_What befel the Knight after he had left the inn._
Aurora began to usher in the morn, when Don Quixote sallied out of the
inn, so overjoyed to find himself knighted, that he infused the same
satisfaction into his horse, who seemed ready to burst his girths for
joy. But calling to mind the admonitions which the innkeeper had given
him, concerning the provision of necessary accommodation in his
travels, particularly money and clean shirts, he resolved to return
home to furnish himself with them, and likewise get him a squire,
designing to entertain as such a labouring man, his neighbour, who was
poor and had a number of children, but yet very fit for the office.
With this resolution he took the road which led to his own village.
The knight had not travelled far, when he fancied he heard an
effeminate voice complaining in a thicket on his right hand. "I thank
Heaven," said he, when he heard the cries, "for favouring me so soon
with an opportunity to perform the duty of my profession, and reap the
fruits of my desire; for these complaints are certainly the moans of
some distressed creature who wants my present help." Then turning to
that side with all the speed which Rozinante could make, he no sooner
came into the wood but he found a mare tied to an oak, and to another
a young lad about fifteen years of age, naked from the waist upwards.
This was he who made such a lamentable outcry; and not without cause,
for a lusty country-fellow was strapping him soundly with a girdle, at
every stripe putting him in mind of a proverb, _Keep your mouth shut,
and your eyes open_. "Good master," cried the boy, "I'll do so no
more: indeed, master, hereafter I'll take more care of your goods."
Don Quixote seeing this, cried in an angry tone, "Discourteous knight,
'tis an unworthy act to strike a person who is not able to defend
himself: come, bestride thy steed, and take thy lance, then I'll make
thee know thou hast acted the part of a coward." The country-fellow,
who gave himself for lost at the sight of an apparition in armour
brandishing his lance at his face, answered him in mild and submissive
words: "Sir knight," cried he, "this boy, whom I am chastising, is my
servant; and because I correct him for his carelessness or his
knavery, he says I do it out of covetousness, to defraud him of his
wages; but, upon my life and soul, he belies me." "Sayest thou this in
my presence, vile rustic," cried Don Quixote; "for thy insolent
speech, I have a good mind to run thee through the body with my lance.
Pay the boy this instant, without any more words, or I will
immediately despatch and annihilate thee: unbind him, I say, this
moment." The countryman hung down his head, and without any further
reply unbound the boy; who being asked by Don Quixote what his master
owed him, told him it was nine months' wages, at seven reals a month.
The knight having cast it up, found it came to sixty-three reals in
all; which he ordered the farmer to pay the fellow immediately, unless
he intended to lose his life that very moment. "The worst is, sir
knight," cried the farmer, "that I have no money about me; but let
Andres go home with me, and I'll pay him every piece out of hand."
"What, I go home with him!" cried the youngster; "I know better
things: for he'd no sooner have me by himself, but he'd flay me alive,
like another St. Bartholomew." "He will not dare," replied Don
Quixote; "I command him, and that's sufficient: therefore, provided he
will swear by the order of knighthood which has been conferred upon
him, that he will duly observe this regulation, I will freely let him
go, and then thou art secure of thy money." "Good sir, take heed what
you say," cried the boy; "for my master is no knight, nor ever was of
any order in his life: he's John Haldudo, the rich farmer of
Quintinar." "This signifies little," answered Don Quixote, "for there
may be knights among the Haldudos; besides, the brave man carves out
his fortune, and every man is the son of his own works." "That's true,
sir," quoth Andres; "but of what works can this master of mine be the
son, who denies me my wages, which I have earned with the sweat of my
brows?" "I do not deny to pay thee thy wages, honest Andres," cried
the master; "do but go along with me, and by all the orders of
knighthood in the world, I promise to pay thee every piece, as I
said." "Be sure," said Don Quixote, "you perform your promise; for if
you fail, I will assuredly return and find you out, and punish you
moreover, though you should hide yourself as close as a lizard. And if
you will be informed who it is that lays these injunctions on you,
that you may understand how highly it concerns you to observe them,
know, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter of wrongs, the
revenger and redresser of grievances; and so farewell: but remember
what you have promised and sworn, as you will answer for it at your
peril." This said, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and quickly left
them behind.
The countryman, who followed him with both his eyes, no sooner
perceived that he was passed the woods, and quite out of sight, than
he went back to his boy Andres. "Come, child," said he, "I will pay
thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs and redresser of
grievances has ordered me." "Ay," quoth Andres, "on my word, you will
do well to fulfil the commands of that good knight, whom Heaven grant
long to live; for he is so brave a man, and so just a judge, that if
you don't pay me, he will come back and make his words good." "I dare
swear as much," answered the master; "and to shew thee how much I love
thee, I am willing to increase the debt, that I may enlarge the
payment." With that he caught the youngster by the arm, and tied him
again to the tree; where he handled him so unmercifully, that scarce
any signs of life were left in him. "Now call your righter of wrongs,
Mr. Andres," cried the farmer, "and you shall see he will never be
able to undo what I have done; though I think it is but a part of what
I ought to do, for I have a good mind to flay you alive, as you said I
would, you rascal." However, he untied him at last, and gave him leave
to go and seek out his judge, in order to have his decree put in
execution. Andres went his ways, not very well pleased, you may be
sure, yet fully resolved to find out the valorous Don Quixote, and
give him an exact account of the whole transaction, that he might pay
the abuse with sevenfold usury: in short, he crept off sobbing and
weeping, while his master stayed behind laughing. And in this manner
was this wrong redressed by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha.
