

shall therefore only observe, that Don Gregorio resolved to accompany me

in my exile, and actually mingled with those Moors who joined us in

different places, without being discovered; for he spoke the language

perfectly well. Nay, in the course of our voyage, he insinuated himself

into the friendship of my two uncles, with whom I travelled; for my

father, who was a man of prudence and foresight, no sooner heard the

first mandate for our expulsion, than he went abroad to foreign kingdoms

in quest of an asylum for his family, leaving a large quantity of

pearls, valuable jewels, with some money, in crusadoes and doubloons of

gold, concealed and interred in a certain place, to which I alone was

privy; and laying strong injunctions upon me to avoid touching this

treasure, in case we should be exiled before his return. I obeyed his

commands in this particular, and as I have already observed, set sail

with my uncles, relations, and friends, for Barbary; and the place in

which we settled was Algiers, whereas we might as well have taken up our

habitation in hell itself. The king hearing of my beauty, and the report

of my wealth, which was partly fortunate for my designs, ordered me to

be brought before him, and asked from what part of Spain I had come, and

what money and jewels I had brought to Barbary. I told him the place of

my nativity, and gave him to understand that the money and jewels were

buried under-ground: but that I should easily recover the whole hoard,

provided I could return alone for that purpose. This information I gave,

that he might be more blinded by his own avarice than my beauty: but,

during the conversation, a person told him that I was accompanied in my

voyage by one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that ever was

seen. I immediately understood that this was no other than Don Gasper

Gregorio, whose beauty far exceeds the fairest that ever was extolled;

and was exceedingly afflicted at the prospect of danger to which the

dear youth might be exposed; for, among those barbarous Turks, a boy or

handsome youth is more prized and esteemed than any woman, let her be

never so beautiful.

‘The king forthwith ordered his people to bring Don Gregorio into his

presence, and in the mean time asked me if his person actually

corresponded with this report. Then I, as if inspired by Heaven,

answered in the affirmative; though at the same time I assured him, it

was no youth, but a woman like myself; and begged leave to go and dress

her in her natural attire, which would shew her beauty to the best

advantage, and enable her to appear in his presence with less confusion.

He said I might go, in good time, and that some other day he would

concert measures for my return into Spain, to bring off the hidden

treasure. Thus dismissed, I went and explained to Don Gaspar the risque

he would run in appearing as a man, and dressing him in the habit of a

Moorish woman, accompanied him that same evening to the presence of the

king, who was seized with admiration at sight of her beauty, and

resolved to keep her for a present to the Grand Signior. In order to

avoid the danger to which this young creature might be exposed in his

seraglio, from his own inordinate desires, he ordered her to be lodged,

quartered, and attended, in the house of some Moorish ladies, whither

she was immediately conveyed; and what we both felt at parting, for I

cannot deny that I love him tenderly, I leave to the confederation of

lovers who have experienced such a cruel separation.

‘The king afterwards contrived a scheme for my returning to Spain in

this brigantine, accompanied by two native Turks, the very persons who

killed your soldiers, and that Spanish renegado,’ (pointing to him who

spoke first) ‘who I know is a Christian in his heart, and is much more

desirous of remaining in Spain than of returning to Barbary; the rest of

the crew are Moors and Turks, whom we engaged as rowers. The two

insolent and rapacious Turks, without minding the order they received to

land the renegado and me in the habit of Christians, with which we were

provided on the first part of Spain they could make, resolved previously

to scour the coast, with a view to take prizes, fearing that should they

set us on shore beforehand, we might meet with some accident which would

oblige us to discover that there was a corsair on the coast, and they of

consequence run the risk of being taken by the gallies. At night we

descried this road, though we did not perceive the four gallies, and

being discovered, were taken as you see. In a word, Don Gregorio remains

in the habit of a woman among the Moorish ladies, at the imminent hazard

of his life, and here I stand fettered and manacled, in expectation, or

rather in fear, of losing that existence of which I am already tired.

This, Signior, is the end of my lamentable story, which is equally true

and unfortunate; and all I beg of you is, that I may die like a

Christian, seeing, as I have already observed, I have in no shape been

guilty of the fault which hath been charged upon our unhappy nation!’

