The Children's Hour, v 5. Stories From Seven Old Favorites

by Eva March Tappan

DON QUIXOTE

DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO BECOME A KNIGHT

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

At a certain village in La Mancha, of which I cannot remember the name, there lived not long ago one of those old-fashioned gentlemen who are never without a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound. His diet consisted more of beef than mutton; and with minced meat on most nights, lentils on Fridays, griefs and groans on Saturdays, and a pigeon extraordinary on Sundays, he consumed three quarters of his revenue; the rest was laid out in a plush coat, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same, for holidays; and a suit of the very best homespun cloth, which he bestowed on himself for working days. His whole family was a housekeeper something turned of forty, a niece not twenty, and a man that served him in the house and in the field, and could saddle a horse, and handle the pruning hook. The master himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and strong complexion, lean-bodied and thin-faced, an early riser, and a lover of hunting. Some say his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for authors differ in this particular); however, we may reasonably conjecture he was called Quixana; though this concerns us but little, provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point of this history.

You must know, then, that when our gentleman had nothing to do (which was almost all the year round), he passed his time in reading books of knight-errantry, which he did with that application and delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off his country sports, and even the care of his estate; nay, he grew so strangely besotted with these amusements that he sold many acres of arable land to purchase books of that kind, by which means he collected as many of them as were to be had; but, among them all, none pleased him like the works of the famous Feliciano de Sylva; for the clearness of his prose and those intricate expressions with which it is interlaced, seemed to him so many pearls of eloquence, especially when he came to read the challenges, and the amorous addresses, many of them in this extraordinary style: "The reason of your unreasonable usage of my reason does so enfeeble my reason that I have reason to expostulate with your beauty." And this: "The sublime heavens, which with your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, and fix you the deserver of the desert that is deserved by your grandeur." These, and such like expressions, strangely puzzled the poor gentleman's understanding, while he was breaking his brain to unravel their meaning, which Aristotle himself could never have found, though he should have been raised from the dead for that very purpose.

He did not so well like those dreadful wounds which Don Belianis gave and received; for he considered that all the art of surgery could never secure his face and body from being strangely disfigured with scars. However, he highly commended the author for concluding his book with a promise to finish that unfinishable adventure; and many times he had a desire to put pen to paper, and faithfully and literally finish it himself; which he had certainly done, and doubtless with good success, had not his thoughts been wholly engrossed in much more important designs.

He would often dispute with the curate of the parish, a man of learning, that had taken his degrees at Giguenza, who was the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis de Gaul; but Master Nicholas, the barber of the same town, would say, that none of them could compare with the Knight of the Sun; and that if any one came near him, it was certainly Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis de Gaul; for he was a man of a most commodious temper, neither was he so finical nor such a puling, whining lover as his brother; and as for courage, he was not a jot behind him.

In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading of romances, that at nights he would pore on until it was day, and by day he would read on until it was night; and thus by sleeping little and reading much, the moisture of his brain was exhausted to that degree that at last he lost the use of his reason. A world of disorderly notions, picked out of his books, crowded into his imagination; and now his head was full of nothing but enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, complaints, amours, torments, and abundance of stuff and impossibilities; insomuch that all the fables and fantastical tales which he read, seemed to him now as true as the most authentic histories. He would say, that the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very brave knight, but not worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the Burning-sword, who, with a single backstroke, had cut in sunder two fierce and mighty giants. He liked yet better Bernardo del Carpio, who, at Roncesvalles, deprived of life the enchanted Orlando, having lifted him from the ground, and choked him in the air, as Hercules did Antæus, the son of the Earth.

As for the giant Morgante, he always spoke very civil things of him; for though he was one of that monstrous brood who ever were intolerably proud and brutish, he still behaved himself like a civil and well-bred person.

But of all men in the world he admired Rinaldo of Montalban, and particularly his sallying out of his castle to rob all he met; and then again when abroad he carried away the idol of Mahomet, which was all massy gold, as the history says; but he so hated that traitor Galalon, that for the pleasure of kicking him handsomely, he would have given up his housekeeper; nay, and his niece into the bargain.

Having thus lost his understanding, he unluckily stumbled upon the oddest fancy that ever entered into a madman's brain; for now he thought it convenient and necessary, as well for the increase of his own honor as the service of the public, to turn knight-errant, and roam through the whole world, armed cap-a-pie, and mounted on his steed, in quest of adventures; that thus imitating those knights-errant of whom he had read, and following their course of life, redressing all manner of grievances, and exposing himself to danger on all occasions, at last, after a happy conclusion of his enterprises, he might purchase everlasting honor and renown. Transported with these agreeable delusions, the poor gentleman already grasped in imagination the imperial sceptre of Trebizond, and, hurried away by his mighty expectations, he prepares with all expedition to take the field.

The first thing he did was to scour a suit of armor that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had lain time out of mind carelessly rusting in a corner; but when he had cleaned and repaired it as well as he could, he perceived there was a material piece wanting; for, instead of a complete helmet, there was only a single headpiece. However, his industry supplied that defect; for with some pasteboard he made a kind of half-beaver, or vizor, which, being fitted to the headpiece, made it look like an entire helmet. Then, to know whether it were cutlass-proof, he drew his sword, and tried its edge upon the pasteboard vizor; but with the very first stroke he unluckily undid in a moment what he had been a whole week a-doing. He did not like its being broken with so much ease, and therefore, to secure it from the like accident, he made it anew, and fenced it with thin plates of iron, which he fixed on the inside of it so artificially that at last he had reason to be satisfied with the solidity of the work; and so, without any further experiment, he resolved it should pass to all intents and purposes for a full and sufficient helmet.

It was time to look to his horse, who had more false quarter than real, being a worse jade than Gonela's, qui tantum pellis et ossa fuit; however, his master thought that neither Alexander's Bucephalus nor the Cid's Babieca could be compared with him. He was four days considering what name to give him; for, as he argued with himself, there was no reason that a horse bestrid by so famous a knight, and withal so excellent in himself, should not be distinguished by a particular name; and therefore he studied to give him such a one as should demonstrate as well what kind of horse he had been before his master was a knight-errant, as what he was now; thinking it but just, since the owner changed his profession, that the horse should also change his title, and be dignified with another; a good big word, such a one as should fill the mouth, and seem consonant with the quality and profession of his master. And thus, after many names which he devised, rejected, changed, liked, disliked, and pitched upon again, he concluded to call him Rozinante; a name, in his opinion, lofty, sounding, and significant of what he had been before, and also of what he was now; in a word, a horse before, or above, all the vulgar breed of horses in the world.

When he had thus given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he thought of choosing one for himself; and having seriously pondered on the matter eight whole days more, at last he determined to call himself Don Quixote. Whence the author of this most authentic history draws this inference, that his right name was Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would maintain. And observing that the valiant Amadis, not satisfied with the bare appellation of Amadis, added to it the name of his country, that it might grow more famous by his exploits, and so styled himself Amadis de Gaul; so he, like a true lover of his native soil, resolved to call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; which addition, to his thinking, denoted very plainly his parentage and country, and consequently would fix a lasting honor on that part of the world.

And now, his armor being scoured, his headpiece improved to a helmet, his horse and himself new named, he perceived he wanted nothing but a lady, on whom he might bestow the empire of his heart; for he was sensible that a knight-errant without a mistress was a tree without either fruit or leaves, and a body without a soul. Should I, said he to himself, by good or ill fortune, chance to encounter some giant, as is common in knight-errantry, and happen to lay him prostrate on the ground, transfixed with my lance, or cleft in two, or, in short, overcome him and have him at my mercy, would it not be proper to have some lady to whom I may send him as a trophy of my valor? Then when he comes into her presence, throwing himself at her feet, he may thus make his humble submission: "Lady, I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by that never-deservedly-enough-extolled knight-errant Don Quixote de la Mancha, who has commanded me to cast myself most humbly at your feet, that it may please your honor to dispose of me according to your will." Oh! how elevated was the knight with the conceit of this imaginary submission of the giant; especially having withal bethought himself of a person on whom he might confer the title of his mistress! which, it is believed happened thus: Near the place where he lived dwelt a good likely country lass, for whom he had formerly had a sort of an inclination, though, it is believed, she never heard of it, nor regarded it in the least. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and this was she whom he thought he might entitle to the sovereingty of his heart; upon which he studied to find her out a new name, that might have some affinity with her old one, and yet at the same time sound somewhat like that of a princess or lady of quality; so at last he resolved to call her Dulcinea, with the addition of del Toboso, from the place where she was born; a name, in his opinion, sweet, harmonious, extraordinary, and no less significative than the others which he had devised.

THE FIGHT WITH THE WINDMILLS

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Don Quixote earnestly solicited one of his neighbors, a country laborer, and a good honest fellow, if we may call a poor man honest, for he was poor indeed, poor in purse and poor in brains; and, in short, the knight talked so long to him, plied him with so many arguments, and made him so many fair promises, that at last the poor clown consented to go along with him and become his squire. Among other inducements to entice him to do it willingly, Don Quixote forgot not to tell him that it was likely such an adventure would present itself as might secure him the conquest of some island in the time that he might be picking up a straw or two, and then the squire might promise himself to be made governor of the place. Allured with these large promises and many others, Sancho Panza (for that was the name of the fellow) forsook his wife and children to be his neighbor's squire.

This done, Don Quixote made it his business to furnish himself with money; to which purpose, selling one house, mortgaging another, and losing by all, he at last got a pretty good sum together. He also borrowed a target of a friend, and having patched up his headpiece and beaver as well as he could, he gave his squire notice of the day and hour when he intended to set out, that he might also furnish himself with what he thought necessary; but above all he charged him to provide himself with a wallet; which Sancho promised to do, telling him he would also take his ass along with him, which being a very good one, might be a great ease to him, for he was not used to travel much afoot. The mentioning of the ass made the noble knight pause awhile; he mused and pondered whether he had ever read of any knight-errant whose squire used to ride upon an ass; but he could not remember any precedent for it: however, he gave him leave at last to bring his ass, hoping to mount him more honorably with the first opportunity, by unhorsing the next discourteous knight he should meet. He also furnished himself with shirts and as many other necessaries as he could conveniently carry, according to the innkeeper's injunctions. Which being done, Sancho Panza, without bidding either his wife or children good-by, and Don Quixote, without taking any more notice of his housekeeper or of his niece, stole out of the village one night, not so much as suspected by anybody, and made such haste that by break of day they thought themselves out of reach, should they happen to be pursued. As for Sancho Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with his canvas knapsack, or wallet, and his leathern bottle, having a huge desire to see himself governor of the island, which his master had promised him.

Don Quixote happened to strike into the same road which he took the time before, that is, the plains of Montiel, over which he traveled with less inconveniency than when he went alone, by reason it was yet early in the morning; at which time the rays of the sun, striking obliquely upon them, did not prove so offensive.

