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Don Quixote by Miqeul de Cervantes [Saavedra]

Part 20 out of 21

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wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight
called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza
by name."

Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone's hair was standing
on end with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed,
"This suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who
sold thee to me, O sage head, talking head, answering head,
wonderful head! Let some one else go and put what question he likes to

And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to
come forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wife, and her
question was, "Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?"
and the answer she got was, "Be very modest."

"I question thee no further," said the fair querist.

Her companion then came up and said, "I should like to know, Head,
whether my husband loves me or not;" the answer given to her was,
"Think how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;" and the married
lady went off saying, "That answer did not need a question; for of
course the treatment one receives shows the disposition of him from
whom it is received."

Then one of Don Antonio's two friends advanced and asked it, "Who am
I?" "Thou knowest," was the answer. "That is not what I ask thee,"
said the gentleman, "but to tell me if thou knowest me." "Yes, I
know thee, thou art Don Pedro Noriz," was the reply.

"I do not seek to know more," said the gentleman, "for this is
enough to convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;" and as
he retired the other friend came forward and asked it, "Tell me, Head,
what are the wishes of my eldest son?"

"I have said already," was the answer, "that I cannot judge of
wishes; however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee."

"That's 'what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,'"
said the gentleman, "so I ask no more."

Don Antonio's wife came up and said, "I know not what to ask thee,
Head; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years
of enjoyment of my good husband;" and the answer she received was,
"Thou shalt, for his vigour and his temperate habits promise many
years of life, which by their intemperance others so often cut short."

Then Don Quixote came forward and said, "Tell me, thou that
answerest, was that which I describe as having happened to me in the
cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho's whipping be
accomplished without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be
brought about?"

"As to the question of the cave," was the reply, "there is much to
be said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping will
proceed leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its
due consummation."

"I seek to know no more," said Don Quixote; "let me but see Dulcinea
disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could
wish for has come upon me all at once."

The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, "Head, shall
I by any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from
the hard life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and
children?" To which the answer came, "Thou shalt govern in thy
house; and if thou returnest to it thou shalt see thy wife and
children; and on ceasing to serve thou shalt cease to be a squire."

"Good, by God!" said Sancho Panza; "I could have told myself that;
the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more."

"What answer wouldst thou have, beast?" said Don Quixote; "is it not
enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put
to it?"

"Yes, it is enough," said Sancho; "but I should have liked it to
have made itself plainer and told me more."

The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder
with which all were filled, except Don Antonio's two friends who
were in the secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal
at once, not to keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had
some strange magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the
model of another head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen
at Madrid, Don Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and
to astonish ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The
table was of wood painted and varnished to imitate jasper, and the
pedestal on which it stood was of the same material, with four eagles'
claws projecting from it to support the weight more steadily. The
head, which resembled a bust or figure of a Roman emperor, and was
coloured like bronze, was hollow throughout, as was the table, into
which it was fitted so exactly that no trace of the joining was
visible. The pedestal of the table was also hollow and communicated
with the throat and neck of the head, and the whole was in
communication with another room underneath the chamber in which the
head stood. Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table, throat
and neck of the bust or figure, there passed a tube of tin carefully
adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room below corresponding
to the one above was placed the person who was to answer, with his
mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an ear-trumpet, passed from
above downwards, and from below upwards, the words coming clearly
and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect the trick. A nephew
of Don Antonio's, a smart sharp-witted student, was the answerer,
and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the persons were
that would come with him that day into the chamber where the head was,
it was an easy matter for him to answer the first question at once and
correctly; the others he answered by guess-work, and, being clever,
cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance stood
for some ten or twelve days; but that, as it became noised abroad
through the city that he had in his house an enchanted head that
answered all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing it
might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith,
explained the matter to the inquisitors, who commanded him to break it
up and have done with it, lest the ignorant vulgar should be
scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head was still
held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering questions,
though more to Don Quixote's satisfaction than Sancho's.

The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the
honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying
his folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days
from that time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned
hereafter, did not take place.

Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on
foot, for he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow
him; so he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set
out for a walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the
streets Don Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large
letters over a door, "Books printed here," at which he was vastly
pleased, for until then he had never seen a printing office, and he
was curious to know what it was like. He entered with all his
following, and saw them drawing sheets in one place, correcting in
another, setting up type here, revising there; in short all the work
that is to be seen in great printing offices. He went up to one case
and asked what they were about there; the workmen told him, he watched
them with wonder, and passed on. He approached one man, among
others, and asked him what he was doing. The workman replied,
"Senor, this gentleman here" (pointing to a man of prepossessing
appearance and a certain gravity of look) "has translated an Italian
book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it up in type for the

"What is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote; to which the
author replied, "Senor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle."

"And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?" asked Don

"Le Bagatelle," said the author, "is as though we should say in
Spanish Los Juguetes; but though the book is humble in name it has
good solid matter in it."

"I," said Don Quixote, "have some little smattering of Italian,
and I plume myself on singing some of Ariosto's stanzas; but tell
me, senor- I do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of
curiosity- have you ever met with the word pignatta in your book?"

"Yes, often," said the author.

"And how do you render that in Spanish?"

"How should I render it," returned the author, "but by olla?"

"Body o' me," exclaimed Don Quixote, "what a proficient you are in
the Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say
in Italian piace you say in Spanish place, and where they say piu
you say mas, and you translate su by arriba and giu by abajo."

"I translate them so of course," said the author, "for those are
their proper equivalents."

"I would venture to swear," said Don Quixote, "that your worship
is not known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare
wits and praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What
genius thrust away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it
seems to me that translation from one language into another, if it
be not from the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is
like looking at Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though the
figures are visible, they are full of threads that make them
indistinct, and they do not show with the smoothness and brightness of
the right side; and translation from easy languages argues neither
ingenuity nor command of words, any more than transcribing or
copying out one document from another. But I do not mean by this to
draw the inference that no credit is to be allowed for the work of
translating, for a man may employ himself in ways worse and less
profitable to himself. This estimate does not include two famous
translators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don
Juan de Jauregui, in his Aminta, wherein by their felicity they
leave it in doubt which is the translation and which the original. But
tell me, are you printing this book at your own risk, or have you sold
the copyright to some bookseller?"

"I print at my own risk," said the author, "and I expect to make a
thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of
two thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals

"A fine calculation you are making!" said Don Quixote; "it is
plain you don't know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they
play into one another's hands. I promise you when you find yourself
saddled with two thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will
astonish you, particularly if the book is a little out of the common
and not in any way highly spiced."

"What!" said the author, "would your worship, then, have me give
it to a bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and
think he is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame
in the world, for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make
money, without which reputation is not worth a rap."

"God send your worship good luck," said Don Quixote; and he moved on
to another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with
the title of "Light of the Soul;" noticing it he observed, "Books like
this, though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve
to be printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights
unnumbered are needed for all that are in darkness."

He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and
when he asked its title they told him it was called, "The Second
Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha," by one of

"I have heard of this book already," said Don Quixote, "and verily
and on my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to
ashes as a meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as
it does to every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about
them the more nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it;
and true stories, the truer they are the better they are;" and so
saying he walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of
displeasure in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged to take
him to see the galleys that lay at the beach, whereat Sancho was in
high delight, as he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio
sent word to the commandant of the galleys that he intended to bring
his guest, the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the commandant
and all the citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them;
and what happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.