So saying, she stood silent, her lovely eyes impregnated with tears,

which few of the spectators could behold unmoved; and the viceroy, whose

disposition was humane and compassionate, unable to speak, advanced to

the place, and with his own hands released those of the beautiful Moor.

While this Christian Moor related her peregrinations, an ancient pilgrim

who had followed the viceroy into the galley, kept his eyes close fixed

upon her countenance, and her story was no sooner finished than he threw

himself at her feet, which he bathed with his tears, while in accents

interrupted with a thousand sighs and groans, he exclaimed, ‘O, Anna

Felix! my unhappy daughter; I am thy father Ricote, who have returned in

search of thee to Spain, because I could not live without thee, who art

dear to my affection even as my own soul!’

At these words, Sancho opened his eyes, and raised his head, which he

had hitherto hung in manifest despondence, reflecting upon the disgrace

of his flying adventure; and looking at the pilgrim, recognized that

same Ricote whom he had encountered the very day on which he quitted his

government: he likewise recollected the features of his daughter, who

being by this time unbound, mingled her tears with those of her father,

whom she tenderly embraced; and then the old man, addressing himself to

the viceroy and general, ‘My lords,’ said he, ‘this is my daughter; not

so happy in the incidents of her life, as in her name, which is Anna

Felix, with the addition of Ricote, as famous for her beauty as for her

father’s wealth. I left my country in quest of a place where we should

be received and hospitably entertained; and having found such an asylum

in Germany, I returned as a pilgrim in the company of some people of

that nation; hoping to find my daughter, and fetch away the wealth which

I had buried in the earth: my daughter was gone, but I recovered my

hoard, which is in my possession; and now, by this strange vicissitude

which you have seen, I have retrieved that treasure which is the chief

object of my affection, I mean, my beloved daughter. If our innocence

and mutual tears can have influence enough upon your integrity and

justice, to open the gates of mercy, O let it prevail in favour of us,

who never offended you even in thought, nor in any shape corresponded

with the designs of our people, who have been justly expelled.’ Here

Sancho interposing, ‘I am very well acquainted with Ricote,’ said he,

‘and know all he has said about his daughter Anna Felix to be true; but

with respect to that other trash of his comings and goings, and his good

or evil designs, I neither meddle nor make.’ Every person present

expressed admiration at this strange incident; and the general turning

to the daughter, ‘Every tear you let fall,’ said he, ‘conspires in

preventing the performance of my oath. Live, beauteous Anna Felix, the

term of your life prescribed by Heaven; and let those insolent and

presumptuous wretches suffer punishment for the crimes they have

committed.’

So saying, he ordered the two Turks, who had killed his soldiers, to be

hanged at the yard’s-arm; but the viceroy earnestly entreated him to

spare their lives, as their crime was rather the effect of madness than

of preconceived design. The general granted his request, especially as

he did not think it commendable to execute revenge in cold blood.

Then they began to contrive some method for extricating Don Gaspar

Gregorio from the danger in which he was involved; and Ricote offered to

the value of above two thousand ducats, which he had about him in pearls

and jewels, to any person who could effect his deliverance. Many schemes

were projected; but none of them seemed so sensible as that which was

presented by the fore-mentioned Spanish renegado, who offered to return

to Algiers in some small bark of about six banks, manned with

Christians, as he knew where, how, and when he might land with safety,

and was well acquainted with the house in which Don Gaspar remained. The

general and the viceroy were dubious of the renegado, and scrupled to

trust him with the command of Christian rowers; but Anna Felix was

satisfied of his integrity, and her father said he would engage to

ransom them, should they chance to be taken and enslaved.

Matters being settled on this footing, the viceroy went ashore, after

having laid strong injunctions on Don Antonio Moreno, who had invited

the Moorish beauty and her father to his house, to make much of his

guests, and command whatever his own palace could afford for their

entertainment. Such was the charity and benevolence which Anna’s beauty

had infused into his heart!

CHAP. XII.

GIVING THE DETAIL OF AN ADVENTURE

WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE MORTIFICATION

THAN HE HAD RECEIVED FROM ALL THE MISFORTUNES

WHICH HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM.