As they jogged on, "I beseech your worship, Sir Knight-errant," quoth Sancho to his master, "be sure you don't forget what you promised me about the island; for I dare say I shall make shift to govern it, let it be never so big."—"You must know, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it has been the constant practice of knights-errant in former ages to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered. Now I am not only resolved to keep up that laudable custom, but even to improve it, and outdo my predecessors in generosity; for whereas sometimes, or rather most commonly, other knights delayed rewarding their squires till they were grown old, and worn out with services, bad days, worse nights, and all manner of hard duty, and then put them off with some title, either of count, or at least marquis of some valley or province, of great or small extent; now, if thou and I do but live, it may happen that before we have passed six days together I may conquer some kingdom, having many other kingdoms annexed to its imperial crown; and this would fall out most luckily for thee; for then would I presently crown thee king of one of them. Nor do thou imagine this to be a mighty matter; for so strange accidents and revolutions, so sudden and so unforeseen, attend the profession of chivalry, that I might easily give thee a great deal more than I have promised."—"Why, should this come to pass," quoth Sancho Panza, "and I be made a king by some such miracle, as your worship says, then Joan Gutierez (my mis'ess) would be at least a queen, and my children infantas."—"Who doubts of that?" cried Don Quixote. "I doubt of it," replied Sancho Panza; "for I cannot help believing, that though it should rain kingdoms down upon the face of the earth, not one of them would sit well upon Mary Gutierez's head; for I must needs tell you, she's not worth two brass jacks to make a queen of: no, countess would be better for her, an't please you; and that too, God help her, will be as much as she can handsomely manage."—"Recommend the matter to Providence," returned Don Quixote, "'twill be sure to give what is most expedient for thee; but yet disdain to entertain inferior thoughts, and be not tempted to accept less than the dignity of a viceroy."—"No more I won't, sir," quoth Sancho, "especially since I have so rare a master as your worship, who will take care to give me whatever may be fit for me, and what I may be able to deal with."

As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or forty windmills that are in that plain; and as soon as the knight had spied them, "Fortune," cried he, "directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished: look yonder, friend Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous giants, whom I intend to encounter; and having deprived them of life, we will begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for they are lawful prize; and the extirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable service to Heaven."—"What giants?" quoth Sancho Panza. "Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long extended arms; some of that detested race have arms of so immense a size, that sometimes they reach two leagues in length."—"Pray look better, sir," quoth Sancho; "those things yonder are no giants, but windmills, and the arms you fancy, are their sails, which being whirled about by the wind, make the mill go." "'Tis a sign," cried Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with adventures! I tell thee, they are giants; and therefore if thou art afraid, go aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in a dreadful unequal combat against them all." This said, he clapt spurs to his horse Rozinante, without giving ear to his squire Sancho, who bawled out to him, and assured him that they were windmills, and no giants. But he was so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the contrary, that he did not so much as hear his squire's outcry, nor was he sensible of what they were, although he was already very near them; far from that: "Stand, cowards," cried he as loud as he could; "stand your ground, ignoble creatures, and fly not basely from a single knight, who dares encounter you all!" At the same time, the wind rising, the mill-sails began to move, which when Don Quixote spied, "Base miscreants," cried he, "though you move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance." He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous adventure; and so covering himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante's utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come at, and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along with it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field. Sancho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master, whom he found lying, and not able to stir, such a blow had he and Rozinante received. "Mercy o' me!" cried Sancho, "did not I give your worship fair warning? Did not I tell you they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise, unless he had also windmills in his head?"—"Peace, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote: "there is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am verily persuaded that cursed necromancer Freston, who carried away my study and my books, has transformed these giants into windmills to deprive me of the honor of the victory; such is his inveterate malice against me; but in the end, all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword."—"Amen, say I," replied Sancho. And so heaving him up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted poor Rozinante, that was half shoulder-slipped with his fall.

This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they made the best of their way towards the pass of Lapice, for Don Quixote took that road, believing he could not miss of adventure in one so mightily frequented. However, the loss of his lance was no small affliction to him; and as he was making his complaint about it to his squire, "I have read," said he, "friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, whose name was Diego Perez de Vargas, having broke his sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree, or at least tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and his posterity the surname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. I tell thee this, because I intend to tear up the next oak or holm tree we meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds that thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honor to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe."—"Heaven grant you may," cried Sancho; "I believe it all, because your worship says it. But, an't please you, sit a little more upright in your saddle; you ride sideling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your being bruised by the fall."—"It does so," replied Don Quixote; "and if I do not complain of the pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds, though his bowels were dropping out through them."—"Then I have no more to say," quoth Sancho; "and yet Heaven knows my heart, I should be glad to hear your worship hone a little now and then when something ails you: for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless indeed it can be proved, that the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as knights."

Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his squire; and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased, but as much as he pleased, whether he had any cause or no; for he had never yet read anything to the contrary in any books of chivalry.

THE INNKEEPER'S BILL

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

But Don Quixote, as we have said, found himself in an excellent temper; and his active soul loathing an inglorious repose, he presently was impatient to depart to perform the duties of his adventurous profession; for he thought those moments that were trifled away in amusements or other concerns only a blank in life; and all delays a depriving distressed persons and the world in general of his needed assistance. The confidence which he reposed in his balsam, heightened, if possible, his resolution; and thus carried away by his eager thoughts, he saddled Rozinante himself, and then put the pannel upon the ass, and his squire upon the pannel, after he had helped him to huddle on his clothes; that done, he mounted his steed; and having spied a javelin that stood in a corner, he seized and appropriated it to himself, to supply the want of his lance. Above twenty people that were in the inn stood spectators of all these transactions; and among the rest the innkeeper's daughter, from whom Don Quixote had not power to withdraw his eyes, breathing out at every glance a deep sigh from the very bottom of his heart; which those who had seen him so mortified the night before took to proceed from the pain of his bruises.

And now being ready to set forward, he called for the master of the house, and with a grave delivery, "My lord governor," cried he, "the favors I have received in your castle are so great and extraordinary that they bind my grateful soul to an eternal acknowledgment; therefore that I may be so happy as to discharge part of the obligation, think if there be ever a proud mortal breathing on whom you desire to be revenged for some affront or other injury, and acquaint me with it now; and by my order of knighthood, which binds me to protect the weak, relieve the oppressed, and punish the bad, I promise you I'll take effectual care, that you shall have ample satisfaction to the utmost of your wishes."—"Sir Knight," answered the innkeeper, with an austere gravity, "I shall not need your assistance to revenge any wrong that may be offered to my person; for I would have you to understand that I am able to do myself justice whenever any man presumes to do me wrong; therefore all the satisfaction I desire is, that you will pay your reckoning for horse-meat and man's meat, and all your expenses in my inn."—"How!" cried Don Quixote, "is this an inn?"—"Yes," answered the host, "and one of the most noted, and of the best repute upon the road."—"How strangely have I been mistaken, then!" cried Don Quixote; "upon my honor I took it for a castle, and a considerable one too; but if it be an inn, and not a castle, all I have to say is, that you must excuse me from paying anything; for I would by no means break the laws which we knights-errant are bound to observe; nor was it ever known, that they ever paid in any inn whatsoever; for this is the least recompense that can be allowed them for the intolerable labors they endure day and night, winter and summer, on foot and on horseback, pinched with hunger, choked with thirst, and exposed to all the injuries of the air and all the inconveniences in the world."—"I have nothing to do with all this," cried the innkeeper; "pay your reckoning, and don't trouble me with your foolish stories of a cock and a bull; I can't afford to keep house at that rate."—"Thou art both a fool and a knave of an innkeeper," replied Don Quixote, and with that clapping spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his javelin at his host, he rode out of the inn without any opposition, and got a good way from it, without so much as once looking behind him to see whether his squire came after him.

The knight being marched off, there remained only the squire, who was stopped for the reckoning. However, he swore he would not pay a cross; for the selfsame law that acquitted the knight acquitted the squire. This put the innkeeper into a great passion, and made him threaten Sancho very hard, telling him if he would not pay him by fair means, he would have him laid by the heels that moment. Sancho swore by his master's knighthood he would sooner part with his life than his money on such an account; nor should the squires in after ages ever have occasion to upbraid him with giving so ill a precedent, or breaking their rights.

As ill luck would have it, there happened to be in the inn four Segovia clothiers, three Cordova pointmakers, and two Seville hucksters, all brisk, gamesome, roguish fellows; who agreeing all in the same design, encompassed Sancho, and pulled him off his ass, while one of them went and got a blanket. Then they put the unfortunate squire into it, and observing the roof of the place they were in to be somewhat too low for their purpose, they carried him into the back yard, which had no limits but the sky, and there they tossed him for several times together in the blanket, as they do dogs on Shrove Tuesday. Poor Sancho made so grievous an outcry all the while that his master heard him, and imagined those lamentations were of some person in distress, and consequently the occasion of some adventure; but having at last distinguished the voice, he made to the inn with a broken gallop; and finding the gates shut, he rode about to see whether he might not find some other way to get in. But he no sooner came to the back-yard wall, which was none of the highest, when he was an eyewitness of the scurvy trick that was put upon his squire. There he saw him ascend and descend, and frolic and caper in the air with so much nimbleness and agility, that it is thought the knight himself could not have forborne laughing, had he been anything less angry. He did his best to get over the wall, but alas, he was so bruised, that he could not so much as alight from his horse. This made him fume and chafe, and vent his passion in a thousand threats and curses, so strange and various that it is impossible to repeat them. But the more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed; Sancho on his side begging, and howling, and threatening, and cursing, to as little purpose as his master, for it was weariness alone could make the tossers give over. Then they charitably put an end to his high dancing, and set him upon his ass again, carefully wrapped in his mantle.

But Maritornes, pitying a creature in such tribulation and thinking he had danced and tumbled enough to be dry, was so generous as to help him to a draught of water, which she purposely drew from the well that moment, that it might be the cooler. Sancho clapped the pot to his mouth, but his master made him desist. "Hold, hold," cried he, "son Sancho, drink no water, child, it will kill thee; behold I have here the most holy balsam, two drops of which will cure thee effectually."—"Ha," replied Sancho, shaking his head, and looking sourly on the knight with a side face, "have you again forgot that I am no knight? Keep your brewings for yourself, in the devil's name, and let me alone." With that he lifted up the jug to his nose, but finding it to be mere element, he spirted out again the little he had tasted, and desired the wench to help him to some better liquor; so she went and fetched him wine to make him amends, and paid for it too out of her own pocket. As soon as Sancho had tipped off his wine, he visited his ass's ribs twice or thrice with his heels, and, free egress being granted him, he trooped off, well content with the thoughts of having had his ends, and got off scot free, though at the expense of his shoulders, his usual sureties. It is true, the innkeeper kept his wallet for the reckoning; but the poor squire was so dismayed, and in such haste to be gone, that he never missed it. The host was for shutting the inn doors after him, for fear of the worst; but the tossers would not let him, being a sort of fellows that would not have cared for Don Quixote a straw, though he had really been one of the Knights of the Round Table.