Profound were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the
enchanted head, not one of them, however, hitting on the secret of the
trick, but all concentrated on the promise, which he regarded as a
certainty, of Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his
mind again and again with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that
he would shortly see its fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as
has been said, he hated being a governor, still he had a longing to be
giving orders and finding himself obeyed once more; this is the
misfortune that being in authority, even in jest, brings with it.

To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his
two friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The
commandant had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing
two such famous persons as Don Quixote and Sancho, and the instant
they came to the shore all the galleys struck their awnings and the
clarions rang out. A skiff covered with rich carpets and cushions of
crimson velvet was immediately lowered into the water, and as Don
Quixote stepped on board of it, the leading galley fired her gangway
gun, and the other galleys did the same; and as he mounted the
starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as is the custom when a
personage of distinction comes on board a galley) by exclaiming "Hu,
hu, hu," three times. The general, for so we shall call him, a
Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand and embraced him,
saying, "I shall mark this day with a white stone as one of the
happiest I can expect to enjoy in my lifetime, since I have seen Senor
Don Quixote of La Mancha, pattern and image wherein we see contained
and condensed all that is worthy in knight-errantry."

Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception,
replied to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the
poop, which was very handsomely decorated, and seated themselves on
the bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and
piped all hands to strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing
such a number of men stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and
still more when he saw them spread the awning so briskly that it
seemed to him as if all the devils were at work at it; but all this
was cakes and fancy bread to what I am going to tell now. Sancho was
seated on the captain's stage, close to the aftermost rower on the
right-hand side. He, previously instructed in what he was to do,
laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in his arms, and the whole
crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the right, proceeded to
pass him on, whirling him along from hand to hand and from bench to
bench with such rapidity that it took the sight out of poor Sancho's
eyes, and he made quite sure that the devils themselves were flying
away with him; nor did they leave off with him until they had sent him
back along the left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor
fellow was left bruised and breathless and all in a sweat, and
unable to comprehend what it was that had happened to him.

Don Quixote when he saw Sancho's flight without wings asked the
general if this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board
the galleys for the first time; for, if so, as he had no intention
of adopting them as a profession, he had no mind to perform such feats
of agility, and if anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him
about, he vowed to God he would kick his soul out; and as he said this
he stood up and clapped his hand upon his sword. At this instant
they struck the awning and lowered the yard with a prodigious
rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off its hinges and going to
fall on his head, and full of terror he ducked it and buried it
between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether under
control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his shoulders together
and lost colour. The crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity
and clatter as when they lowered it, all the while keeping silence
as though they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the
signal to weigh anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway
began to lay on to the shoulders of the crew with his courbash or
whip, and to haul out gradually to sea.

When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be)
moving all together, he said to himself, "It's these that are the real
chanted things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those
wretches have done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who
goes along there whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is
hell, or at least purgatory!"

Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was
going on, said to him, "Ah, Sancho my friend, how quickly and
cheaply might you finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you
would strip to the waist and take your place among those gentlemen!
Amid the pain and sufferings of so many you would not feel your own
much; and moreover perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these
lashes, being laid on with a good hand, to count for ten of those
which you must give yourself at last."

The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and what was
Dulcinea's disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, "Monjui signals
that there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west."

On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, "Now
then, my sons, don't let her give us the slip! It must be some
Algerine corsair brigantine that the watchtower signals to us." The
three others immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive
their orders. The general ordered two to put out to sea while he
with the other kept in shore, so that in this way the vessel could not
escape them. The crews plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously
that they seemed to fly. The two that had put out to sea, after a
couple of miles sighted a vessel which, so far as they could make out,
they judged to be one of fourteen or fifteen banks, and so she proved.
As soon as the vessel discovered the galleys she went about with the
object and in the hope of making her escape by her speed; but the
attempt failed, for the chief galley was one of the fastest vessels
afloat, and overhauled her so rapidly that they on board the
brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escaping, and the
rais therefore would have had them drop their oars and give themselves
up so as not to provoke the captain in command of our galleys to
anger. But chance, directing things otherwise, so ordered it that just
as the chief galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to
hear the shouts from her calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis,
that is to say two Turks, both drunken, that with a dozen more were on
board the brigantine, discharged their muskets, killing two of the
soldiers that lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general
swore he would not leave one of those he found on board the vessel
alive, but as he bore down furiously upon her she slipped away from
him underneath the oars. The galley shot a good way ahead; those on
board the vessel saw their case was desperate, and while the galley
was coming about they made sail, and by sailing and rowing once more
tried to sheer off; but their activity did not do them as much good as
their rashness did them harm, for the galley coming up with them in
a little more than half a mile threw her oars over them and took the
whole of them alive. The other two galleys now joined company and
all four returned with the prize to the beach, where a vast
multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see what they brought back.
The general anchored close in, and perceived that the viceroy of the
city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to fetch
him, and the yard to be lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith
the rais and the rest of the men taken on board the vessel, about
six-and-thirty in number, all smart fellows and most of them Turkish
musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, and was
answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards proved
to he a Spanish renegade), "This young man, senor that you see here is
our rais," and he pointed to one of the handsomest and most
gallant-looking youths that could be imagined. He did not seem to be
twenty years of age.

"Tell me, dog," said the general, "what led thee to kill my
soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is
that the way to behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that
rashness is not valour? Faint prospects of success should make men
bold, but not rash."

The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at that
moment listen to him, as he had to hasten to receive the viceroy,
who was now coming on board the galley, and with him certain of his
attendants and some of the people.

"You have had a good chase, senor general," said the viceroy.

"Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to
this yard," replied the general.

"How so?" returned the viceroy.

"Because," said the general, "against all law, reason, and usages of
war they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board
these galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken,
but above all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine," and he
pointed to him as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope
round his neck, ready for death.

The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favoured, so
graceful, and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the
comeliness of the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of
recommendation. He therefore questioned him, saying, "Tell me, rais,
art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade?"

To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, "I am neither Turk, nor
Moor, nor renegade."

"What art thou, then?" said the viceroy.

"A Christian woman," replied the youth.

"A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances!
It is more marvellous than credible," said the viceroy.

"Suspend the execution of the sentence," said the youth; "your
vengeance will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story
of my life."

What heart could be so hard as not to he softened by these words, at
any rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The
general bade him say what he pleased, but not to expect pardon for his
flagrant offence. With this permission the youth began in these words.

"Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than
wise, upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the
course of our misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of
mine, for it was in vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact
I am, and not a mere pretended one, or outwardly, but a true
Catholic Christian. It availed me nothing with those charged with
our sad expatriation to protest this, nor would my uncles believe
it; on the contrary, they treated it as an untruth and a subterfuge
set up to enable me to remain behind in the land of my birth; and
so, more by force than of my own will, they took me with them. I had a
Christian mother, and a father who was a man of sound sense and a
Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk, I
was well brought up, and neither in word nor in deed did I, I think,
show any sign of being a Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such
I hold them, my beauty, if I possess any, grew with my growth; and
great as was the seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but
that a young gentleman, Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a
gentleman who is lord of a village near ours, contrived to find
opportunities of seeing me. How he saw me, how we met, how his heart
was lost to me, and mine not kept from him, would take too long to
tell, especially at a moment when I am in dread of the cruel cord that
threatens me interposing between tongue and throat; I will only say,
therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to accompany me in our
banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes who were going
forth from other villages, for he knew their language very well, and
on the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who were
carrying me with them; for my father, like a wise and far-sighted man,
as soon as he heard the first edict for our expulsion, quitted the
village and departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. He left
hidden and buried, at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a
large quantity of pearls and precious stones of great value,
together with a sum of money in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He
charged me on no account to touch the treasure, if by any chance
they expelled us before his return. I obeyed him, and with my
uncles, as I have said, and others of our kindred and neighbours,
passed over to Barbary, and the place where we took up our abode was
Algiers, much the same as if we had taken it up in hell itself. The
king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my wealth, which was
in some degree fortunate for me. He summoned me before him, and
asked me what part of Spain I came from, and what money and jewels I
had. I mentioned the place, and told him the jewels and money were
buried there; but that they might easily be recovered if I myself went
back for them. All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty and not
his own covetousness should influence him. While he was engaged in
conversation with me, they brought him word that in company with me
was one of the handsomest and most graceful youths that could be
imagined. I knew at once that they were speaking of Don Gaspar
Gregorio, whose comeliness surpasses the most highly vaunted beauty. I
was troubled when I thought of the danger he was in, for among those
barbarous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a woman, be she
ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to be brought
before him that he might see him, and asked me if what they said about
the youth was true. I then, almost as if inspired by heaven, told
him it was, but that I would have him to know it was not a man, but
a woman like myself, and I entreated him to allow me to go and dress
her in the attire proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen to
perfection, and that she might present herself before him with less
embarrassment. He bade me go by all means, and said that the next
day we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return to Spain to
carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him the
danger he was in if he let it be seen he was a man, I dressed him as a
Moorish woman, and that same afternoon I brought him before the
king, who was charmed when he saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel
and make a present of her to the Grand Signor; and to avoid the risk
she might run among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of
himself, he commanded her to be placed in the house of some Moorish
ladies of rank who would protect and attend to her; and thither he was
taken at once. What we both suffered (for I cannot deny that I love
him) may be left to the imagination of those who are separated if they
love one an. other dearly. The king then arranged that I should return
to Spain in this brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed your
soldiers, should accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish
renegade"- and here she pointed to him who had first spoken- "whom I
know to be secretly a Christian, and to be more desirous of being left
in Spain than of returning to Barbary. The rest of the crew of the
brigantine are Moors and Turks, who merely serve as rowers. The two
Turks, greedy and insolent, instead of obeying the orders we had to
land me and this renegade in Christian dress (with which we came
provided) on the first Spanish ground we came to, chose to run along
the coast and make some prize if they could, fearing that if they
put us ashore first, we might, in case of some accident befalling
us, make it known that the brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there
happened to be any galleys on the coast, they might be taken. We
sighted this shore last night, and knowing nothing of these galleys,
we were discovered, and the result was what you have seen. To sum
up, there is Don Gregorio in woman's dress, among women, in imminent
danger of his life; and here am I, with hands bound, in expectation,
or rather in dread, of losing my life, of which I am already weary.
Here, sirs, ends my sad story, as true as it is unhappy; all I ask
of you is to allow me to die like a Christian, for, as I have
already said, I am not to be charged with the offence of which those
of my nation are guilty;" and she stood silent, her eyes filled with
moving tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. The
viceroy, touched with compassion, went up to her without speaking
and untied the cord that bound the hands of the Moorish girl.

But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange
story, an elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the galley at
the same time as the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed upon her; and the
instant she ceased speaking he threw himself at her feet, and
embracing them said in a voice broken by sobs and sighs, "O Ana Felix,
my unhappy daughter, I am thy father Ricote, come back to look for
thee, unable to live without thee, my soul that thou art!"

At these words of his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head,
which he had been holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion;
and looking at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he
met the day he quitted his government, and felt satisfied that this
was his daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father,
mingling her tears with his, while he addressing the general and the
viceroy said, "This, sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her
adventures than in her name. She is Ana Felix, surnamed Ricote,
celebrated as much for her own beauty as for my wealth. I quitted my
native land in search of some shelter or refuge for us abroad, and
having found one in Germany I returned in this pilgrim's dress, in the
company of some other German pilgrims, to seek my daughter and take up
a large quantity of treasure I had left buried. My daughter I did
not find, the treasure I found and have with me; and now, in this
strange roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that more
than all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and
her tears and mine can with strict justice open the door to
clemency, extend it to us, for we never had any intention of
injuring you, nor do we sympathise with the aims of our people, who
have been justly banished."

"I know Ricote well," said Sancho at this, "and I know too that what
he says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those
other particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad
intentions, I say nothing."

While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the
general said, "At any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my
oath; live, fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted
you; but these rash insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime
they have committed;" and with that he gave orders to have the two
Turks who had killed his two soldiers hanged at once at the
yard-arm. The viceroy, however, begged him earnestly not to hang them,
as their behaviour savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The
general yielded to the viceroy's request, for revenge is not easily
taken in cold blood. They then tried to devise some scheme for
rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he had been
left. Ricote offered for that object more than two thousand ducats
that he had in pearls and gems; they proposed several plans, but
none so good as that suggested by the renegade already mentioned,
who offered to return to Algiers in a small vessel of about six banks,
manned by Christian rowers, as he knew where, how, and when he could
and should land, nor was he ignorant of the house in which Don
Gaspar was staying. The general and the viceroy had some hesitation
about placing confidence in the renegade and entrusting him with the
Christians who were to row, but Ana Felix said she could answer for
him, and her father offered to go and pay the ransom of the Christians
if by any chance they should not be forthcoming. This, then, being
agreed upon, the viceroy landed, and Don Antonio Moreno took the
fair Morisco and her father home with him, the viceroy charging him to
give them the best reception and welcome in his power, while on his
own part he offered all that house contained for their
entertainment; so great was the good-will and kindliness the beauty of
Ana Felix had infused into his heart.



The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely
happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great
kindness, charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in
both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the
people of the city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned
by the ringing of the bells.

Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don
Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its
advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his
arms and horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of
the whole Moorish host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife

"Remember, your worship," observed Sancho on hearing him say so,
"Senor Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took
her to France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don
Gregorio, we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there's the sea

"There's a remedy for everything except death," said Don Quixote;
"if they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get
on board though all the world strive to prevent us."

"Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy," said Sancho;
"but 'it's a long step from saying to doing;' and I hold to the
renegade, for he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow."

Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful,
the expedient of the great Don Quixote's expedition to Barbary
should be adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a
light vessel of six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days
later the galleys made sail eastward, the general having begged the
viceroy to let him know all about the release of Don Gregorio and
about Ana Felix, and the viceroy promised to do as he requested.

