_Of a dreadful alarm which Don Quixote experienced._
We left the great Don Quixote profoundly buried in the thoughts into
which Altisidora's serenade had plunged him. At the return of light,
our knight, more early than the sun, forsook his downy bed, put on his
chamois apparel, and, drawing on his walking-boots, concealed in one
of them the disaster of his hose. He threw his scarlet cloak over his
shoulder, and clapped on his valiant head his cap of green velvet
edged with silver lace. Over his right shoulder he hung his belt, the
sustainer of his trusty executing sword. About his wrist he wore the
rosary, which he always carried about him; and thus accoutred, with a
great deal of state and majesty, he moved towards the antechamber,
where the duke and duchess were ready dressed, and expecting his
coming. As he went through a gallery, he met Altisidora and her
companion, who waited for him in the passage; and no sooner did
Altisidora espy him, than she dissembled a swooning fit, and
immediately dropped into the arms of her friend. Which Don Quixote
perceiving, he approached, and, turning to the damsel, "I know the
meaning of all this," said he, "and whence these accidents proceed."
"You know more than I do," answered the assisting damsel; "but this I
am sure of, that hitherto there is not a damsel in this house that
has enjoyed her health better than Altisidora: I never knew her make
the least complaint before. Pray, my Lord Don Quixote, retire; for
this poor young creature will not come to herself while you are by."
"Madam," answered the knight, "I beg that a lute may be left in my
chamber this evening, that I may assuage this lady's grief as well as
I can; for in the beginning of an affair of this kind, a speedy
discovery of aversion or pre-engagement is the most effectual cure."
This said, he left them, that he might not be found alone with them by
those that might happen to go by. He was scarce gone when Altisidora's
fit was over; and, turning, to her companion, "By all means," said
she, "let him have a lute; for without doubt the knight has a mind to
give us some music, and we shall have sport enough." Then they went
and acquainted the duchess with their proceeding, and Don Quixote's
desiring a lute; whereupon she plotted with the duke and her woman a
new contrivance, to have a little harmless sport with the knight.
At eleven o'clock Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and finding a
lute there, he tuned it, opened the window, and, perceiving there was
somebody walking in the garden, he ran over the strings of the
instrument; and having tuned it again as nicely as he could, he
coughed and cleared his throat; and then, with a voice somewhat
hoarse, yet not unmusical, he sang the following song, which he had
composed himself that very day:
The Advice.
Love, a strong designing foe,
Careless hearts with ease deceives;
Can thy breast resist his blow,
Which your sloth unguarded leaves?
If you're idle, you're destroyed,
All his art on you he tries;
But be watchful and employed,
Straight the baffled tempter flies.
Maids for modest grace admired,
If they would their fortunes raise,
Must in silence live retired:
'Tis their virtue speaks their praise.
The divine Tobosan fair,
Dulcinea, claims me whole;
Nothing can her image tear;
'Tis one substance with my soul.
Then let fortune smile or frown,
Nothing shall my faith remove;
Constant truth, the lover's crown,
Can work miracles in love.
No sooner had Don Quixote made an end of his song, to which the duke,
duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the people in the castle listened
all the while, than on a sudden, from an open gallery over the
knight's window, they let down a rope, with at least a hundred little
tinkling bells hanging about it. After that came down a great number
of cats, poured out of a huge sack, all of them with smaller bells
tied to their tails. The jangling of the bells, and the squalling of
the cats, made such a dismal noise, that the very contrivers of the
jest themselves were scared for the present, and Don Quixote was
strangely surprised and quite dismayed. At the same time, as ill-luck
would have it, two or three frighted cats leaped in through the bars
of his chamber-window, and running up and down the room like so many
evil spirits, one would have thought a whole legion of demons had been
flying about the chamber. They put out the candles that stood lighted
there, and endeavoured to get out. Meanwhile, the rope with the bigger
bells about it was pulled up and down, and those who knew nothing of
the contrivance were greatly surprised. At last, Don Quixote,
recovering from his astonishment, drew his sword, and fenced and laid
about him at the window, crying aloud, "Avaunt, ye wicked enchanters!
hence, infernal scoundrels! I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, and all
your cursed devices cannot work their ends against me." And then,
running after the cats, he began to thrust and cut at them furiously,
while they strove to get out. At last they made their escape at the
window--all but one of them; who, finding himself hard put to it, flew
in his face, and, laying hold on his nose with his claws and teeth,
put him to such pain that the knight began to cry out as loud as he
could. Thereupon, the duke and the duchess, imagining the cause of his
outcry, ran to his assistance immediately; and having opened the door
of his chamber with a master-key, found the poor knight struggling
hard with the cat, that would not quit its hold. By the light of the
candles which they had with them, they saw the unequal combat. The
duke offered to interpose and take off the animal, but Don Quixote
would not permit him. "Let nobody touch him," cried he; "let me alone
hand to hand with this sorcerer, this necromancer; I'll make him know
what it is to deal with Don Quixote de la Mancha!" But the cat, not
minding his threats, growled on, and still held fast; till at length
the duke got its claws unhooked, and flung him out at the window. Don
Quixote's face was hideously scratched, and his nose in no very good
condition. Yet nothing vexed him so much as that they had rescued out
of his hands the villainous necromancer. Immediately some ointment was
sent for, and Altisidora herself applied some plasters to his sores,
whispering in his ear at the same time, "Cruel, hard-hearted knight,"
said she, "all these disasters are befallen thee as a just punishment
for thy obdurate stubbornness and disdain. May thy squire Sancho
forget to whip himself, that thy darling Dulcinea may never be
delivered from her enchantment, at least so long as I, thy neglected
adorer, live!" Don Quixote made no answer at all to this; only he
heaved up a profound sigh, and then went to take his repose, after he
had returned the duke and duchess thanks, not so much for their
assistance against that rascally crew of jangling enchanters--for he
defied them all--but for their kindness and good intent. Then the duke
and duchess left him, not a little troubled at the miscarriage of
their jest, which they did not think would have proved so fatal to the
knight as to oblige him, as it did, to keep his chamber some days;
during which time there happened to him another adventure, more
pleasant than the last; which, however, cannot be now related; for the
historian must return to Sancho Panza, who was very busy, and no less
pleasant, in his government.