THE BATTLE OF THE SHEEP

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

They went on discoursing, when Don Quixote, perceiving a thick cloud of dust arise right before them in the road, "The day is come," said he, turning to his squire, "the day is come, Sancho, that shall usher in the happiness which fortune has reserved for me; this day shall the strength of my arm be signalized by such exploits as shall be transmitted even to the latest posterity. Seest thou that cloud of dust, Sancho? It is raised by a prodigious army marching this way, and composed of an infinite number of nations."—"Why then, at this rate," quoth Sancho, "there should be two armies; for yonder is as great a dust on the other side." With that Don Quixote looked, and was transported with joy at the sight, firmly believing that two vast armies were ready to engage each other in that plain; for his imagination was so crowded with those battles, enchantments, surprising adventures, amorous thoughts, and other whimsies which he had read of in romances, that his strong fancy changed everything he saw into what he desired to see; and thus he could not conceive that the dust was only raised by two large flocks of sheep that were going the same road from different parts, and could not be discerned till they were very near; he was so positive that they were two armies, that Sancho firmly believed him at last. "Well, sir," quoth the squire, "what are we to do, I beseech you?"—"What shall we do," replied Don Quixote, "but assist the weaker and injured side? for know, Sancho, that the army which now moves towards us is commanded by the great Alifanfaron, emperor of the vast island of Taprobana; the other that advances behind us is his enemy, the king of the Garamantians, Pentapolin with the naked arm, so called because he always enters into the battle with his right arm bare."—"Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "why are these two great men going together by the ears?"—"The occasion of their quarrel is this," answered Don Quixote: "Alifanfaron, a strong Pagan, is in love with Pentapolin's daughter, a very beautiful lady and a Christian; now her father refuses to give her in marriage to the heathen prince, unless he abjure his false belief and embrace the Christian religion."—"Burn my beard," said Sancho, "if Pentapolin be not in the right on it; I will stand by him, and help him all I may."—"I commend thy resolution," replied Don Quixote, "it is not only lawful, but requisite; for there is no need of being a knight to fight in such battles."—"I guessed as much," quoth Sancho; "but where shall we leave my ass in the meantime, that I may be sure to find him again after the battle; for I fancy you never heard of any man that ever charged upon such a beast."—"It is true," answered Don Quixote, "and therefore I would have thee turn him loose, though thou wert sure never to find him again; for we shall have so many horses after we have got the day that even Rozinante himself will be in danger of being changed for another."

Then mounting to the top of a hillock, whence they might have seen both the flocks, had not the dust obstructed their sight, "Look yonder, Sancho!" cried Don Quixote; "that knight whom thou seest in the gilded arms, bearing in his shield a crowned lion couchant at the feet of a lady, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the silver bridge. He in the armor powdered with flowers of gold, bearing three crows argent in a field azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, the great duke of Quiracia. That other, of a gigantic size, that marches on his right, is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, sovereign of the three Arabias; he is arrayed in a serpent's skin, and carries instead of a shield a huge gate, which they say belonged to the temple which Samson pulled down at his death, when he revenged himself upon his enemies. But cast thy eyes on this side, Sancho, and at the head of the other army see the victorious Timonel of Carcaiona, prince of New Biscay, whose armor is quartered azure, vert, or, and argent, and who bears in his shield a cat or, in a field gules, with these four letters, MIAU, for a motto, being the beginning of his mistress's name, the beautiful Miaulina, daughter to Alfeñiquen, duke of Algarva. That other monstrous load upon the back of yonder wild horse, with arms as white as snow, and a shield without any device, is a Frenchman, now created knight, called Pierre Papin, baron of Utrique; he whom you see pricking that pied courser's flanks with his armed heels is the mighty duke of Nervia, Espartafilardo of the Wood, bearing for device on his shield an asparagus plant with this motto in Castilian, Rastrea mi suerte (Divine my fate)." And thus he went on, naming a great number of others in both armies, to every one of whom his fertile imagination assigned arms, colors, impresses, and mottoes, as readily as if they had really been that moment in being before his eyes. And then proceeding without the least hesitation, "That vast body," said he, "that is just opposite to us is composed of several nations. There you see those who drink the pleasant stream of the famous Xanthus; there the mountaineers that till the Massilian fields; those that sift the pure gold of Arabia Felix: those that inhabit the renowned and delightful banks of Thermodon. Yonder, those who so many ways sluice and drain the golden Pactolus for its precious sand; the Numidians, unsteady and careless of their promises; the Persians, excellent archers; the Medes and Parthians, who fight flying; the Arabs, who have no fixed habitations; the Scythians, cruel and savage, though fair-complexioned; the sooty Ethiopians, that bore their lips; and a thousand other nations whose countenances I know, though I have forgotten their names. On the other side come those whose country is watered with the crystal streams of Betis, shaded with olive trees; those who bathe their limbs in the rich flood of the golden Tagus; those whose mansions are laved by the profitable stream of the divine Genil; those who range the verdant Tartesian meadows; those who indulge their luxurious temper in the delicious pastures of Xerez; the wealthy inhabitants of La Mancha, crowned with golden ears of corn; the ancient offspring of the Goths, cased in iron; those who wanton in the lazy current of Pisuerga; those who feed their numerous flocks in the ample plains where the Guadiana, so celebrated for its hidden course, pursues its wandering race; those who shiver with extremity of cold on the woody Pyrenean hills or on the hoary tops of the snowy Apennines,—in a word, all that Europe includes within its spacious bounds, half a world in an army." It is scarce to be imagined how many countries he had run over, how many nations he enumerated, distinguishing every one by what is peculiar to them, with an incredible vivacity of mind, and that still in the puffy style of his fabulous books.

Sancho listened to all this romantic muster-roll as mute as a fish, with amazement; all that he could do was now and then to turn his head on this side and the other side, to see if he could discern the knights and giants whom his master named. But at length, not being able to discover any, "Why," cried he, "you had as good tell me it snows; the devil of any knight, giant, or man can I see, of all those you talk of now; who knows but all this may be witchcraft and spirits, like yesternight?"—"How," replied Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear their horses neigh, their trumpets sound, and their drums beat?"—"Not I," quoth Sancho, "I prick up my ears like a sow in the beans, and yet I can hear nothing but the bleating of sheep." Sancho might justly say so indeed, for by this time the two flocks were got very near them. "Thy fears disturb thy senses," said Don Quixote, "and hinder thee from hearing and seeing right; but it is no matter; withdraw to some place of safety, since thou art so terrified; for I alone am sufficient to give the victory to that side which I shall favor with my assistance." With that he couched his lance, clapped spurs to Rozinante, and rushed like a thunderbolt from the hillock into the plain. Sancho bawled after him as loud as he could. "Hold, sir!" cried Sancho; "for heaven's sake come back! What do you mean? as sure as I am a sinner those you are going to maul are nothing but poor harmless sheep. Come back, I say. Woe to him that begot me! Are you mad, sir? there are no giants, no knights, no cats, no asparagus gardens, no golden quarters nor what-d'-ye-call-thems. Does the devil possess you? you are leaping over the hedge before you come at the stile. You are taking the wrong sow by the ear. Oh, that I was ever born to see this day!" But Don Quixote still riding on, deaf and lost to good advice, out-roared his expostulating squire. "Courage, brave knights!" cried he; "march up, fall on, all you who fight under the standard of the valiant Pentapolin with the naked arm; follow me, and you shall see how easily I will revenge him on that infidel Alifanfaron of Taprobana."

So saying, he charged into the midst of the squadron of sheep and commenced to spear them with his lance with as much gallantry and resolution as if he were verily engaging with his mortal enemies.

The shepherds and drovers, seeing their sheep go to wreck, called out to him; till finding fair means ineffectual, they unloosed their slings, and began to ply him with stones as big as their fists. But the champion, disdaining such a distant war, spite of their showers of stones rushed among the routed sheep, trampling both the living and the slain in a most terrible manner, impatient to meet the general of the enemy, and end the war at once. "Where, where art thou?" cried he, "proud, Alifanfaron? Appear! See here a single knight who seeks thee everywhere, to try now, hand to hand, the boasted force of thy strenuous arm, and deprive thee of life, as a due punishment for the unjust war which thou hast audaciously waged with the valiant Pentapolin." Just as he had said this, while the stones flew about his ears, one unluckily hit upon his small ribs, and had like to have buried two of the shortest deep in the middle of his body.

The knight thought himself slain, or at least desperately wounded; and therefore calling to mind his precious balsam, and pulling out his earthen jug, he clapped it to his mouth; but before he had swallowed a sufficient dose, souse comes another of those bitter almonds, that spoiled his draught, and hit him so pat upon the jug, hand, and teeth, that it broke the first, maimed the second, and struck out three or four of the last. These two blows were so violent that the boisterous knight, falling from his horse, lay upon the ground as quiet as the slain; so that the shepherds, fearing he was killed, got their flock together with all speed, and carrying away their dead, which were no less than seven sheep, they made what haste they could out of harm's way, without looking any further into the matter.

All this while Sancho stood upon the hill, where he was mortified upon the sight of this mad adventure. There he stamped and swore, and banned his master to the bottomless pit; he tore his beard for madness, and cursed the moment he first knew him; but seeing him at last knocked down and settled, the shepherds being scampered, he thought he might venture to come down, and found him in a very ill plight, though not altogether senseless. "Ah! master," quoth he, "this comes of not taking my counsel. Did I not tell you it was a flock of sheep, and no army?"—"Friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "know, it is an easy matter for necromancers to change the shapes of things as they please: thus that malicious enchanter, who is my inveterate enemy, to deprive me of the glory which he saw me ready to acquire, while I was reaping a full harvest of laurels, transformed in a moment the routed squadrons into sheep. If thou wilt not believe me, Sancho, yet do one thing for my sake; do but take thy ass, and follow those supposed sheep at a distance, and I dare engage thou shalt soon see them resume their former shapes, and appear such as I described them."

THE CONQUEST OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

At the same time it began to rain, and Sancho would fain have taken shelter in the fulling mills; but Don Quixote had conceived such an antipathy against them for the shame they had put upon him that he would by no means be prevailed with to go in; and turning to the right hand he struck into a highway, where they had not gone far before he discovered a horseman, who wore upon his head something that glittered like gold. The knight had no sooner spied him, but, turning to his squire, "Sancho," cried he, "I believe there is no proverb but what is true; they are all so many sentences and maxims drawn from experience, the universal mother of sciences; for instance, that saying that where one door shuts, another opens: thus fortune, that last night deceived us with the false prospect of an adventure, this morning offers us a real one to make us amends; and such an adventure, Sancho, that if I do not gloriously succeed in it, I shall have now no pretense to an excuse, no darkness, no unknown sounds, to impute my disappointment to: in short, in all probability yonder comes the man who wears on his head Mambrino's helmet, and thou knowest the vow I have made."—"Good sir," quoth Sancho, "mind what you say, and take heed what you do; for I would willingly keep my carcass and the case of my understanding from being pounded, mashed, and crushed with fulling hammers."—"The block-head!" cried Don Quixote; "is there no difference between a helmet and a fulling mill?"—"I don't know," saith Sancho, "but I am sure, were I suffered to speak my mind now as I was wont, mayhap, I would give you such main reasons, that yourself should see you are wide of the matter."—"How can I be mistaken, thou eternal misbeliever!" cried Don Quixote; "dost thou not see that knight that comes riding up directly towards us upon a dapple-gray steed, with a helmet of gold on his head."—"I see what I see," replied Sancho, "and the devil of anything I can spy but a fellow on such another gray ass as mine is, with something that glitters o' top of his head."—"I tell thee, that is Mambrino's helmet," replied Don Quixote; "do thou stand at a distance, and leave me to deal with him; thou shalt see, that without trifling away so much as a moment in needless talk, I will finish this adventure, and possess myself of the desired helmet."—"I shall stand at a distance, you may be sure," quoth Sancho; "but God grant that it be not the fulling mills again."—"I have warned you already, fellow," said Don Quixote, "not so much as to name the fulling mills; dare but once more to do it, nay, but to think on it, and I vow to—I say no more, but I'll full your very soul." These threats were more than sufficient to padlock Sancho's lips, for he had no mind to have his master's vow fulfilled at the expense of his bones.