One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach,
arrayed in full armour (for, as he often said, that was "his only
gear, his only rest the fray," and he never was without it for a
moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, also in full armour, with
a shining moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently
near to be heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don
Quixote, "Illustrious knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don
Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose
unheard-of achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy
memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy
arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady,
let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del
Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt
escape death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if
thou fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no other satisfaction than
that, laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of
adventures, thou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village
for the space of a year, and live there without putting hand to sword,
in peace and quiet and beneficial repose, the same being needful for
the increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if
thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, my arms and
horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds transferred and added
to thine. Consider which will be thy best course, and give me thy
answer speedily, for this day is all the time I have for the
despatch of this business."

Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of
the White Moon's arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the
defiance, and with calm dignity he answered him, "Knight of the
White Moon, of whose achievements I have never heard until now, I will
venture to swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had
you seen her I know you would have taken care not to venture
yourself upon this issue, because the sight would have removed all
doubt from your mind that there ever has been or can be a beauty to be
compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie, but merely that you
are not correct in what you state, I accept your challenge, with the
conditions you have proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed
may not expire; and from your conditions I except only that of the
renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I know not of
what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied with my
own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you
choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it may
Saint Peter add his blessing."

The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was
told the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The
viceroy, fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don
Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at
once to the beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other
gentlemen, just as Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order
to take up the necessary distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing
that the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the
charge, put himself between them, asking them what it was that led
them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The Knight of
the White Moon replied that it was a question of precedence of beauty;
and briefly told him what he had said to Don Quixote, and how the
conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides had been
accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a low
voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon was, or was it some
joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he
neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in
earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not
knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to
persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he fell back, saying,
"If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to
confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the
White Moon still more so, in God's hand be it, and fall on."

He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and
well-chosen words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don
Quixote, who then, commending himself with all his heart to heaven and
to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of any combat that
awaited him, proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw his
antagonist was doing the same; then, without blast of trumpet or other
warlike instrument to give them the signal to charge, both at the same
instant wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moon, being the
swifter, met Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the
course, and there encountered him with such violence that, without
touching him with his lance (for he held it high, to all appearance
purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a
perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance
over his visor said to him, "You are vanquished, sir knight, nay
dead unless you admit the conditions of our defiance."

Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said
in a weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, "Dulcinea
del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most
unfortunate knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth
should suffer by my feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and
take my life, since you have taken away my honour."

"That will I not, in sooth," said he of the White Moon; "live the
fame of the lady Dulcinea's beauty undimmed as ever; all I require
is that the great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or
for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed
before engaging in this combat."

The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present
heard all this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long
as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would
observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement
given, he of the White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to the
viceroy with a movement of the head, rode away into the city at a half
gallop. The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after him, and by some
means or other find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and
uncovered his face, and found him pale and bathed with sweat.
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to
stir for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew
not what to say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole
business was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and
bound not to take up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of
his achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him
swept away like smoke before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was
crippled for life, and his master's bones out of joint; for if he were
only shaken out of his madness it would be no small luck. In the end
they carried him into the city in a hand-chair which the viceroy
sent for, and thither the viceroy himself returned, cager to ascertain
who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such
a sad plight.



Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a
number of boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him
fairly housed in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager
to make his acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet
him and remove his armour, and he shut himself into a lower room,
still attended by Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had
found out who he was. He of the White Moon, seeing then that the
gentleman would not leave him, said, "I know very well, senor, what
you have come for; it is to find out who I am; and as there is no
reason why I should conceal it from you, while my servant here is
taking off my armour I will tell you the true state of the case,
without leaving out anything. You must know, senor, that I am called
the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village as Don
Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who know
him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;
and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping
at home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him
there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a
knight-errant, under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors,
intending to engage him in combat and overcome him without hurting
him, making it the condition of our combat that the vanquished
should be at the disposal of the victor. What I meant to demand of him
(for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return
to his own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time
he might he cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me
and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way, and I came
back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my fall,
which was a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my
desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day.
And as he is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of
knight-errantry, he will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey
the injunction I have laid upon him. This, senor, is how the matter
stands, and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of you not to
betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest
endeavours may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits- were
he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry- may get them back again."

"O senor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you the wrong you have
done the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in
it back to his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don
Quixote's sanity can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my
belief is that all the senor bachelor's pains will be of no avail to
bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it
were not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for
by his recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire
Sancho Panza's too, any one of which is enough to turn melancholy
itself into merriment. However, I'll hold my peace and say nothing
to him, and we'll see whether I am right in my suspicion that Senor
Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless."

The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well,
and he hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at
Don Antonio's commands he took his leave of him; and having had his
armour packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same
day on the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country
without meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious

Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and
the viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don
Quixote's retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew
anything of his mad doings.

Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody
and out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat.
Sancho strove to comfort him, and among other things he said to him,
"Hold up your head, senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give
thanks to heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you
have not come off with a broken rib; and, as you know that 'where they
give they take,' and that 'there are not always fletches where there
are pegs,' a fig for the doctor, for there's no need of him to cure
this ailment. Let us go home, and give over going about in search of
adventures in strange lands and places; rightly looked at, it is I
that am the greater loser, though it is your worship that has had
the worse usage. With the government I gave up all wish to be a
governor again, but I did not give up all longing to be a count; and
that will never come to pass if your worship gives up becoming a
king by renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes are
going to turn into smoke."

"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou seest my suspension and
retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured
calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a
county to bestow on thee."

"May God hear it and sin be deaf," said Sancho; "I have always heard
say that 'a good hope is better than a bad holding."

As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased
and exclaiming, "Reward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don
Gregorio and the renegade who went for him have come ashore- ashore do
I say? They are by this time in the viceroy's house, and will be
here immediately."

Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, "Of a truth I am almost
ready to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the
other way, for it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary,
where by the might of my arm I should have restored to liberty, not
only Don Gregorio, but all the Christian captives there are in
Barbary. But what am I saying, miserable being that I am? Am I not
he that has been conquered? Am I not he that has been overthrown? Am I
not he who must not take up arms for a year? Then what am I making
professions for; what am I bragging about; when it is fitter for me to
handle the distaff than the sword?"

"No more of that, senor," said Sancho; "'let the hen live, even
though it be with her pip; 'today for thee and to-morrow for me;' in
these affairs of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for
he that falls to-day may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to
lie in bed, I mean gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh
spirit for fresh battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don
Gregorio; for the household seems to be in a bustle, and no doubt he
has come by this time;" and so it proved, for as soon as Don
Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy an account of the
voyage out and home, Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana Felix, came with
the renegade to Don Antonio's house. When they carried him away from
Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board the vessel, however, he
exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped with him; but in
whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served
and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favoured, and to judge by
appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his
daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the
daughter with bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for
where there is deep love there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen
side by side, the comeliness of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana
Felix were the admiration of all who were present. It was silence that
spoke for the lovers at that moment, and their eyes were the tongues
that declared their pure and happy feelings. The renegade explained
the measures and means he had adopted to rescue Don Gregorio, and
Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a few words, in which he
showed that his intelligence was in advance of his years, described
the peril and embarrassment he found himself in among the women with
whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote liberally recompensed and
rewarded as well the renegade as the men who had rowed; and the
renegade effected his readmission into the body of the Church and
was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb became by penance and
repentance a clean and sound one.

Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they
should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for
it seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so
good a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed
remaining there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the
capital, whither he was compelled to go on some other business,
hinting that many a difficult affair was settled there with the help
of favour and bribes.

"Nay," said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, "it
will not do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great
Don Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has
entrusted our expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor
appeals to compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he
mingles mercy with justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our
nation is tainted and corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns
rather than the salve that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity,
care and the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders
the weight of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our
schemes and plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind
his Argus eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should remain
behind in concealment, and like a hidden root come in course of time
to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, now cleansed, and
relieved of the fear in which our vast numbers kept it. Heroic resolve
of the great Philip the Third, and unparalleled wisdom to have
entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de Velasco!"

"At any rate," said Don Antonio, "when I am there I will make all
possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio
will come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be
suffering on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house
with my wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad
that the worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms
I can make."

The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on
learning what had passed declared he could not and would not on any
account leave Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and
see his parents and devise some way of returning for her, he fell in
with the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's
wife, and Ricote in the viceroy's house.

The day for Don Antonio's departure came; and two days later that
for Don Quixote's and Sancho's, for Don Quixote's fall did not
suffer him to take the road sooner. There were tears and sighs,
swoonings and sobs, at the parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix.
Ricote offered Don Gregorio a thousand crowns if he would have them,
but he would not take any save five which Don Antonio lent him and
he promised to repay at the capital. So the two of them took their
departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been
already said, Don Quixote without his armour and in travelling gear,
and Sancho on foot, Dapple being loaded with the armour.



As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he
had fallen. "Here Troy was," said he; "here my ill-luck, not my
cowardice, robbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made
me the victim of her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements
was dimmed; here, in a word, fell my happiness never to rise again."

"Senor," said Sancho on hearing this, "it is the part of brave
hearts to be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in
prosperity; I judge by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was
glad, now that I am a squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have
heard say that she whom commonly they call Fortune is a drunken
whimsical jade, and, what is more, blind, and therefore neither sees
what she does, nor knows whom she casts down or whom she sets up."

"Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou
speakest very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell
thee there is no such thing as Fortune in the world, nor does anything
which takes place there, be it good or bad, come about by chance,
but by the special preordination of heaven; and hence the common
saying that 'each of us is the maker of his own Fortune.' I have
been that of mine; but not with the proper amount of prudence, and
my self-confidence has therefore made me pay dearly; for I ought to
have reflected that Rocinante's feeble strength could not resist the
mighty bulk of the Knight of the White Moon's horse. In a word, I
ventured it, I did my best, I was overthrown, but though I lost my
honour I did not lose nor can I lose the virtue of keeping my word.
When I was a knight-errant, daring and valiant, I supported my
achievements by hand and deed, and now that I am a humble squire I
will support my words by keeping the promise I have given. Forward
then, Sancho my friend, let us go to keep the year of the novitiate in
our own country, and in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh strength
to return to the by me never-forgotten calling of arms."

"Senor," returned Sancho, "travelling on foot is not such a pleasant
thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long
marches. Let us leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of
some one that has been hanged; and then with me on Dapple's back and
my feet off the ground we will arrange the stages as your worship
pleases to measure them out; but to suppose that I am going to
travel on foot, and make long ones, is to suppose nonsense."

"Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "let my armour be hung
up for a trophy, and under it or round it we will carve on the trees
what was inscribed on the trophy of Roland's armour-

These let none move
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove."

"That's the very thing," said Sancho; "and if it was not that we
should feel the want of Rocinante on the road, it would be as well
to leave him hung up too."

"And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up,"
said Don Quixote, "that it may not be said, 'for good service a bad

"Your worship is right," said Sancho; "for, as sensible people hold,
'the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;' and, as in
this affair the fault is your worship's, punish yourself and don't let
your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour,
or the meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying
to make them travel more than is reasonable."

In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the
four succeeding ones, without anything occurring to interrupt their
journey, but on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great
number of people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as it
was a holiday. Upon Don Quixote's approach a peasant called out,
"One of these two gentlemen who come here, and who don't know the
parties, will tell us what we ought to do about our wager."

"That I will, certainly," said Don Quixote, "and according to the
rights of the case, if I can manage to understand it."

"Well, here it is, worthy sir," said the peasant; "a man of this
village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged
another, a neighbour of his, who does not weigh more than nine, to run
a race. The agreement was that they were to run a distance of a
hundred paces with equal weights; and when the challenger was asked
how the weights were to be equalised he said that the other, as he
weighed nine stone, should put eleven in iron on his back, and that in
this way the twenty stone of the thin man would equal the twenty stone
of the fat one."

"Not at all," exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote could
answer; "it's for me, that only a few days ago left off being a
governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to settle these doubtful
questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts."

"Answer in God's name, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I
am not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and

With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered
round him, waiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his,
"Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a
shadow of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the
challenged may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose
such as will prevent and keep him from winning. My decision,
therefore, is that the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and
correct himself, and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here
or there, as he pleases, and as suits him best; and being in this
way reduced to nine stone weight, he will make himself equal and
even with nine stone of his opponent, and they will be able to run
on equal terms."

"By all that's good," said one of the peasants as he heard
Sancho's decision, "but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and
given judgment like a canon! But I'll be bound the fat man won't
part with an ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven stone."

"The best plan will be for them not to run," said another, "so
that neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one
strip himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and
let's take these gentlemen to the tavern where there's the best, and
'over me be the cloak when it rains."

"I thank you, sirs," said Don Quixote; "but I cannot stop for an
instant, for sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem
discourteous and to travel apace;" and spurring Rocinante he pushed
on, leaving them wondering at what they had seen and heard, at his own
strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they
took Sancho to be; and another of them observed, "If the servant is so
clever, what must the master be? I'll bet, if they are going to
Salamanca to study, they'll come to be alcaldes of the Court in a
trice; for it's a mere joke- only to read and read, and have
interest and good luck; and before a man knows where he is he finds
himself with a staff in his hand or a mitre on his head."

That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open
air, and the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw
coming towards them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a
javelin or spiked staff in his hand, the very cut of a foot courier;
who, as soon as he came close to Don Quixote, increased his pace and
half running came up to him, and embracing his right thigh, for he
could reach no higher, exclaimed with evident pleasure, "O Senor Don
Quixote of La Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my
lord the duke when he knows your worship is coming back to his castle,
for he is still there with my lady the duchess!"

"I do not recognise you, friend," said Don Quixote, "nor do I know
who you are, unless you tell me."

"I am Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, Senor Don Quixote,"
replied the courier; "he who refused to fight your worship about
marrying the daughter of Dona Rodriguez."

"God bless me!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "is it possible that you
are the one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the
lacquey you speak of in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?"

"Nonsense, good sir!" said the messenger; "there was no
enchantment or transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much
lacquey Tosilos as I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to
marry without fighting, for the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme
had a very different result, for as soon as your worship had left
the castle my lord the duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given
me for having acted contrary to the orders he gave me before
engaging in the combat; and the end of the whole affair is that the
girl has become a nun, and Dona Rodriguez has gone back to Castile,
and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of letters for the
viceroy which my master is sending him. If your worship would like a
drop, sound though warm, I have a gourd here full of the best, and
some scraps of Tronchon cheese that will serve as a provocative and
wakener of your thirst if so be it is asleep."