In the mean time the knight, being highly pleased with himself and
what had happened, imagining he had given a most fortunate and noble
beginning to his feats of arms, went on towards his village, and soon
found himself at a place where four roads met; and this made him
presently bethink of those cross-ways which often used to put
knights-errant to a stand, to consult with themselves which way they
should take. That he might follow their example, he stopped a while,
and after he had seriously reflected on the matter, gave Rozinante the
reins, subjecting his own will to that of his horse, who, pursuing his
first intent, took the way that led to his own stable.
Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, when he discovered a company
of people riding towards him, who proved to be merchants of Toledo,
going to buy silks in Murcia. They were six in all, every one screened
with an umbrella, besides four servants on horseback, and three
muleteers on foot. The knight no sooner perceived them but he imagined
this to be some new adventure; so, fixing himself in his stirrups,
couching his lance, and covering his breast with his target, he posted
himself in the middle of the road, expecting the coming up of the
supposed knights-errant. As soon as they came within hearing, with a
loud voice and haughty tone, "Hold," cried he; "let no man hope to
pass further, unless he acknowledge and confess that there is not in
the universe a more beautiful damsel than the empress of La Mancha,
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso." At those words the merchants made a
halt, to view the unaccountable figure of their opponent; and
conjecturing, both by his expression and disguise, that the poor
gentleman had lost his senses, they were willing to understand the
meaning of that strange confession which he would force from them; and
therefore one of the company, who loved raillery, and had discretion
to manage it, undertook to talk to him. "Signor cavalier," cried he,
"we do not know this worthy lady you talk of; but be pleased to let us
see her, and then if we find her possessed of those matchless charms,
of which you assert her to be the mistress, we will freely, and
without the least compulsion, own the truth which you would extort
from us." "Had I once shewn you that beauty," replied Don Quixote,
"what wonder would it be to acknowledge so notorious a truth? the
importance of the thing lies in obliging you to believe it, confess
it, affirm it, swear it, and maintain it, without seeing her; and
therefore make this acknowledgment this very moment, or know that with
me you must join in battle, ye proud and unreasonable mortals! Come
one by one, as the laws of chivalry require, or all at once, according
to the dishonourable practice of men of your stamp; here I expect you
all my single self, and will stand the encounter, confiding in the
justice of my cause." "Sir knight," replied the merchant, "I beseech
you, that for the discharge of our consciences, which will not permit
us to affirm a thing we never heard or saw, and which, besides, tends
so much to the dishonour of the empresses and queens of Alcaria and
Estremadura, your worship will vouchsafe to let us see some
portraiture of that lady, though it were no bigger than a grain of
wheat; for by a small sample we may judge of the whole piece, and by
that means rest secure and satisfied, and you contented and appeased.
Nay, I verily believe, that we all find ourselves already so
inclinable to comply with you, that though her picture should
represent her to be blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and
brimstone at the other, yet to oblige you, we shall be ready to say in
her favour whatever your worship desires." "Distil, ye infamous
scoundrels," replied Don Quixote in a burning rage, "distil, say you?
know, that nothing distils from her but amber and civet; neither is
she defective in her make or shape, but more straight than a
Guadaramian spindle. But you shall all severely pay for the blasphemy
which thou hast uttered against the transcendent beauty of my
incomparable lady." Saying this, with his lance couched, he ran so
furiously at the merchant who thus provoked him, that had not good
fortune so ordered it that Rozinante should stumble and fall in the
midst of his career, the audacious trifler had paid dear for his
raillery: but as Rozinante fell, he threw down his master, who rolled
and tumbled a good way on the ground without being able to get upon
his legs, though he used all his skill and strength to effect it, so
encumbered he was with his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and the
weight of his rusty armour. However, in this helpless condition he
played the hero with his tongue; "Stay," cried he; "cowards, rascals,
do not fly! it is not through my fault that I lie here, but through
that of my horse, ye poltroons!"
One of the muleteers, who was none of the best-natured creatures,
hearing the overthrown knight thus insolently treat his master, could
not bear it without returning him an answer on his ribs; and therefore
coming up to him as he lay wallowing, he snatched his lance, and
having broke it to pieces, so belaboured Don Quixote's sides with one
of them, that, in spite of his arms, he thrashed him like a
wheatsheaf. His master indeed called to him not to lay on him so
vigorously, and to let him alone; but the fellow, whose hand was in,
would not give over till he had tired out his passion and himself; and
therefore running to the other pieces of the broken lance, he fell to
it again without ceasing, till he had splintered them all on the
knight's iron enclosure. At last the mule-driver was tired, and the
merchants pursued their journey, sufficiently furnished with matter of
discourse at the poor knight's expense. When he found himself alone,
he tried once more to get on his feet; but if he could not do it when
he had the use of his limbs, how should he do it now, bruised and
battered as he was? But yet for all this, he esteemed himself a happy
man, being still persuaded that his misfortune was one of those
accidents common in knight-errantry, and such a one as he could wholly
attribute to the falling of his horse.