Don Antonio’s lady, as the history relates, was extremely pleased at the

sight of Anna Felix, whom she received with great cordiality, equally

enamoured of her beauty and discretion; for, indeed, the Moor excelled

in both; and here she was visited by all the people of fashion in town,

as if by toll of bell. As for Don Quixote, he gave Antonio to

understand, that in his opinion, the plan they had formed for the

deliverance of Don Gregorio was more dangerous than expedient; and that

it would be much more effectual to set him on shore in Barbary, with his

arms and horse; in which case he would bring home the young gentleman in

despight of the whole Moorish race, as heretofore Don Gayferos had

delivered his wife, Melisandra. Sancho, hearing this proposal,

‘Consider,’ said he, ‘that Signior Don Gayferos delivered his wife from

captivity on the main land, and carried her off to France through the

high road; but, in this case, even granting we should have the good luck

to release Don Gregorio from his confinement, we shall not be able to

convey him hither to Spain, because the sea is between us and

Barbary.’—‘There’s a remedy for all things but death,’ replied the

knight: ‘for, if there is a bark by the shore, we can go aboard, in

opposition to the whole universe.’—‘Your worship describes it a very

easy matter,’ said the squire; ‘but, between Said and Done, a long race

may be run; and, for my part, I would stick to the offer of the

renegado, who seems to be a very honest person, and a man of

compassionate bowels.’ Don Antonio said, that if the renegado should

fail in his undertaking, they would certainly find some means for

transporting the great Don Quixote to Barbary; and in two days the

renegado departed in a light bark with six oars on a side, manned with a

crew of approved valour. In two days after her departure the gallies

likewise set sail for the Levant, after the general had begged and

obtained the viceroy’s promise to let him know the success of the scheme

they had contrived for the deliverance of Don Gregorio, together with

the fate of the lovely Anna Felix.

One morning, Don Quixote rode forth upon the strand, completely armed;

for he often observed, arms were his ornaments, and fighting his

diversion, and he never cared to appear in any other dress; and as he

pranced along, he saw coming towards him a knight, likewise armed

cap-a-pee, having a full moon painted on his shield. This apparition was

no sooner within hearing, than he addressed his discourse to Don

Quixote, pronouncing aloud, ‘Renowned cavalier, never enough applauded

Don Quixote de La Mancha, I, the Knight of the White Moon, whose

unheard-of exploits, may, peradventure, recal him to your remembrance,

am come with hostile intent to prove the force of thine arm; to convince

and compel thee to own that my mistress, whosoever she is, exceeds in

beauty thy Dulcinea del Toboso, beyond all comparison: which truth, if

thou wilt fairly and fully confess, thou wilt avoid thy own death, and

spare me the trouble of being thy executioner; but shouldst thou presume

to engage with me in single combat, and be overcome, all the

satisfaction I demand is, that thou wilt lay aside thine arms, desist

from travelling in quest of adventures, and quitting the field, retire

to thine own habitation, where thou shalt continue a whole year, without

drawing a sword, in comfortable peace and profitable tranquillity, which

may tend to the augmentation of thy fortune, and the salvation of thy

precious soul. On the other hand, if it be my fate to be vanquished, my

life shall exist at thy discretion; thine shall be the spoils of all my

arms and horse, and to thee shall be transferred all the fame of my

atchievements: consider which of these alternatives thou wilt chuse, and

answer me on the spot; for, on this very day, the affair must be

dispatched and determined.’

Don Quixote was astonished and confounded, as well at the arrogance of

the Knight of the White Moon, as at the cause of his defiance; and,

after a short pause of recollection, replied with a solemn tone, and

countenance severe, ‘Sir Knight of the White Moon, whose exploits have

not as yet reached mine ear, I dare say you have never seen the

illustrious Dulcinea; for, had you enjoyed that happiness, I know you

would not have dreamed of making such a rash demand: one glimpse of her

would have undeceived you perfectly, and plainly demonstrated, that

there never was, or will be, beauty comparable to that which she

possesses. I, therefore, without giving you the lye, but only affirming

that you are egregiously mistaken, accept of your defiance on the

conditions you have proposed, and will fight you forthwith, before the

day you have pitched upon shall be elapsed; with this exception,

however, that I will by no means adopt the fame of your exploits;

because I know not how, where, or wherefore they were atchieved, and am

content with my own, such as they are: chuse your ground therefore, and

I will take my share of the field; and let St. Peter bless what God

shall bestow.’