"I take the offer," said Sancho; "no more compliments about it; pour
out, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."

"Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, "and the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see
that this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop
with him and take thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to
come up with me."

The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps,
and taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves
on the green grass, and in peace and good fellowship finished off
the contents of the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely that
they licked the wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of

Said Tosilos to Sancho, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this
master of thine ought to be a madman."

"Ought!" said Sancho; "he owes no man anything; he pays for
everything, particularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain
enough, and I tell him so plain enough; but what's the use? especially
now that it is all over with him, for here he is beaten by the
Knight of the White Moon."

Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but Sancho
replied that it would not be good manners to leave his master
waiting for him; and that some other day if they met there would be
time enough for that; and then getting up, after shaking his doublet
and brushing the crumbs out of his beard, he drove Dapple on before
him, and bidding adieu to Tosilos left him and rejoined his master,
who was waiting for him under the shade of a tree.



If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he
had been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He
was under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies
on honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of
them turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the
life he was about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up
and spoke in high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey

"Is it possible, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou dost still
think that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped
thy memory that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into
a peasant wench, and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor
Carrasco; all the work of the enchanters that persecute me. But tell
me now, didst thou ask this Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has
become of Altisidora, did she weep over my absence, or has she already
consigned to oblivion the love thoughts that used to afflict her
when I was present?"

"The thoughts that I had," said Sancho, "were not such as to leave
time for asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship
in a condition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above
all love thoughts?"

"Look ye, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great difference
between what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude.
A knight may very possibly he proof against love; but it is
impossible, strictly speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora,
to all appearance, loved me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs
thou knowest of; she wept at my departure, she cursed me, she abused
me, casting shame to the winds she bewailed herself in public; all
signs that she adored me; for the wrath of lovers always ends in
curses. I had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for
mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are
like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive; all I can give her
is the place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice,
however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art
wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that
flesh- would that I saw it eaten by wolves- which would rather keep
itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady."

"Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, I cannot
persuade myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do
with the disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If
your head aches rub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make
bold to swear that in all the histories dealing with knight-errantry
that your worship has read you have never come across anybody
disenchanted by whipping; but whether or no I'll whip myself when I
have a fancy for it, and the opportunity serves for scourging myself

"God grant it," said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to
take it to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my
lady, who is thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine."

As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the
very same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don
Quixote recognised it, and said he to Sancho, "This is the meadow
where we came upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who
were trying to revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an
idea as novel as it was happy, in emulation whereof, if so he thou
dost approve of it, Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds,
at any rate for the time I have to live in retirement. I will buy some
ewes and everything else requisite for the pastoral calling; and, I
under the name of the shepherd Quixotize and thou as the shepherd
Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and meadows singing songs
here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the crystal waters of
the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. The oaks will yield us
their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks of the hard cork
trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, the widespread
meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pure air will
give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of the night
for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will
supply us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make
ourselves famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come."

"Egad," said Sancho, "but that sort of life squares, nay corners,
with my notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and
Master Nicholas the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want
to follow it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may
not come into the curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so
jovial and fond of enjoying himself."

"Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as
no doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or
perhaps the shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself
Niculoso, as old Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the
curate I don't know what name we can fit to him unless it be something
derived from his title, and we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For
the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall be, we can pick names as we
would pears; and as my lady's name does just as well for a
shepherdess's as for a princess's, I need not trouble myself to look
for one that will suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thou canst give
what name thou wilt."

"I don't mean to give her any but Teresona," said Sancho, "which
will go well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is
called Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show
how chaste my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better
bread than ever came from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do
for the curate to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example;
and if the bachelor chooses to have one, that is his look-out."

"God bless me, Sancho my friend!" said Don Quixote, "what a life
we shall lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what
tabors, timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different
sorts of music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the
pastoral instruments will be there."

"What are albogues?" asked Sancho, "for I never in my life heard
tell of them or saw them."

"Albogues," said Don Quixote, "are brass plates like candlesticks
that struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which,
if not very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords
very well with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word
albogue is Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that
begin with al; for example, almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil,
alhucema, almacen, alcancia, and others of the same sort, of which
there are not many more; our language has only three that are
Morisco and end in i, which are borcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi.
Alheli and alfaqui are seen to be Arabic, as well by the al at the
beginning as by the they end with. I mention this incidentally, the
chance allusion to albogues having reminded me of it; and it will be
of great assistance to us in the perfect practice of this calling that
I am something of a poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the
bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplished one. Of the curate I say
nothing; but I will wager he has some spice of the poet in him, and no
doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or most of them, are
guitar players and stringers of verses. I will bewail my separation;
thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon
will figure as a rejected one, and the curate Curiambro as whatever
may please him best; and so all will go as gaily as heart could wish."

To this Sancho made answer, "I am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid
the day will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what
neat spoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams,
garlands, pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name
for wisdom, they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My
daughter Sanchica will bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay-
she's good-looking, and shepherds there are with more mischief than
simplicity in them; I would not have her 'come for wool and go back
shorn;' love-making and lawless desires are just as common in the
fields as in the cities, and in shepherds' shanties as in royal
palaces; 'do away with the cause, you do away with the sin;' 'if
eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better a clear escape than
good men's prayers.'"

"A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho," exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one
of those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning;
many a time have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with
proverbs and to exercise some moderation in delivering them; but it
seems to me it is only 'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats
me and I go on with my tricks."

"It seems to me," said Sancho, "that your worship is like the common
saying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.'
You chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples

"Observe, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I bring in proverbs to
the purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger;
thou bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that
thou dost drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not
mistaken, I have told thee already that proverbs are short maxims
drawn from the experience and observation of our wise men of old;
but the proverb that is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense
and not a maxim. But enough of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us
retire some little distance from the high road to pass the night; what
is in store for us to-morrow God knoweth."

They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against
Sancho's will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant
upon knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty
presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de
Miranda's, at the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio
Moreno's; he reflected, however, that it could not be always day,
nor always night; and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his
master in waking.



The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the
sky it was not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the
lady Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains
all black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so
far as to sleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second,
very different from Sancho, who never had any second, because with him
sleep lasted from night till morning, wherein he showed what a sound
constitution and few cares he had. Don Quixote's cares kept him
restless, so much so that he awoke Sancho and said to him, "I am
amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy temperament. I believe thou
art made of marble or hard brass, incapable of any emotion or
feeling whatever. I lie awake while thou sleepest, I weep while thou
singest, I am faint with fasting while thou art sluggish and torpid
from pure repletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the
sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for
the sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude
of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some
sort. Rise as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with a
good heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred
lashes on account of Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I
entreat of thee, making it a request, for I have no desire to come
to grips with thee a second time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As
soon as thou hast laid them on we will pass the rest of the night, I
singing my separation, thou thy constancy, making a beginning at
once with the pastoral life we are to follow at our village."

"Senor," replied Sancho, "I'm no monk to get up out of the middle of
my sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can
pass from one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music.
Will your worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping
myself? or you'll make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet,
not to say my flesh."