Now the truth of the story was this: there were in that part of the country two villages, one of which was so little that it had not so much as a shop in it, nor any barber; so that the barber of the greater village served also the smaller. And thus a person happening to have occasion to be let blood, and another to be shaved, the barber was going thither with his brass basin, which he had clapped upon his head to keep his hat, that chanced to be a new one, from being spoiled by the rain; and as the basin was new scoured, it made a glittering show a great way off. As Sancho had well observed, he rode upon a gray ass, which Don Quixote as easily took for a dapple-gray steed, as he took the barber for a knight, and his brass basin for a golden helmet; his distracted brain easily applying every object to his romantic ideas. Therefore, when he saw the poor imaginary knight draw near, he fixed his lance, or javelin, to his thigh, and without staying to hold a parley with his adversary, flew at him as fiercely as Rozinante would gallop, resolved to pierce him through and through; crying out in the midst of his career, "Caitiff, wretch, defend thyself, or immediately surrender that which is so justly my due."

The barber, who, as he peaceably went along, saw that terrible apparition come thundering upon him at unawares, had no other way to avoid being run through with his lance, but to throw himself off from his ass to the ground; and then as hastily getting up, he took to his heels, and ran over the fields swifter than the wind, leaving his ass and his basin behind him. Don Quixote finding himself thus master of the field and of the basin, "The miscreant," cried he, "who has left this helmet, has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, finding himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to save his life, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for which his natural instinct tells him he is followed."—Then he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet.—"On my word," quoth Sancho, having taken it up, "it is a special basin, and as well worth a piece of eight as a thief is worth a halter."

With that he gave it to his master, who presently clapped it on his head, turning it every way to find out the beaver or vizor; and at last seeing it had none, "Doubtless," said he, "the pagan for whom this famous helmet was first made, had a head of a prodigious size; but the worst is, that there is at least one-half of it wanting." Sancho could not forbear smiling to hear his master call the barber's basin a helmet, and, had not his fear dashed his mirth, he had certainly laughed outright. "What does the fool grin at now?" cried Don Quixote.—"I laugh," said he, "to think what a hugeous jolt-head he must needs have had who was the owner of this same helmet, that looks for all the world like a barber's basin."—"I fancy," said Don Quixote, "this enchanted helmet has fallen by some strange accident into the hands of some person who, not knowing the value of it, for the lucre of a little money, finding it to be of pure gold, melted one half, and of the other made this headpiece, which, as thou sayest, has some resemblance to a barber's basin: but to me, who know the worth of it, the metamorphosis signifies little; for as soon as ever I come to some town where there is an armorer, I will have it altered so much for the better, that then even the helmet which the god of smiths made for the god of war shall not deserve to be compared with it. In the meantime I'll wear it as it is; it is better than nothing, and will serve at least to save part of my head from the violent encounter of a stone."—"Ay, that it will," quoth Sancho, "so it is not hurled out of a sling, as were those at the battle between the two armies, when they hit you that confounded dowse o' the chops, that saluted your worship's cheek-teeth, and broke the pot about your ears in which you kept that blessed drench."—"True," cried Don Quixote, "there I lost my precious balsam indeed; but I do not much repine at it, for thou knowest I have the receipt in my memory."—"So have I, too," quoth Sancho, "and shall have while I have breath to draw; but if ever I make any of that stuff, or taste it again, may I give up the ghost with it! Besides, I don't intend ever to do anything that may give occasion for the use of it, for my fixed resolution is, with all my five senses, to preserve myself from hurting and from being hurt by anybody. As to being tossed in a blanket again, I have nothing to say to that, for there is no remedy for accidents but patience, it seems; so if it ever be my lot to be served so again, I'll even shrink up my shoulders, hold my breath, and shut my eyes, and then happy be lucky, let the blanket and fortune even toss on to the end of the chapter."

"Truly," said Don Quixote, "I am afraid thou art no good Christian, Sancho, thou never forgettest injuries. Let me tell thee, it is the part of noble and generous spirits to pass by trifles. Where art thou lame? which of thy ribs is broken, or what part of thy skull is bruised, that thou canst never think on that jest without malice? for, after all, it was nothing but a jest, a harmless piece of pastime; had I looked upon it otherwise, I had returned to that place before this time, and had made more noble mischief in revenge of the abuse than ever the incensed Grecians did at Troy, for the detention of their Helen, that famed beauty of the ancient world; who, however, had she lived in our age, or had my Dulcinea adorned hers, would have found her charms outrivaled by my mistress's perfections;" and saying this, he heaved up a deep sigh. "Well, then," quoth Sancho, "I will not rip up old sores; let it go for a jest, since there is no revenging it in earnest."

DON QUIXOTE'S BATTLE WITH THE GIANTS

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Sancho Panza came running out of Don Quixote's chamber in a terrible fright, crying out, "Help, help, good people, help my master! He is just now at it, tooth and nail, with that same giant, the Princess Micomicona's foe; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my born days. He has lent him such a sliver, that whip off went the giant's head, as round as a turnip."—"You are mad, Sancho," said the curate, interrupted in his reading; "is thy master such a devil of a hero, as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues' distance?" Upon this, they presently heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, "Stay, villain, robber, stay; since I have thee here, thy scimitar shall but little avail thee;" and with this, they heard him strike with his sword, with all his force, against the walls.—"Good folks," said Sancho, "my master does not want your hearkening; why do not you run in and help him? though I believe there's no need now, for sure the giant is by this time dead, and giving an account of his ill life: for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head sailing in the middle on it; but such a head! it is bigger than any wine skin in Spain."—"Death and hell!" cries the innkeeper, "I will be cut like a cucumber, if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has not been hacking my wine skins that stood filled at his bed's head, and this coxcomb has taken the spilt liquor for blood." Then running with the whole company into the room, they found the poor knight in the most comical posture imaginable.

He was standing in his shirt, and he wore on his head a little red greasy cast nightcap of the innkeeper's; he had wrapped one of the bed blankets about his left arm for a shield; and wielded his drawn sword in the right, laying about him pellmell; with now and then a start of some military expression, as if he had been really engaged with some giant. But the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep; for the thoughts of the adventure he had undertaken had so wrought on his imagination that his depraved fancy had in his sleep represented to him the kingdom Micomicon, and the giant; and dreaming that he was then fighting him, he assaulted the wine skins so desperately that he set the whole chamber afloat with good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, flew at Don Quixote with his fists; and had not Cardenio and the curate taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against the knight. All this could not wake the poor knight, till the barber, throwing a bucket of cold water on him, wakened him from his sleep, though not from his dream.

Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the giant's head, till, finding his labor fruitless, "Well, well," said he, "now I see plainly that this house is haunted, for when I was here before, in this very room was I beaten like any stockfish, but knew no more than the man in the moon who struck me; and now the giant's head that I saw cut off with these eyes, is vanished; and I am sure I saw the body spout blood like a pump."—"What a prating and a nonsense about blood and a pump, and I know not what," said the innkeeper; "I tell you, rascal, it is my wine skins that are slashed, and my wine that runs about the floor here, and I hope to see the soul of him that spilt it swimming in hell for his pains."—"Well, well," said Sancho, "do not trouble me; I only tell you, that I cannot find the giant's head, and my earldom is gone after it, and so I am undone, like salt in water." And truly Sancho's waking dream was worse than his master's when asleep. The innkeeper was almost mad to see the foolish squire harp so on the same string with his frantic master, and swore they should not come off now as before; that their chivalry should be no satisfaction for his wine, but that they should pay him sauce for the damage, and for the very leathern patches which the wounded wine skins would want.

Don Quixote, in the meanwhile, believing he had finished his adventure, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms, for the Princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and with a respect due to a royal presence, "Now may your highness," said he, "great and illustrious princess, live secure, free from any further apprehensions from your conquered enemy; and now I am acquitted of my engagement, since, by the assistance of Heaven and the influence of her favor by whom I live and conquer, your adventure is so happily achieved."—"Did not I tell you so, gentlefolks?" said Sancho; "who is drunk or mad now? See if my master has not already put the giant in pickle? Here are the bulls, and I am an earl." The whole company, except the innkeeper, were like to split at the extravagances of master and man. At last, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate having with much ado got Don Quixote to bed, he presently fell asleep, being heartily tired; and then they left him to comfort Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant's head; but it was no easy matter to appease the innkeeper, who was at his wit's end for the unexpected and sudden fate of his wine skins.

DON QUIXOTE MEETS THE LIONS

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

The history relates, that Sancho was chaffering with the shepherds for some curds, when Don Quixote called to him to bring his helmet; and finding that his master was in haste, he did not know what to do with them, nor what to bring them in; yet loth to lose his purchase (for he had already paid for them), he bethought himself at last of clapping them into the helmet, where having them safe, he went to know his master's pleasure. As soon as he came up to him, "Give me that helmet, friend," said the knight, "for if I understand anything of adventures, I descry one yonder that obliges me to arm."

The gentleman in green, hearing this, looked about to see what was the matter, but could perceive nothing but a wagon, which made towards them; and by the little flags about it, he judged it to be one of his majesty's treasure vans, and so he told Don Quixote. But his head was too much possessed with notions of adventures to give any credit to what the gentleman said. "Sir," answered he, "forewarned, forearmed; a man loses nothing by standing on his guard. I know by experience that I have enemies visible and invisible, and I cannot tell when nor where nor in what shape they may attack me." At the same time he snatched the helmet out of Sancho's hands, before he could discharge it of the curds, and clapped it on his head, without examining the contents. The curds being thus squeezed, the whey began to run all about his face and beard; which so frighted him that, calling to Sancho, "What's this," cried he, "Sancho? What's the matter with me? Sure my skull is growing soft, or my brains are melting, or else I sweat from head to foot! But if I do, I am sure it is not for fear. This certainly must be a dreadful adventure that is approaching. Give me something to wipe me, if thou canst, for I am almost blinded with the torrent of sweat."

Sancho did not say a word, but giving him a cloth, thanked Heaven that his master had not found him out. Don Quixote dried himself, and taking off the helmet to see what it should be that felt so cold on his head, perceiving some white morsels, and putting it to his nose, soon found what it was. "Now, by the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso," cried he, "thou hast put curds in my helmet, vile traitor and unmannerly squire!"—replied Sancho cunningly, and keeping his countenance, "if they be curds, good your worship, give them me hither, and I will eat them. But hold, now I think on it, the devil eat them for me; for he himself must have put them there. What! I dare offer to defile your helmet! you must know who dared to do it! As sure as I am alive, sir, I have got my enchanters too, that owe me a grudge, and plague me as a limb of your worship; and I warrant have put that nasty stuff there on purpose to set you against me, and make you fall foul on my bones. But I hope they have missed their aim this time, i' troth! My master is a wise man, and must needs know that I had neither curds nor milk, nor anything of that kind; and if I had met with curds, I should sooner have put them in my belly than in the helmet."—"Well," said Don Quixote, "there may be something in that."