The Knight of the White Moon being discovered from the city, and seen

talking with Don Quixote, notice was given to the viceroy; who,

supposing it was some new adventure contrived by Don Antonio Moreno, or

some other gentleman of the town, went down to the strand, accompanied

by the said Don Antonio, and a number of other cavaliers, and reached

the spot just as Don Quixote wheeled about on Rozinante to measure his

distance. Seeing both parties ready for returning to the encounter, he

placed himself in the middle between them, and demanded the cause that

induced them so suddenly to engage in single combat. The Knight of the

White Moon answered, that it was the precedency of beauty; and briefly

repeated his proposal to Don Quixote, with the mutual acceptation of the

conditions proposed. Then the viceroy taking Don Antonio aside, asked if

he knew this Knight of the White Moon; and if this was a joke which he

intended to perpetrate upon Don Quixote. Don Antonio assured him that he

knew not the stranger, nor could guess whether the challenge was given

in jest or earnest. He was a little perplexed, and dubious whether or

not he should allow the battle to be fought; but, as he could not

conceive it to be any thing else than a preconcerted joke, he retired,

saying, ‘Valiant knights, seeing there is no other remedy, but you must

confess or die; and Signior Don Quixote persists in denying what you, of

the White Moon, presume to affirm; I leave you to your fate, and God

stand by the righteous.’

The stranger, in very polite terms, and well-selected phrase, thanked

the viceroy for the permission he had granted; and his example was, in

this particular, followed by Don Quixote, who, having recommended

himself heartily to Heaven and his Dulcinea, according to his usual

practice when he engaged in any combat, turned about to take a little

more ground, in imitation of his antagonist; then, without receiving a

signal for engaging, either by sound of trumpet, or any other

instrument, both parties wheeled about at the same instant. The Knight

of the White Moon having the fleeter horse, coming up with his

adversary, before this last had run one third of his career, lifting up

his lance purposely that he might not wound Don Quixote, whom, however,

he encountered with such an irresistible shock, that both he and

Rozinante came to the ground with a very dangerous fall: the victor

instantly sprung upon him, and clapping his lance to his vizor,

‘Knight,’ said he, ‘you are vanquished, and a dead man, unless you

acknowledge the terms of the defiance.’ To this address the battered and

astonished Don Quixote, without lifting up his beaver, replied in a

languid tone and feeble voice, that seemed to issue from a tomb,

‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the

most unfortunate knight on earth; and, as it is not reasonable that my

weakness should discredit this truth, make use of your weapon, knight,

and instantly deprive me of life, as you have already divested me of

honour.’—‘By no means’ said he of the White Moon: ‘let the fame of my

Lady Dulcinea’s beauty flourish in full perfection; all the satisfaction

I ask is, that the great Don Quixote shall retire to his own house, and

there abide for the space of one year, or during the term which I shall

prescribe, according to the articles agreed upon before we engaged.’

This whole dialogue was overheard by the viceroy, Don Antonio, and a

number of other people who were present, and they were also

ear-witnesses of the answer made by Don Quixote, who said, that as the

victor had demanded nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would

comply with his proposal like a true and punctual knight.

He of the White Moon hearing his declaration, turning his horse, and,

bowing courteously to the viceroy, entered the city at an half gallop,

whither he was followed by Don Antonio, at the desire of the viceroy,

who entreated him to make enquiry, and obtain satisfactory information

concerning this romantick stranger. In the mean time, they raised up Don

Quixote; and uncovering his face, found him pale as death, and his

forehead bedewed with a cold sweat, while Rozinante lay motionless, from

the rough treatment he had received. As for Sancho, he was so

overwhelmed with sorrow and vexation, that he knew not what to say or

do: this unlucky incident seemed to be a dream, and he looked upon the

whole scene as a matter of inchantment. Seeing his lord and master

overcome, and obliged to lay aside his arms for the space of a whole

year, he imagined the splendor of his exploits was eclipsed, and all

those fair hopes, produced from his late promise, dispersed in the air,

as smoak is dissipated by the wind, in a word, he was afraid that

Rozinante was maimed for ever, and his master’s bones dislocated; and

even thought it would be a great mercy if he was not in a worse

condition.