"O hard heart!" said Don Quixote, "O pitiless squire! O bread
ill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee
and those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a
governor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation
of being a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for I-
post tenebras spero lucem."

"I don't know what that is," said Sancho; "all I know is that so
long as I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory;
and good luck betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers
over all a man's thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink
that drives away thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that
tempers the heat, and, to wind up with, the universal coin wherewith
everything is bought, the weight and balance that makes the shepherd
equal with the king and the fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have
heard say, has only one fault, that it is like death; for between a
sleeping man and a dead man there is very little difference."

"Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho," said
Don Quixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou
dost sometimes quote, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou
art fed.'"

"Ha, by my life, master mine," said Sancho, "it's not I that am
stringing proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's
mouth faster than from mine; only there is this difference between
mine and yours, that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but
anyhow, they are all proverbs."

At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that
seemed to spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood
up and laid his hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself
under Dapple and put the bundle of armour on one side of him and the
ass's pack-saddle on the other, in fear and trembling as great as
Don Quixote's perturbation. Each instant the noise increased and
came nearer to the two terrified men, or at least to one, for as to
the other, his courage is known to all. The fact of the matter was
that some men were taking above six hundred pigs to sell at a fair,
and were on their way with them at that hour, and so great was the
noise they made and their grunting and blowing, that they deafened the
ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and they could not make out what
it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came on in a surging mass,
and without showing any respect for Don Quixote's dignity or Sancho's,
passed right over the pair of them, demolishing Sancho's
entrenchments, and not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping
Rocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling
and the grunting, and the pace at which the unclean beasts went,
pack-saddle, armour, Dapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the
ground and Sancho and Don Quixote at their wits' end.

Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give
him his sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty
unmannerly pigs, for he had by this time found out that that was
what they were.

"Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote; "this insult is the
penalty of my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that
jackals should devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and
pigs trample him under foot."

"I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too," said Sancho,
"that flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice
eat them, and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the
knights we serve, or their very near relations, it would be no
wonder if the penalty of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the
fourth generation. But what have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes?
Well, well, let's lie down again and sleep out what little of the
night there's left, and God will send us dawn and we shall be all

"Sleep thou, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for thou wast born to
sleep as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn
I will give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a
little madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last

"I should think," said Sancho, "that the thoughts that allow one
to make verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string
verses as much as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;" and
forthwith, taking the space of ground he required, he muffled
himself up and fell into a sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt,
or trouble of any sort. Don Quixote, propped up against the trunk of a
beech or a cork tree- for Cide Hamete does not specify what kind of
tree it was- sang in this strain to the accompaniment of his own

When in my mind
I muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty,
To death I flee,
In hope therein the end of all to find.

But drawing near
That welcome haven in my sea of woe,
Such joy I know,
That life revives, and still I linger here.

Thus life doth slay,
And death again to life restoreth me;
Strange destiny,
That deals with life and death as with a play!

He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears,
just like one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his
separation from Dulcinea.

And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his
beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his
lazy limbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores
he cursed the drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their
journey, and as evening closed in they saw coming towards them some
ten men on horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart
beat quick and Sancho's quailed with fear, for the persons approaching
them carried lances and bucklers, and were in very warlike guise.
Don Quixote turned to Sancho and said, "If I could make use of my
weapons, and my promise had not tied my hands, I would count this host
that comes against us but cakes and fancy bread; but perhaps it may
prove something different from what we apprehend." The men on
horseback now came up, and raising their lances surrounded Don Quixote
in silence, and pointed them at his back and breast, menacing him with
death. One of those on foot, putting his finger to his lips as a
sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's bridle and drew him out
of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple before them, and
all maintaining a strange silence, followed in the steps of the one
who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to ask
where they were taking him to and what they wanted, but the instant he
began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points
of their lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he
seemed about to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad,
and Dapple likewise, as if he too wanted to talk. Night set in, they
quickened their pace, and the fears of the two prisoners grew greater,
especially as they heard themselves assailed with- "Get on, ye
Troglodytes;" "Silence, ye barbarians;" "March, ye cannibals;" "No
murmuring, ye Scythians;" "Don't open your eyes, ye murderous
Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty lions," and suchlike names with which
their captors harassed the ears of the wretched master and man. Sancho
went along saying to himself, "We, tortolites, barbers, animals! I
don't like those names at all; 'it's in a bad wind our corn is being
winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at once like sticks on a
dog,' and God grant it may be no worse than them that this unlucky
adventure has in store for us."

Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his
wits to make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they
called them, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there
was no good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about
an hour after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at
once was the duke's, where they had been but a short time before. "God
bless me!" said he, as he recognised the mansion, "what does this
mean? It is all courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the
vanquished good turns into evil, and evil into worse."

They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and
fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their
fears, as will be seen in the following chapter.



The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without
a moment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried
them into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in
sockets were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the
corridors, so that in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the
want of daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court
was a catafalque, raised about two yards above the ground and
covered completely by an immense canopy of black velvet, and on the
steps all round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred
silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead body of a
damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death itself look
beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a cushion of brocade and
crowned with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts,
her hands crossed upon her bosom, and between them a branch of
yellow palm of victory. On one side of the court was erected a
stage, where upon two chairs were seated two persons who from having
crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings
of some sort, whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage,
which was reached by steps, were two other chairs on which the men
carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in
silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were
to he silent; which, however, they would have been without any
signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied.
And now two persons of distinction, who were at once recognised by Don
Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended the stage attended
by a numerous suite, and seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs
close to the two kings, as they seemed to be. Who would not have
been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for Don Quixote had perceived
that the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair
Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote
and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, which they
returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official
crossed over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black
buckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap
put upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the
Holy Office wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his
lips, or they would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho
surveyed himself from head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with
flames; but as they did not burn him, he did not care two farthings
for them. He took off the mitre and seeing painted with devils he
put it on again, saying to himself, "Well, so far those don't burn
me nor do these carry me off." Don Quixote surveyed him too, and
though fear had got the better of his faculties, he could not help
smiling to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath
the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a low sweet sound of
flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for there silence
itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then,
beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly
appeared a fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the accompaniment of a
harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and clear voice these
two stanzas:

While fair Altisidora, who the sport
Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been,
Returns to life, and in this magic court
The dames in sables come to grace the scene,
And while her matrons all in seemly sort
My lady robes in baize and bombazine,
Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing
With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.

But not in life alone, methinks, to me
Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue
Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee
My voice shall raise its tributary song.
My soul, from this strait prison-house set free,
As o'er the Stygian lake it floats along,
Thy praises singing still shall hold its way,
And make the waters of oblivion stay.

At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed,
"Enough, enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put
before us now the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not
dead as the ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame
and in the penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to
restore her to the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O
Rhadamanthus, who sittest in judgment with me in the murky caverns
of Dis, as thou knowest all that the inscrutable fates have decreed
touching the resuscitation of this damsel, announce and declare it
at once, that the happiness we look forward to from her restoration be
no longer deferred."