The gentleman had observed these passages, and stood amazed, but especially when Don Quixote, having put on the helmet again, fixed himself well in the stirrups, tried whether his sword were loose enough in his scabbard, and rested his lance. "Now," cried he, "come what will come; here am I, who dare encounter the devil himself in person." By this time the wagon with the flags was come up with them, attended only by the carter, mounted on one of the mules, and another man that sat on the forepart. Don Quixote making up to them, "Whither go ye, friends?" said he. "What wagon is this? What do you convey in it? And what is the meaning of these flags?"—"The wagon is mine," answered the wagoner; "I have there fast two brave lions, which the general of Oran is sending to his majesty, and these colors of our lord the king are to let the people understand that what goes here belongs to him."—"And are the lions large?" inquired Don Quixote.—"Very large," answered the man at the door of the wagon; "there never came bigger from Afric into Spain. I am their keeper," added he, "and have had charge of several others, but I never saw the like of these before. In the foremost cage is a he-lion and in the other, behind, a lioness. By this time they are hungry, for they have not eaten to-day; therefore, pray, good sir, ride out of the way, for we must make haste to get to the place where we intend to feed them."—"What!" said Don Quixote, with a smile, "lion whelps against me! Against me those puny beasts! And at this time of day? Well, I will make those gentlemen that sent their lions this way know whether I am a man to be scared with lions. Get off, honest fellow; and since you are the keeper, open their cages, and let them both out; for, maugre and in despite of those enchanters that have sent them to try me, I will make the creatures know, in the midst of this very field, who Don Quixote de la Mancha is."—"So," thought the gentleman to himself, "now has our poor knight discovered who he is; the curds, I find, have softened his skull, and mellowed his brains."

On this, Sancho came up to him. "O good dear sir!" cried he, "for pity's sake, hinder my master from falling upon those lions by all means, or we shall all be torn a-pieces."—"Why," said the gentleman, "is your master so arrant a madman, then, that you should fear he would set upon such furious beasts?"—"Ah, sir!" said Sancho, "he is not mad, but venturesome."—"Well," replied the gentleman, "I will take care of that;" and with that advancing up to Don Quixote, who was urging the lion-keeper to open the cage, "Sir," said he, "knights-errant ought to engage in adventures from which there may be some hopes of coming off with safety, but not in such as are altogether desperate; for that courage which borders on temerity is more like madness than fortitude. Besides, these lions come not against you, nor dream of it, but are sent as a present to the king, and therefore, it is well not to detain them, or stop the wagon."—"Pray, sweet sir," replied Don Quixote, "go and amuse yourself with your tame partridge and your bold ferret, and leave every one to his own business. This is mine, and I know best whether these lion gentry are sent against me or no." Then turning about to the keeper, "Sirrah! you rascal you," said he, "either open your cages on the spot, or I vow to God, I will pin thee to the wagon with this lance."—"Good sir," cried the wagoner, seeing this strange apparition in armor so resolute, "for mercy's sake, do but let me take out our mules first, and get out of harm's way with them as fast as I can, before the lions get out; for if they should kill them, I should be undone forever, for that cart and they are all I have in the world to get a living with."—"Thou man of little faith," said Don Quixote, "take them out quickly, then, and go with them where thou wilt; though thou shalt presently see that thy precaution was needless, and thou mightest have spared thy pains."

The wagoner on this made haste to take out his mules, while the keeper cried out loud, "Bear witness, all ye that are here present, that it is against my will I am forced to open the cages and let loose the lions; and that I protest to this gentleman here, that he shall be answerable for all the mischief and damage they may do; together with the loss of my salary and fees. And now, sirs, shift for yourselves, for, as for myself, I know the lions will do me no harm." Once more the gentleman tried to dissuade Don Quixote from doing so mad a thing, telling him that he tempted Heaven in exposing himself to so great a danger. To this Don Quixote made no other answer, but that he knew what he had to do. "Consider, however, what you do," replied the gentleman, "for it is most certain that you are very much mistaken."—"Well, sir," said Don Quixote, "if you care not to be spectator of an action which you think is like to be tragical, e'en put spurs to your mare, and provide for your safety." Sancho, hearing this, came up to his master with tears in his eyes and begged him not to go about this undertaking, to which the adventure of the windmills, and the fulling mills, and all the brunts he had ever borne in his life, were but cakes and gingerbread. "Good your worship," cried he, "here is no enchantment in the case, nor anything like it. I peeped even now through the grates of the cage, and I am sure I saw the claw of a true lion, and such a claw as makes me think the lion that owns it must be bigger than a mountain."—"At any rate," said Don Quixote, "thy fear will make him bigger than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me, and if I chance to fall here thou knowest our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea—I say no more." To this he added some expressions which cut off all hopes of his giving over his mad design.

The gentleman in green would have opposed him; but, considering the other much better armed, and that it was not prudence to encounter a madman, as Don Quixote seemed to be, he even took the opportunity, while he was hastening the keeper and repeating his threats, to march off with his mare, as Sancho did with Dapple, and the carter with his mules, every one making the best of their way to get as far as they could from the wagon before the lions were let loose. Sancho at the same time made lamentations for his master's death; for he gave him up for lost, not questioning but the lions had already got him into their clutches. He cursed his ill fortune, and the hour he came again to his service; but for all his wailing and lamenting, he punched on poor Dapple, to get as far as he could from the lions. The keeper, perceiving the persons who fled to be at a good distance, fell to arguing and entreating Don Quixote as he had done before. But he told him again that all his reasons and entreaties were but in vain, and bid him say no more, but immediately dispatch.

Now while the keeper took time to open the foremost cage, Don Quixote stood debating with himself, whether he had best make his attack on foot or on horseback; and upon mature deliberation, he resolved to do it on foot, lest Rozinante, at sight of the lions, should be put into disorder. Accordingly he quitted his horse, threw aside his lance, grasped his shield, and drew his sword; then advancing step by step, with wondrous courage and an undaunted heart, he posted himself just before the door of the cage, commending himself to Heaven, and afterwards to his lady Dulcinea.

At this point it must be known, the author of this faithful history makes the following exclamation. "O thou most brave and unutterably bold Don Quixote de la Mancha! Thou mirror and grand exemplar of valor! Thou second and new Don Emanuel de Leon, the late glory and honor of all Spanish cavaliers! What words shall I use to express this astonishing deed of thine! What language shall I employ to convince posterity of its truth! What praises can be coined, and eulogies invented, that will not be outvied by thy superior merit, though hyperboles were piled on hyperboles! Thou alone, on foot, intrepid and magnanimous, with nothing but a sword, and that none of the sharpest, with thy single shield, and that none of the brightest, stoodst ready to receive and encounter the two fiercest lions that ever roared within the Libyan deserts. Then let thine own deeds speak thy praise, brave champion of La Mancha, while I am obliged to leave off, for want of words to maintain the flight." Here ended the author's exclamation, and the history goes on.

The keeper, observing the posture Don Quixote had put himself in, and that it was not possible for him to prevent letting out the lions, without incurring the resentment of the desperate knight, set the door of the foremost cage wide open; where, as I have said, was the male lion, who appeared of a monstrous bigness and of a hideous, frightful aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself round in his cage, stretch out one of his paws, and rouse himself. After that he gaped and yawned for a good while, and then thrust out almost two spans of tongue, and with it licked the dust out of his eyes and face. Having done this, he thrust his head out of the cage, and stared about with his eyes that looked like two live coals; a sight and motion enough to have struck terror into temerity itself. But Don Quixote only regarded it with attention, wishing he would leap out of the wagon, and come within his reach, that he might cut the monster piecemeal. To this height had his incredible folly transported him; but the generous lion, more gentle than arrogant, taking no notice of his vaporing and bravados, after he had looked about him awhile, turned his tail, and having showed Don Quixote his hinder parts, very contentedly lay down again in his apartment.

Don Quixote, seeing this, commanded the keeper to rouse him with blows, and force him out. "Not I, indeed, sir," answered the keeper; "I dare not do it for my life; for if I provoke him, I am sure to be the first he will tear to pieces. Let me advise you, sir, to be satisfied with your day's work. 'Tis as much as the bravest can pretend to do. Then pray go no further, I beseech you: the door stands open, the lion is at his choice, whether he will come out or no, and since he did not come out at the first, I dare engage he will not stir out this day. You have shown enough the greatness of your courage. No brave combatant is obliged to do more than challenge his enemy, and wait for him in the field. If he comes not, that is his fault, and the scandal is his, and the crown of victory is the challenger's."

"'Tis true," replied Don Quixote. "Come, shut the door, honest friend, and give me a certificate under thy hand, in the amplest form thou canst, of what thou hast seen me perform; how thou didst open the cage for the lion; how I expected his coming, and he did not come out; how I stayed his own time, and instead of meeting me, he turned tail and lay down, I am obliged to do no more. So, enchantments avaunt! and Heaven prosper truth, justice, and true knight-errantry! Shut the door, as I bid thee, while I make signs to those that ran away from us, and get them to come back, that they may have an account of this exploit from my own mouth." The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, clapping on the point of his lance the handkerchief with which he had wiped off the deluge of curds from his face, began to call to the fugitives, who fled nevertheless, looking behind them all the way, and trooped on in a body with the gentleman at the head of them.

At last, Sancho observed the signal of the white flag, and calling out to the rest, "Hold," cried he, "my master calls to us; I will he hanged if he has not got the better of the lions." At this they all faced about, and perceived Don Quixote flourishing his ensign; whereupon recovering a little from their fright, they little by little came back, till they could plainly distinguish Don Quixote's voice; and then they came up to the wagon. As soon as they were got near it, "Come on, friend," said he to the carter; "put to thy mules again, and pursue thy journey; and, Sancho, do you give him two gold crowns for the lion-keeper and himself, to make them amends for the time I have detained them."—"Ay, that I will with all my heart," quoth Sancho; "but what is become of the lions? Are they dead or alive?" Then the keeper very formally related the whole action, not failing to exaggerate, to the best of his skill, Don Quixote's courage; how at his sight alone the lion was so terrified, that he neither would nor durst quit his stronghold, though for that end his cage door was kept open for a considerable time; and how upon his remonstrating to the knight, who would have had the lion forced out, that it was presuming too much upon Heaven, he had permitted, though with great reluctancy, that the lion should be shut up again. "Well, Sancho," said Don Quixote to his squire, "what dost thou think of this? Can enchantment prevail over true fortitude? No, these magicians may perhaps rob me of success, but of fortitude and courage it would be impossible."