Finally, the viceroy ordered his people to bring a sedan, in which the

knight was carried to the city, accompanied by that nobleman, who longed

very much to know who this Knight of the White Moon was, by whom Don

Quixote had been left in such a cruel dilemma.

CHAP. XIII.

WHICH DISCOVERS WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS, AND GIVES AN

ACCOUNT OF THE DELIVERANCE OF DON GREGORIO—WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.

Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, who was also

accompanied, and even persecuted by a number of boys, until they had

housed him in one of the city inns, which was at the same time entered

by Don Antonio, who burned with impatience to know what he was; and,

without ceremony, intruded himself into the apartment to which the

stranger retired, with his squire, to be unarmed. He of the White Moon,

perceiving how much the gentleman’s curiosity was inflamed, and that he

was resolved to stick close by him until it should be satisfied,

‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not ignorant that you are come hither on

purpose to know who I am; and as there is no reason why I should refuse

you that satisfaction, I will, while my servant is employed in taking

off my armour, explain the whole mystery, without the least reserve: you

must know, then, Signior, that I am called the Batchelor Sampson

Carrasco, a townsman of Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose madness and

extravagance has given great concern to all his acquaintance, and to me

in particular. Believing that his recovery would depend upon his living

quietly at his own habitation, I projected a scheme for compelling him

to stay at home; and, about three months ago, sallied forth upon the

highway, as a knight-errant, assuming the appellation of the Knight of

the Mirrours, fully resolved to engage and vanquish Don Quixote, without

hurting him dangerously, after I should have established, as the

condition of our combat, that the vanquished should be at the discretion

of the victor: and, as I deemed him already conquered, my intention was

to demand that he should return to his own house, from which he should

not stir for the space of one year, in which time I hoped his cure might

be effected. But fate ordained things in another manner; I was conquered

and overthrown, and my design entirely frustrated; he proceeded in quest

of new adventures, and I returned vanquished, ashamed, and sorely

bruised by the dangerous fall I had sustained in battle: nevertheless, I

did not lay aside the design of returning in quest of him to overthrow

him in my turn, and you have this day seen my intention succeed; for he

is so punctual in observing the ordinances of chivalry, that he will,

doubtless, perform his promise in complying with my demand. This,

Signior, is an account of the whole affair: nor have I omitted one

circumstance; and I beg you will not discover and disclose to Don

Quixote who I am, that my Christian intention may take effect, and the

poor gentleman retrieve his judgement, which would be altogether

excellent, were he once abandoned by those mad notions of

chivalry.’—‘God forgive you, Signior,’ cried Don Antonio, ‘for the

injury you have done the world, in seeking to restore to his senses the

most agreeable madman that ever lived! Do not you perceive, Signior,

that the benefit resulting from the cure of Don Quixote will never

counterbalance the pleasure produced by his extravagances? But, I

imagine, all the care and industry of Signior Batchelor will hardly be

sufficient to effect the recovery of a man who is so thoroughly mad,

and, if it was no breach of charity, I would say, May Don Quixote never

be cured; for, in his recovery, we not only lose his own diverting

flights, but also those of his squire Sancho Panza; and any of these

conceits are such as might convert Melancholy herself into merriment and

laughter: nevertheless, I shall put a seal upon my lips, and say

nothing, that I may see whether or not I shall judge aright, in

supposing that the diligence of Signior Carrasco will not answer his

expectation.’ The batchelor answered, that all things considered, the

business was already in a fair way; and, he did not doubt, would be

blessed with a prosperous issue. Don Antonio having made a tender of his

services, and taken his leave, Sampson ordered his arms to be fastened

upon a mule; then mounting the horse on which he engaged Don Quixote, he

quitted the city the same day, on his return to his own country, in

which he arrived without having met with any incident worthy of being

recorded in this authentick history. Don Antonio made the viceroy

acquainted with all the particulars he had learned from Carrasco, which

afforded no great pleasure to that nobleman, as the retirement of Don

Quixote would destroy all that entertainment enjoyed by those who had

the opportunity of observing his madness.