‘What giants?’ asked Sancho, staring about him. ‘I see none.’
‘Those drawn up over there,’ replied the Don. ‘Never did I behold such arms! Those nearest us must be two miles long.’
‘Go not within reach of them, good master,’ answered Sancho anxiously, ‘for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are the sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones.’
‘How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!’ replied Don Quixote. ‘I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants. Know, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at the sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying, and I will fight them alone.’
And with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the windmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never heard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the pictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, ‘Do not fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with whom you must do battle!’ And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come to his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest windmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail struck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled over together, while the lance broke into small pieces.
When Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don—though indeed it was no more than he had expected—he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man and horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote’s body was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho’s complaint that no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those who had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:
‘Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know nothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed me of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my glory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power against my keen blade!’
‘I pray that it may be so,’ said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup for his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.