When Don Quixote’s rage was somewhat abated, he paused and gazed about him. Then, seeing a burning torch lying on the ground, and a figure near it, he went up, and perceived by the light that it was the man whom he had first attacked.
‘Yield, or I will slay you!’ he shouted, and the man answered grimly:
‘I seem to have “yielded” as much as can be required of me, as my leg is broken. If you are indeed a Christian knight, I pray you of your nobility to spare my life, as I am a member of the Holy Church.’
‘Who brought you here, then?’ asked Don Quixote.
‘Who? My ill fortune,’ replied he. ‘I and the eleven priests who have fled with the torches set forth as escort to the body of the gentleman that lies in the litter, bearing it to its tomb in the city of Segovia, where he was born.’
‘And who killed him?’ said Don Quixote, who never imagined that any man could die naturally.
‘He died by reason of a most pestilent fever,’ answered the wounded man.
‘Then,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I am delivered from the duty of avenging his death, which would otherwise have fallen to me. For in case you are ignorant, I would have you know that I am the knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and it is my place to wander through the world, helping those that suffer wrongs and punishing those who inflict them.’
‘As to helping those who suffer wrongs,’ replied the churchman, ‘for my part I can see nothing but that it is you and no other who have inflicted the wrong upon me. For whereas I was whole before, you have given me a thrust which has broken my leg, and I shall remain injured for ever.’
‘You and your friends the priests,’ answered Don Quixote, in no wise abashed by this remark, ‘have wrought the evil yourselves by coming in such wise, and by night, that no man could think but that you were ill creatures from another world.’