Sancho gave the wagoner and the keeper the two pieces. The first harnessed his mules, and the last thanked Don Quixote for his bounty, and promised to acquaint the king himself with his heroic action when he came to court. "Well," said Don Quixote, "if his majesty should chance to inquire who did this thing, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; a name I intend henceforth to take up, in lieu of that which I hitherto assumed, of the Knight of the Doleful Countenance; in which proceeding I do but conform to the ancient custom of knights-errant, who changed their names as often as they pleased, or as it suited with their advantage."

THE RIDE ON THE WOODEN HORSE

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

[An enchanter has revenged himself upon some ladies by putting heavy beards upon their faces. Don Quixote has been persuaded that the beards will vanish if he will take a journey of three thousand leagues on a wooden horse.]

"Blind thy eyes, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and get up. Sure he that sends so far for us can have no design to deceive us! since it would never be to his credit to delude those that rely on his word; and, though the success should be contrary to our desires, still, it is not in the power of malice to eclipse the glory of so brave an attempt."—"To horse, then, sir," cried Sancho. "The beards and tears of these poor gentlewomen are sticking in my heart. And I shall not eat a bit to do me good till I see them as smooth as before. Mount, then, I say, and blindfold yourself first; for, if I must ride behind, it is a plain case you must get up before me."—"That is right," said Don Quixote; and, with that, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he gave it to the Disconsolate Lady to hoodwink him. She did so; but presently after, uncovering himself, "If I remember right," said he, "we read in Virgil of the Trojan Palladium, that wooden horse which the Greeks offered the goddess Pallas, full of armed knights who afterwards proved the total ruin of Troy. It were prudent, therefore, before we get up, to see what Clavileño has within him."—"You need not," said the Disconsolate Lady; "I dare engage that Malambruno would not countenance any base or treacherous practice. Mount, Don Quixote, without fear; whatever accident befalls you, I dare answer for." Upon this, Don Quixote mounted, without any reply, imagining that anything said concerning his security would be a reflection on his valor. He then began to try the pin, which was easily turned; and as he sat, with his long legs stretched at length without stirrups, he looked like one of those antique figures in a Roman triumph, painted or woven in Flemish arras.

Sancho, very leisurely and unwillingly, was made to climb up; and, fixing himself as well as he could on the crupper, felt it somewhat hard and uneasy. With that, looking on the duke, "Good my lord," quoth he, "will you lend me something to clap under me; some pillow from the page's bed, or the duchess's cushion of state, or anything; for this horse's crupper seems rather marble than wood."—"It is needless," said Trifaldi; "for Clavileño will bear no kind of furniture upon him; so that, for your greater ease, you had best sit sideways, like a woman." Sancho did so; and after he had taken his leave they bound a cloth over his eyes; but presently after, uncovering them, with a pitiful look on the spectators, he prayed them with tears in his eyes to help him in this peril with two Paternosters and two Ave Marias, as they would expect the like charity themselves in such a condition!—"What! you rascal," said Don Quixote, "do you think yourself at the gallows, and at the point of death, that you hold forth in such a piteous strain? Dastardly wretch without a soul, dost thou not know that the fair Magalona once sat in thy place, and alighted from thence, not into the grave, but into the throne of France, if there is truth in history? And do not I sit by thee, that I may vie with the valorous Peter, and press the seat that was once pressed by him? Come, blindfold thyself, poor spiritless animal, and let me not hear thee betray the least symptom of fear, at least not in my presence."—"Well," quoth Sancho, "let them bind me; but, if you will not let one say his prayers nor be prayed for, it is no marvel one should fear that we may have a legion of imps about us to deal with us, as at Peralvillo."

Now, both being hoodwinked, and Don Quixote perceiving everything ready, be began to turn the pin; and no sooner had he set his hand to it than the waitingwomen and all the company set up their throats, calling out, "Speed you well, valorous knight; Heaven be your guide, undaunted squire! Now, now, you fly aloft, cutting the air more swiftly than an arrow, while the gazing world wonders at your course! Sit fast, courageous Sancho! you do not sit steady; have a care of falling; for your fall would be greater than the aspiring youth's that sought to guide the chariot of the sun-god, his father." All this Sancho heard, and, girting his arms fast about his master, "Sir," quoth he, "why do they say we are so high, since we can hear their voices? Truly I hear them so plainly that one would think they were talking close by us."—"Never mind that," answered Don Quixote; "for in these extraordinary kinds of flight you can hear and see what you wish a thousand leagues off. But do not hold me so hard, for you will make me tumble off. I know not what makes thee tremble so, for I dare swear I never rode easier in all my life; our horse goes as if he did not move at all. Take courage, then; for the affair is in a good way, and we have the wind astern."—"I think so, too," quoth Sancho; "for I feel the wind puff as briskly here as if a thousand pairs of bellows were blowing on me at my back." Sancho was not in the wrong; for two or three pairs of bellows were indeed giving air; so well had the plot of this adventure been laid by the duke, the duchess, and their steward, that nothing was wanting to perfect it.

Don Quixote at last feeling the wind, "Sure," said he, "we must be risen to the second region of the air, where are engendered the hail and snow; thunder, lightning, and thunderbolts are produced in the third region; so that, if we mount at this rate, we shall be in the region of fire presently; and I do not know how to manage this pin, so as to avoid being scorched." At the same time some flax, easy to light and to quench at a distance, was clapped to the end of a long stick, and made their faces hot; and the heat affecting Sancho, he cried, "May I be hanged, if we be not come to this fire region or very near it; for the half of my beard is singed already. I have a mind to peep out and see whereabouts we are."—"By no means," answered Don Quixote, "but remember the true story of Doctor Torralva, whom the devil carried to Rome hoodwinked, and, bestriding a reed, in twelve hours' time setting him down in the tower of Nona, in one of the streets of that city. There he saw the dreadful tumult, assault, and death of Bourdon; and, the next morning, he found himself back in Madrid, where he related the story. Who said, as he went through the air, the devil bade him open his eyes, which he did, and then found himself as it seemed so near the moon that he could touch him with his finger; but durst not look towards the earth, lest his brains should turn. So, Sancho, we need not unveil our eyes, but trust to him that has charge of us, and fear nothing, for perhaps we only mount high, to come straight down upon the kingdom of Candaya, as a hawk or falcon falls upon a heron, to seize it more strongly from a height; for, though it appears to us not half an hour since we left the garden, we have, nevertheless, traveled over a vast tract."—"I know nothing of the matter," replied Sancho; "but of this I am very certain, that, if the Lady Magallanes, or Magalona, could sit this wooden crupper, she cannot have had very tender flesh."

This dialogue of the valiant pair was very pleasant all this while to the duke and duchess, and the rest of the company; and now, at last, resolving to put an end to this extraordinary and well-contrived adventure, they set fire with some tow to Clavileño's tail; and, the horse being stuffed full of fireworks, burst presently into pieces, with a mighty noise, throwing Don Quixote and Sancho to the ground half scorched. By this time the Disconsolate Lady and bearded regiment vanished out of the garden, and all the rest, as if in a trance, lay flat upon the ground. Don Quixote and Sancho, sorely bruised, got up, amazed to find themselves in the same garden whence they took horse, and to see such a number of people lie on the ground. But their wonder was increased by the appearance of a large lance stuck in the ground, and a scroll of white parchment fastened to it by two green silken strings, with the following inscription upon it, in golden characters:—

"The renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha achieved the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Disconsolate Lady, and her companions, by solely attempting it. Malambruno is fully contented and satisfied. The waiting gentlewomen have lost their beards. King Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia have resumed their pristine shapes; and, when the squire's scourging shall be finished, the white dove shall escape the pernicious hawks that pursue her, and be lulled in the arms of her beloved. This is ordained by the Sage Merlin, proto-enchanter of enchanters."

Don Quixote, having read this document, clearly understood it to refer to Dulcinea's disenchantment, and rendered thanks to Heaven that he had achieved so great a feat with so little danger, and brought back to their former bloom the faces of the venerable waiting-women, who had now disappeared; and approaching the duke and duchess, who had not yet come to themselves, he took the duke by the hand: "Courage, courage, noble sir," cried he, "there is no danger; the adventure is finished without damage, as you may read it registered in that record."

The duke, as if he had been waked out of a sound sleep, recovered himself by degrees, as did the duchess and the rest of the company, who were lying prostrate in the garden, all of them acting the surprise and fear so naturally that the jest might have been believed earnest. The duke with half-closed eyes read the scroll; then, embracing Don Quixote, extolled him as the bravest knight the earth had ever possessed. As for Sancho, he was looking up and down for the Disconsolate Lady, to see what sort of a face she had got, without her beard. But he was informed that as Clavileño came down flaming in the air, the whole squadron of women with Trifaldi vanished immediately, but all of them shaved and without a hair upon their faces.

The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared in his long voyage? "Why, truly, madam," answered he, "when, as my master told me, we were flying through the region of fire, I wished to uncover my eyes a little, but my master would not suffer me to do so; yet, as I have a spice of curiosity still hankering after what is forbidden me, I shoved my handkerchief a little above my nose and looked down, and, as it seemed, spied the earth no bigger than a mustard seed; and the men walking to and fro upon it not much larger than hazelnuts; by which you may see how high we had got!"—"Have a care what you say, my friend," said the duchess; "for if the men were bigger than hazelnuts, and the earth no bigger than a mustard seed, one man must cover the whole earth."—"Like enough," answered Sancho; "but for all that, do you see, I saw it with a kind of a side look upon one part of it."—"Look you, Sancho," replied the duchess, "nothing can be wholly seen by a partial view of it."—"Well, well, madam," quoth Sancho, "I do not understand your views; I only know that as we flew by enchantment, so, by enchantment, I might see the whole earth, and all the men, which way soever I looked. If you do not believe this, you will not believe me either when I tell you that when I looked between my brows, I saw myself so near heaven, that between me and it there was not a span and a half. And, forsooth, it is a huge place! and we happened to travel that road where the seven she-goats are; and, faith and troth, I had such a mind to play with them (having been once a goatherd myself) that I should have burst, had I not done it. What do I do then but slip down very soberly from Clavileño without telling a soul, and played and leaped about for three-quarters of an hour, with the pretty nanny-goats, who are like so many marigolds or gilly-flowers; and Clavileño stirred not one step all the while."—"And while Sancho employed himself with the goats," asked the duke, "how was Don Quixote employed?"—"Truly," answered the knight, "I am sensible all things were altered from their natural course; therefore, what Sancho says seems no marvel to me. But, for my own part, I saw nothing either above or below, neither heaven nor earth, sea nor shore. I perceived, indeed, we passed through the region of the air, and even touched that of fire, but that we went beyond it is incredible; for, the fiery region lying between the sphere of the moon and the upper region of the air, it was impossible for us to reach that heaven where are the seven goats, as Sancho says, without being consumed; and, therefore, since we were not singed, Sancho either lies or dreams."—"I neither lie nor dream," replied Sancho; "do but ask me the marks of these goats, and by them you will see whether I speak truth or no."—"Prithee tell them, Sancho," said the duchess. "There were two of them green," answered Sancho, "two carnation, two blue, and one party-colored."—"That is a new kind of goats," said the duke. "We have none of those colors in our region of the earth."— "Sure, sir," replied Sancho, "you will make some sort of difference between heavenly she-goats and the goats of this world?"—"But, Sancho," said the duke, "among these she-goats did you ever see a he-goat." "Not one, sir," answered Sancho; "and I have been told that none has ever passed beyond the horns of the moon."

