“Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going to say.”
“I have so considered and reconsidered,” said Sancho, “that the bell-ringer’s in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows.”
“It would be well,” said Don Quixote, “if your highnesses would order them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of nonsense.”
“By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for a moment,” said the duchess; “I am very fond of him, for I know he is very discreet.”
“Discreet be the days of your holiness,” said Sancho, “for the good opinion you have of my wit, though there’s none in me; but the story I want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a gentleman of my town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he was one of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Dona Mencia de Quinones, the daughter of Don Alonso de Maranon, Knight of the Order of Santiago, that was drowned at the Herradura—him there was that quarrel about years ago in our village, that my master Don Quixote was mixed up in, to the best of my belief, that Tomasillo the scapegrace, the son of Balbastro the smith, was wounded in.—Isn’t all this true, master mine? As you live, say so, that these gentlefolk may not take me for some lying chatterer.”
“So far,” said the ecclesiastic, “I take you to be more a chatterer than a liar; but I don’t know what I shall take you for by-and-by.”
“Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the truth; go on, and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not to make an end for two days to come.”
“He is not to cut it short,” said the duchess; “on the contrary, for my gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though he should not finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be to me the pleasantest I ever spent.”
“Well then, sirs, I say,” continued Sancho, “that this same gentleman, whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it’s not a bowshot from my house to his, invited a poor but respectable labourer—”
“Get on, brother,” said the churchman; “at the rate you are going you will not stop with your story short of the next world.”