Wherein is related the pleasant method by which Don Quixote got himself dubbed Knight.
... Don Quixote promised to perform all that was recommended to him with all exactness; whereupon he was enjoined forthwith to keep watch over his armour in a large yard by the inn-side. Collecting the pieces all together, he placed them on top of a stone trough which stood near a well, and, buckling on his shield, he grasped his lance, and began with a jaunty air to pace in front of the trough, it being now dark when he commenced his exercise.
The landlord told all who were staying in the inn of his guest’s craze, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing of Knighthood which he awaited. Wondering at this strange kind of madness, they went to look at him from afar, and saw him sometimes pacing with a tranquil mien, sometimes resting on his lance, with his eyes fixed on his armour, from which he would not take them off for some time. The night had now closed in, with a moon of such brightness that she might have vied with him who lent it to her,[6] so that whatever our novice did could be plainly seen by all. Just then one of the muleteers who were staying in the inn, wanting to give water to his team, found it necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour from where it lay on the trough. The Knight, seeing the man approach, exclaimed with a loud voice: “O thou, whosoever thou art, rash cavalier! who comest to touch the armour of the most valiant Errant that ever girt sword on himself, take heed what thou doest, and touch it not, if thou wouldst not lose thy life in forfeit of thy temerity.”
The muleteer paid no regard to these words (and better for him it had been had he regarded them, for he would have re-guarded his safety), but, taking hold of the armour by the straps, flung it some way from him. When Don Quixote saw this, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and addressing himself, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, cried, “Succour me, mistress mine, in this the first affront which is offered to this enthralled bosom: let not your favour and help fail me in this first trial!”
And uttering these and other such words, and loosing his shield, he raised his lance in both hands, and with it dealt such a mighty blow on the muleteer’s head that it felled him to the earth in such ill plight that, if it had been followed up with a second, there would have been no need of a leech to cure him. Soon after, another muleteer, without knowing what had passed (for the first still lay stunned), came up with the same purpose of giving water to his mules, and was going to remove the armour so as to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without speaking a word or asking any one’s favour, again loosed his shield and again raised his lance, and without breaking it made more than three of the second muleteer’s head, for he broke it into four pieces. At the noise all the people of the inn ran out, and the landlord among them. Seeing this, Don Quixote buckled on his shield, and, setting his hand to his sword, cried, “O lady of beauty! strength and vigour of this debile heart! now is the hour when you should turn the eyes of your grandeur on this your captive Knight, who is awaiting this mighty adventure!”
“DEALT SUCH A MIGHTY BLOW ON THE MULETEER’S HEAD, THAT IT FELLED HIM TO THE EARTH.”
Thereupon he seemed to himself to acquire so much courage, that if all the muleteers in the world had assailed him he would not have budged a foot backwards. The companions of the wounded, seeing them in that plight, began to shower stones upon Don Quixote from a distance, who sheltered himself as well as he could with his shield, not venturing to leave the horse-trough lest he should seem to abandon his armour. The innkeeper called out to them to leave him alone, for he had told them already that it was a madman, and being mad he would be scot-free even if he killed them all. Don Quixote also cried out yet louder, calling them cowards and traitors, and declaring the Lord of the castle to be a craven and a base-born Knight for consenting to Knights Errant being so treated, and that if he himself had received the order of Knighthood he would have made him sensible of his perfidy: “But of you, base and wild rabble, I make no account. Shoot! come on! advance! assail me as much as ye are able; you shall see the penalty you have to pay for your folly and insolence!”
This he said with so much spirit and intrepidity that he struck all who heard him with a terrible fear; and therefore, and partly by the host’s persuasions, they left off pelting him, and he on his part permitted them to carry off their wounded, returning to the vigil of his arms with the same calmness and composure as before.
These pranks of his guest were not to the innkeeper’s liking, so he determined to despatch and give him that plaguy order of Knighthood forthwith, before other mischief should happen. Going up to him, therefore, he apologised for the insolence with which those base fellows had behaved without his knowledge, but, he added, they had been well chastised for their hardihood. And seeing there was no chapel in that castle, as he had said before, there was no need, he declared, for the rest of the performance—that the whole point of Knight-making consisted in the slap of the hand and the stroke on the shoulder, according to his knowledge of the ceremonial of the order, and this could be done in the middle of a field; and that Don Quixote had already accomplished all that pertained to the watching of arms, more by token that he had been more than four hours at what might have been finished off with a two hours’ watch.