With the first glimmer of dawn, Pedrillo began to load the mules.
“Waking and eating only want a beginning,” he shouted up to his comrades of the road.
“Your rising early will not make the sun rise,” groaned Tia Marta. “Ugh! That mule born for my torment has made of me one bruise. There is not a bone in my body that hasn’t an ache of its own. Imbecile that I am! Why should I go rambling over the world to seek better bread than is made of wheat?”
“Don’t speak ill of the journey till it is over,” returned Pedrillo. “I declare to you, Doña Marta, that the world is as sweet as orange blossoms in this white hour when the good God dawns on one and all. And as for Capitana, she is fine as a palm-branch this morning, but as meek as holy water, and will carry you as softly as a lamb.”
And Capitana, hearing this, tossed her head, gay with tufts of scarlet worsted, and kicked out at Don Quixote in high glee.
XIII
THE CITY OF DREAMS