They did not think fit to ask Sancho more about his voyage; for they judged he would ramble all over the heavens, and tell them news of whatever was doing there, though he had not stirred out of the garden.

Thus ended, in short, the adventure of the Disconsolate Lady, which afforded sport to the duke and duchess, not only for the present, but for the rest of their lives; and to Sancho matter of talk for ages, should he live so long.

"Sancho," said Don Quixote, whispering him in the ear, "if thou wouldst have us believe what thou hast seen in heaven, I desire thee to believe what I saw in Montesinos's cave. I say no more."

THE THREE THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED AND ODD LASHES

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

[Don Quixote believes that his Dulcinea may be freed from enchantment by Sancho Panza's inflicting upon himself of his own will "three thousand three hundred and odd lashes." Sancho has stopped at the fifth, and now the knight bribes him to continue.]

"For my part," said Don Quixote, "hadst thou demanded a fee for disenchanting Dulcinea, I can tell thee that I would have given it thee already. But I know not if a gratuity would accord with the cure; and I would not have the reward hinder the medicine. For all that, it seems to me that nothing will be lost by putting it to a trial. Look you, Sancho, to what you want, and scourge yourself at once, then pay yourself ready money with your own hand, since you keep my money." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears a span wide at this offer, gave consent in his heart to scourge himself with a good will. "Ay, sir, now you say well," quoth he to his master. "I am willing to dispose of myself to do you a pleasure in what may consist with my advantage, for my love for my children and wife makes me seem selfish. Tell me how much you will give me for each lash I give myself?"—"Were your payment, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable to the greatness and quality of this cure, the wealth of Venice and the mines of Potosi would be small payment for thee. But see what you have of mine, and set the price on each stripe."—"The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are three thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have given myself five; the rest are to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand three hundred, which at a quartillo apiece—and I will not take less if all the world bid me—they make three thousand three hundred quartillos, of which three thousand make fifteen hundred half-reals, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred remaining make an hundred and fifty half-reals, and three-score and fifteen reals; put that with the seven hundred and fifty, and it comes altogether to eight hundred and twenty-five reals. This I will deduct from what I hold of yours, and will return home rich and well pleased, though well whipped. But one must not think to catch trout—I say no more."—"O blessed Sancho! O amiable Sancho!" cried Don Quixote. "How shall Dulcinea and I be bound to serve thee all the days that Heaven shall give us of life! If she recover from her lost state (and it is not possible that she fail to do so), her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and my defeat to the happiest triumph. And hark ye, Sancho! when wilt thou enter upon thy discipline? For if thou hastenest it, I will add further a hundred reals more."—"When?" answered Sancho; "this very night without fail. Do you but order it that we lie in the fields under the open sky, and I will open my flesh."

Night arrived, awaited by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety; and he fancied Phœbus had broken his chariot wheels, which made the day of so unusual a length,—as is always the case with lovers, who never make allowance for the reckoning of their desires. At last they entered amongst some pleasant trees that stood a little out of the road, where, leaving empty the saddle and pannel of Rozinante and Dapple, they stretched themselves upon the green grass, and supped from Sancho's wallet.

He, having made himself a heavy and flexible whip of Dapple's headstall and reins, retired about twenty paces from his master, amidst some beeches. Don Quixote, observing him go with readiness and resolution, said, "Have a care, friend; do not hack thyself to pieces. Give one stripe time to await another. Thou shouldst not so hurry in the race that thy breath fails in the midst; go more gently to work, soft and fair goes furthest; I mean, do not give it thyself so sharply that strength fails thee before the desired number is reached. And that you lose not for a card more or less, I will stand at a distance and keep count on my beads of the strokes thou givest thyself. Heaven favor thee as thy good intention deserves."—"Pledges do not hurt a good payer," said Sancho, "I mean to give it to myself in such a way that it hurts without killing me, for in this must lie the essence of this miracle." With that he stripped himself from the waist upwards, and seizing the lash began to lay on; while Don Quixote began to tell the strokes. But by the time Sancho had applied seven or eight lashes, he felt that the jest was a heavy one, and its price very cheap. Whereupon, after a short pause, he told his master that he had been deceived; for such lashes as these were each worth being paid for with a half-real, not a quartillo. "Go on, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "take courage, I will double the pay."—"God save us, let it rain stripes in that case," quoth Sancho. But the cunning knave left off laying on his back, and fell upon the trees, with groans every now and then, that one would have thought at each one of them he had been giving up the ghost. Don Quixote, who was tender-hearted, fearing he might make an end of his life, and that, by Sancho's imprudence, his wishes should not be attained, said, "On thy life, my friend, let this business rest at this point. This seems to be a very sharp sort of physic, and it will be well to take it at intervals. Rome was not built in a day. If I have not told wrong, thou hast given thyself above a thousand stripes; that is enough for the present; for, to use a homely phrase, 'the ass will carry his load, but not more than his load.'"—"No, no," quoth Sancho, "it shall never be said of me, 'When money's paid the arms are stayed.' Stand off a little, and let me lay on another thousand lashes or so, and then with another bout like this we shall have done with this job, and have something over."—"Since thou art so well in the humor," said Don Quixote, "I will withdraw, and Heaven strengthen and reward thee." Sancho fell to work so freshly that he soon fetched the bark off a number of trees; such was the severity with which he thrashed them! At length, raising his voice, and giving an outrageous blow to one of the beeches: "There!" cried he, "die thou shalt, Samson, and all that are about thee!" At the sound of this dismal cry, and the blow of the dreadful stroke, Don Quixote presently ran up, and laying hold on the twisted halter which served Sancho for a thong, "Fate forbid," cried he, "friend Sancho, that thou shouldst for my pleasure lose thy life, which has to serve for the maintenance of thy wife and children! Let Dulcinea stay for a better opportunity. I will contain myself within the limits of the hope that is nigh, and will wait till thou recoverest new strength, that the business may be accomplished to everybody's satisfaction."—"Well, sir," replied Sancho, "if it be your pleasure it should be so, so let it be, and welcome; and do so much as throw your cloak over my shoulders; for I am all in a sweat, and I have no mind to catch cold, for that is the danger that new disciplinants run." This Don Quixote did, and leaving himself unclad, covered up Sancho, who fell fast asleep till the sun waked him. Then they continued on their journey, which they brought to an end for that day at a village three leagues off. They alighted at an inn, for it was allowed by Don Quixote to be such, and not a castle, with deep ditch, towers, portcullises, and drawbridge; for since his defeat he spoke with more sense on all matters. He was lodged in a ground room, in which some old painted serge hangings, such as are often seen in villages, served for stamped leathers. On one of these was painted in a most vile style the rape of Helen, when the audacious guest stole her away from her husband, Menelaus; and on another was the story of Dido and Æneas,—the lady upon a lofty turret, as if making signs with half a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was flying from her across the sea in a frigate or brigantine. It was indicated in the two stories that Helen went with no very ill will, for she was smiling artfully and roguishly, but the fair Dido seemed to be shedding tears as large as walnuts from her eyes. Seeing which Don Quixote said, "These two ladies were unfortunate in not having been born in this age; and, above all, unfortunate am I for not having been born in theirs! For had I met those gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned, nor Carthage destroyed; for, by the death of Paris alone, all these miseries had been prevented."—"I will lay you a wager," quoth Sancho, "that before long there will not be a tavern, a victualing house, an inn, or a barber's shop but will have the story of our deeds painted along it. But I could wish that it may be done by the hands of a better painter than he that drew these."—"Thou art in the right, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for this artist is like Orbaneja, a painter who was in Ubeda, who, being asked what he was painting, made answer, 'Whatever it shall turn out;' and if he chanced to draw a cock, he under-wrote, 'This is a cock,' lest any should take it for a fox. Of the same sort, it seems to me, Sancho, must be the painter or the writer (for it is all one) who produced the story of this new Don Quixote that has lately come out, for he painted or wrote 'whatever should turn out.' Or he must be like a poet called Mauleon, who went about Madrid some years ago, and would give answers extempore to any questions, and when somebody asked what was the meaning of 'Deum de Deo,' answered, 'Done as one can do.'

"But setting this aside, tell me, Sancho, if you think of taking another turn to-night? and would you rather do it under a roof or in the open air?"—"Why, truly, sir," quoth Sancho, "as to what I think of giving myself, it may be done as well at home as in the fields, but withal I could like it to be among trees; for methinks they keep me company, and help me marvelously to bear my sufferings."

THE RETURN AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Finally, surrounded by boys, and attended by the curate and the bachelor, they entered the village, and got to Don Quixote's house, where they found at the door his housekeeper and his niece, that had already got the news of their arrival. Neither more nor less had been told to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, who, with her hair about her ears, and half dressed, dragging by the hand her daughter Sanchica, came running to see her husband. But when she found that he was not so well dressed as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, "What is the meaning of this, husband? You look as though you had come on foot, and tired off your legs! Why, you come more like a groveler than a governor!"—"Peace, Teresa," answered Sancho; "many a time when there are hooks, there are no flitches. Let us go home, and then I will tell thee wonders. I have taken care of the main chance. Money I have, which is the chief thing, earned by my own industry without wronging anybody."—"Hast thou got money, my good husband?" said Teresa. "Be it gained here or there, or however you like to gain it, you will have made no new sort of profit in the world." Sanchica, hugging her father, asked him if he had brought her anything, for she had been longing for him as for rain in May. Thus holding him by the girdle on one side, and his wife taking him by the hand, and his daughter leading Dapple, away they went to his house, leaving Don Quixote in his, under the care of his niece and housekeeper, in company with the curate and bachelor.

That very moment Don Quixote, regardless of times and seasons, took the bachelor and the curate aside, and in few words gave them an account of his defeat and the obligation he lay under of not leaving his village for a year, which, like a knight-errant bound by the strictness and discipline of knight-errantry, he was resolved to observe to the letter without infringing it one jot. And that he intended to make himself a shepherd for that year, and entertain himself in the solitude of the fields, where he might give play to his amorous thoughts with a loose rein, and employ himself in that pastoral and virtuous exercise; and he begged them, if they had not much to do, and if business of greater importance were not an obstruction, that they would please to be his companions; for he would provide sheep and cattle enough to give them the name of shepherds; and that he would have them know that the chief part of the undertaking was done, for he had provided them all with names that would fit them exactly. The curate asked him to tell them. Don Quixote told him he would himself be called the shepherd Quixotiz, and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curiambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

They were all struck with amazement at this new folly; but, in order that they might not have him leaving the village again on his chivalry, and hoping that within the year he might be cured, they came into his new design, and approved of his folly as if it were wise, offering their company in his employment. "And the more," said Samson Carrasco, "as everybody knows I am a most celebrated poet, and at every step I will compose verses pastoral, or courtly, or any that shall come more seasonably, so as to divert us in those groves where we shall range. But one thing, gentlemen, is most necessary, that each of us choose a name for the shepherdess he means to celebrate in his lays; and that we leave no tree, be it ever so hard, on which her name is not inscribed and cut, as is the use and custom of enamored shepherds."—"You are quite right," replied Don Quixote; "provided that I am free from seeking an imaginary shepherdess, since there is the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks, the ornament of these meads, the support of beauty, the cream of elegance, and, in short, the subject on which all praise may light, however hyperbolical it may be."—"That is true," said the curate; "but we shall seek out some shepherdesses of ordinary kind who, if they do not suit us squarely, will do so cornerwise." To which added Samson Carrasco, "And if they be wanting, we will give those very names we find in books, of which the world is full, such as Phyllises, Amaryllises, Dianas, Floridas, Galateas, Belisardas, which are to be disposed of in the markets, and can be purchased and kept as our own. If my mistress, or my shepherdess I should rather say, chance to be called Anne, I will celebrate her under the name of Anarda; if Francisca, I will call her Francenia; and if Lucy, Lucinda, and so forth. And Sancho Panza, if he has to enter into this fraternity, may celebrate his wife Teresa Panza by the name of Teresayna." Don Quixote laughed at the turn given to the name. And the curate greatly applauded his virtuous and honorable resolution, and repeated his offer of bearing him company all the time that his compulsory employments would allow him. With this they took their leave of him, and begged and counseled him to take thought about his health by enjoying whatever was good for him.

Fate willed that the niece and the housekeeper, according to custom, had been listening to the discourse of the three, and so, as they went away, both came in to Don Quixote; and the niece said, "What is here to do, uncle! Now when we thought you were come to stay at home, and live like a sober, honest gentleman in your house, are you hankering after new crotchets, and turning into a

'Gentle shepherd, coming hither,
Gentle shepherd, going hence?'

For by my troth, sir, the corn is now too old to make pipes of." To which the housekeeper added, "And will your worship be able to endure the summer noondays, and the winter's night frosts, and the howlings of the wolves? No, for certain, for this is the business and duty of strong men, cut out and bred for such work almost from their swaddling bands and long clothes. Ill for ill, it is even better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd. Look ye, sir, take my advice, which is not given on a full meal of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years over my head. Stay at home, look after your property, go often to confession, do good to the poor; and on my soul be it if ill comes of it."—"Peace, daughters," answered Don Quixote to them; "I know well what it behooves me to do. Help me to bed, for it seems to me I am not very well; and be assured that whether I now be a knight-errant or an errant-shepherd, I shall never fail to provide whatever you shall need, as you shall see indeed." And the good women took him to bed, brought him something to eat, and tended him with all possible care.

As human things are not eternal, always tending downwards from their beginnings till they reach their final end, especially the lives of men, and as Don Quixote held no privilege from heaven to stay the course of his, so his end and finish arrived when he least expected it. For whether it was from the melancholy that his defeat caused, or whether it was by the disposition of heaven that so ordered it, a fever took possession of him that confined him to his bed for six days.

All that time his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, came often to see him, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred from his bedside.

They, conjecturing that the regret of his defeat, and his being disappointed of his desire for Dulcinea's liberty and disenchantment, kept him in this case, essayed to divert him in all possible ways. The bachelor begged him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that he might begin his pastoral life, for which he had already written an eclogue, which would confound all those that Sannazaro had ever written, and that he had already bought, with his own money, two famous dogs to watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and the other Butron, that a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him. But this had no effect on Don Quixote's sadness. His friends called in the doctor, who, upon feeling his pulse, did not very well like it; and said that in any case he should provide for the safety of his soul, for that of his body was in danger. Don Quixote heard this with a calm mind, but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell a-weeping bitterly, as if they already saw him dead before them. The physician was of opinion that melancholy and vexation were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote desired them to leave him alone, for he would sleep a little; they did so, and he slept for more than six hours straight off, as they say, so that the housekeeper and the niece thought that he would never wake.

At the end of that time he awaked, and, with a loud voice said, "Blessed be Almighty God, who hath done me so much good. His mercies are without end, nor are they shortened or hindered by the sins of men." The niece, hearkening very attentively to these words of her uncle, and finding more sense in them than there was wont to be in his talk, at least since he had fallen ill, asked him, "What is that you say, sir; has anything fresh happened? What mercies are these or what sins of men?"—"The mercies, niece," answered Don Quixote, "are those that heaven has this moment vouchsafed to me, which, as I said, my sins do not prevent. My judgment is now free and clear, and the murky clouds of ignorance removed, which my painful and continual reading of those detestable books of knight-errantry cast over me. Now I perceive their nonsense and deceit, and am only sorry the discovery happens so late, when I want time to make some amends by reading others that would enlighten my soul. I find, niece, that I am at the point of death; and I would meet it in such a manner as to show that my life has not been so evil as to leave me the character of a madman. Send, my dear, for my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will." But this trouble the niece was saved by the entrance of the three. Don Quixote had scarcely seen them when he said, "Largess, good gentlemen, for I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, the same whom my behavior gave the surname of Good. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul and all the endless crowd of his descendants; all the profane stories of knight-errantry are now hateful to me. I have a sense of my folly and the danger I have run by having read them; and now, through heaven's mercy and my own experience, I abhor them." When the three heard this, they concluded without doubt some new frenzy had possessed him, and Samson said to him, "Now, Signor Don Quixote, when we have just had news that the Lady Dulcinea is disenchanted, do you come out with this? and now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, to spend our lives singing like princes, do you wish to make yourself a hermit? Peace, on your life; come to yourself and leave idle tales."

"Those which hitherto have been true, to my prejudice," replied Don Quixote, "my death, with the assistance of heaven, shall turn to my advantage. I perceive, sirs, that I am dying with all speed. Put aside jests, and fetch me a confessor to confess me, and a scrivener to draw up my will, for in such straits as this a man must not play with his soul; and I beg that whilst Master Curate confesses me a scrivener may be fetched."

They stared at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words, and though in doubt they were inclined to believe him. And one of the signs by which they conjectured that he would die was his having changed so quickly from a madman to a sane person; for to the words already said he added many others so well spoken, so Christian, and so connected that they came, withal, to lose their doubts and to believe that he was sane. The curate made all the people leave the room, and stayed alone with him and confessed him. The bachelor went for the scrivener, and presently returned with him and with Sancho Panza, who, being informed by the bachelor in what state his master was, and finding the housekeeper and the niece in tears, began to make wry faces and fall a-crying. The confession was ended and the curate came out saying, "Certainly about to die and certainly in his senses is Alonso Quixano the Good; we had best go in, that he may make his will." These tidings were a terrible blow to the swollen eyes of the housekeeper, the niece, and Sancho Panza, his good squire, so that it made the tears burst out of their eyes, and a thousand profound sighs from their hearts; for indeed, as on some occasion has been observed, whilst Don Quixote was plain Alonso Quixano the Good, and whilst he was Don Quixote de la Mancha, he was ever of pleasant humor and agreeable behavior, and therefore he was beloved not only by his family, but by every one that knew him.

The scrivener, with the rest, went in, and after he had made the preamble of the will, and Don Quixote had disposed of his soul with all those Christian circumstances that are requisite, he came to the legacies, and said:—

"Item, it is my will that of certain moneys that Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire) holds, inasmuch as there have been between him and me certain accounts, both payments and receipts, there shall be no charge made, nor account demanded of him; but that if any shall remain over after he has paid himself what I owe him, the residue shall be his; it can be but small, and may it do him much good. And if, when I was mad, I was a party to making him governor of the island, I would now, in my right senses, give him the government of a kingdom, were it in my power, for the simplicity of his disposition and the fidelity of his character deserve it." And turning to Sancho he said, "Pardon me, my friend, that I have given thee occasion to appear mad like myself, making thee fall into the error in which I fell that there have been and are knights-errant in the world."—"Woe's me!" replied Sancho, all in tears, "do not die, dear master, but take my counsel, and live on a many years; the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without any more ado, without being killed by anybody or finished by any other hands but those of melancholy. See you do not be slothful, but get up from this bed, and let us be off to the fields in our shepherd's clothing, as we had agreed. Who knows but behind some bush we may find the Lady Donna Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine a sight as there is to be seen? If it is that you will die of vexation at being conquered, lay the blame upon me, and say that through my not girting Rozinante well, they overthrew him. Especially as you will have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for one knight to overthrow another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror to-morrow."—"It is so," said Samson, "and honest Sancho is very much to the point in these matters."—"Soft and fair, gentlemen," said Don Quixote; "never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last: I was mad, and now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixote de la Mancha, and I am now (as I said before) Alonso Quixano the Good; may my repentance and my truth restore me to the same esteem you had for me before; and so let master scrivener go on.

"Item, I bequeath all my estate without reserve to Antonia Quixana, my niece here present, having first deducted from such of it as is best in condition what shall be necessary to discharge the bequests that I have made; and the first payment that she makes I desire to be that of the salary due to my housekeeper, for the time that she has served me, with twenty ducats more for a dress. I appoint Master Curate and Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, here present, to be my executors.

"Item, it is my will that if my niece Antonia Quixana be inclined to marry, she marry a man of whom she shall first have evidence that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and in case it shall appear that he does know, and nevertheless my niece shall wish to marry him and does so marry, she is to forfeit all that I have bequeathed to her, which my executors are empowered to dispose of in pious works, as they shall think proper.

"Item, I entreat the said gentlemen, my executors, that if by good fortune they come to know the author who is said to have composed a story which goes by the title of "The Second Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote de la Mancha," they most heartily beg his pardon from me, for being undesignedly the occasion of his writing so many and such great follies as he has written in it; for I quit this life with regret for having given him a motive for writing them."

Herewith finished the will, and, falling into a swoon, he lay at full length in the bed. They were all alarmed, and ran to his assistance; and for the space of three days that he lived after he had made his will he fainted continually.

The whole family was in confusion; and yet, for all that, the niece ate, the housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza cheered himself; for this matter of inheriting somewhat effaces or alleviates in the inheritor the thought of sorrow that it is natural for a dead man to leave behind.

In short, Don Quixote's last day came, after he had received all the sacraments, and, by many and weighty arguments, showed his abhorrence of the books of knight-errantry. The scrivener, who was by, said he had never read in any book of chivalry of any knight-errant who had ever died in his bed so quietly and like a good Christian as Don Quixote, who, amidst the compassion and tears of those who were by, gave up the ghost, or, to speak plainly, died; which, when the curate perceived, he desired the scrivener to give him a certificate, how Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote de la Mancha, had departed out of this present life, and died a natural death. This testimony he desired, to remove opportunity from any other author but Cid Hamet Benengeli to falsely resuscitate him, and write endless histories of his adventures.

This was the end of the INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA, whose native place Cid Hamet has not thought fit precisely to mention, with design that all the towns and villages in La Mancha should contend amongst themselves for the honor of adopting and keeping him as their own, as the seven cities of Greece did for Homer. We omit here the lamentations of Sancho, of Don Quixote's niece and the housekeeper, and the new epitaphs upon his tomb; but Samson Carrasco set this upon it:—

"A valiant gentleman lies here,
So brave that, to his latest breath,
Immortal glory was his care,
And made him triumph over death.

Of small account he held the world,
Whose fears its ridicule belied;
And if he like a madman lived,
At least he like a wise one died."

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