No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, than
Rhadamanthus rising up said:

"Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make
haste hither one and all, and print on Sancho's face four-and-twenty
smacks, and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back
and arms; for upon this ceremony depends the restoration of

On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, "By all that's
good, I'll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor.
Body o' me! What has handling my face got to do with the
resurrection of this damsel? 'The old woman took kindly to the
blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whip me in order to disenchant
her; Altisidora dies of ailments God was pleased to send her, and to
bring her to life again they must give me four-and-twenty smacks,
and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise weals on my arms
with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; 'I'm an old dog,
and "tus, tus" is no use with me.'"

"Thou shalt die," said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; "relent, thou
tiger; humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and he silent, for no
impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire
into the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked
thou shalt see thyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl.
Ho, I say, officials, obey my orders; or by the word of an honest man,
ye shall see what ye were born for."

At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their
appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with
spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four
fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion
now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than,
bellowing like a bull, he exclaimed, "I might let myself be handled by
all the world; but allow duennas to touch me- not a bit of it! Scratch
my face, as my master was served in this very castle; run me through
the body with burnished daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers;
I'll bear all in patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won't let
duennas touch me, though the devil should carry me off!"

Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, "Have
patience, my son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks
to heaven that it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its
sufferings thou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the

The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become more
tractable and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented
his face and beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very
stoutly laid on, and then made him a low curtsey.

"Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna," said Sancho; "by
God your hands smell of vinegar-wash."

In fine, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the
household pinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked
by the pins; and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out
of his chair, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell
upon the duennas and the whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming,
"Begone, ye ministers of hell; I'm not made of brass not to feel
such out-of-the-way tortures."

At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so
long lying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the
bystanders cried out almost with one voice, "Altisidora is alive!
Altisidora lives!"

Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they
had in view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he
went on his knees to Sancho saying to him, "Now is the time, son of my
bowels, not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of
those lashes thou art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of
Dulcinea. Now, I say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is
ripe, and endowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for
from thee."

To which Sancho made answer, "That's trick upon trick, I think,
and not honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping
to come now, on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had
better take a big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into
a well; I should not mind it much, if I'm to be always made the cow of
the wedding for the cure of other people's ailments. Leave me alone;
or else by God I'll fling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what

Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did
so the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices
of all present exclaiming, "Long life to Altisidora! long life to
Altisidora!" The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus
stood up, and all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to
receive her and take her down from the catafalque; and she, making
as though she were recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke
and duchess and to the kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote,
said to him, "God forgive thee, insensible knight, for through thy
cruelty I have been, to me it seems, more than a thousand years in the
other world; and to thee, the most compassionate upon earth, I
render thanks for the life I am now in possession of. From this day
forth, friend Sancho, count as thine six smocks of mine which I bestow
upon thee, to make as many shirts for thyself, and if they are not all
quite whole, at any rate they are all clean."

Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre
in his hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back
his cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the
duke to let them leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take
them home for a token and memento of that unexampled adventure. The
duchess said they must leave them with him; for he knew already what a
great friend of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the
court should be cleared, and that all should retire to their chambers,
and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old



Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don
Quixote, a thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he
knew very well that with questions and answers his master would not
let him sleep, and he was in no humour for talking much, as he still
felt the pain of his late martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom
of speech; and it would have been more to his taste to sleep in a
hovel alone, than in that luxurious chamber in company. And so well
founded did his apprehension prove, and so correct was his
anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into bed when he
said, "What dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho? Great
and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own
eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword,
nor by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought
of the sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her."

"She might have died and welcome," said Sancho, "when she pleased
and how she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never
made her fall in love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine
how the recovery of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise,
can have, as I have said before, anything to do with the sufferings of
Sancho Panza. Now I begin to see plainly and clearly that there are
enchanters and enchanted people in the world; and may God deliver me
from them, since I can't deliver myself; and so I beg of your
worship to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless
you want me to throw myself out of the window."

"Sleep, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "if the pinprodding and
pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will
let thee."

"No pain came up to the insult of the smacks," said Sancho, "for the
simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to
me; but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is
relief from misery to those who are miserable when awake."

"Be it so, and God be with thee," said Don Quixote.

They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of
this great history, took this opportunity to record and relate what it
was that induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot
that has been described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not
forgetting how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and
overthrown by Don Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his
plans, resolved to try his hand again, hoping for better luck than
he had before; and so, having learned where Don Quixote was from the
page who brought the letter and present to Sancho's wife, Teresa
Panza, he got himself new armour and another horse, and put a white
moon upon his shield, and to carry his arms he had a mule led by a
peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should be
recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the duke's castle, and
the duke informed him of the road and route Don Quixote had taken with
the intention of being present at the jousts at Saragossa. He told
him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, and of the device
for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho's
backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho had
played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted
and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, his wife, had
persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, inasmuch
as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not
a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of
Sancho as at the length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The
duke begged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to
return that way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he
set out in quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa,
he went on, and how he fared has been already told. He returned to the
duke's castle and told him all, what the conditions of the combat
were, and how Don Quixote was now, like a loyal knight-errant,
returning to keep his promise of retiring to his village for a year,
by which time, said the bachelor, he might perhaps be cured of his
madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt these
disguises, as it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such good parts as
Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke,
and went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, who was
coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of
practising this mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy
everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads
about the castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote was
likely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his
servants on foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the
castle, by fair means or foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and
sent word to the duke, who, having already settled what was to be
done, as soon as he heard of his arrival, ordered the torches and
lamps in the court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on the
catafalque with all the pomp and ceremony that has been described, the
whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed but
little from reality. And Cide Hamete says, moreover, that for his part
he considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the victims of it,
and that the duke and duchess were not two fingers' breadth removed
from being something like fools themselves when they took such pains
to make game of a pair of fools.

As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying
awake occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them
bringing with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a
delight to Don Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back
from death to life as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of
her lord and lady, entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she
had worn on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta
embroidered with gold flowers, her hair flowing loose over her
shoulders, and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don
Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at her appearance, huddled
himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the sheets
and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to offer her any
civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed,
and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice, "When
women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, and give a
loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment, publishing
abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to sore
extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed,
conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering and virtuous,
and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost my life.
For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of the
cruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,

O harder thou than marble to my plaint;

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been
that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings
of this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world."

"Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my
ass, and I should have been obliged to him," said Sancho. "But tell
me, senora- and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master-
what did you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of
course that's where one who dies in despair is bound for."

"To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have died
outright, for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very
certain I should never have come out again, do what I might. The truth
is, I came to the gate, where some dozen or so of devils were
playing tennis, all in breeches and doublets, with falling collars
trimmed with Flemish bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served
them for wristbands, with four fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to
make their hands look longer; in their hands they held rackets of
fire; but what amazed me still more was that books, apparently full of
wind and rubbish, served them for tennis balls, a strange and
marvellous thing; this, however, did not astonish me so much as to
observe that, although with players it is usual for the winners to
be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling,
all were snarling, and all were cursing one another." "That's no
wonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, can never
be content, win or lose."

"Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing that
surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no
ball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it
was wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old.
To one of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke
that they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about.
'Look what book that is,' said one devil to another, and the other
replied, 'It is the "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La
Mancha," not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by an
Aragonese who by his own account is of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with
it,' said the first, 'and into the depths of hell with it out of my
sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other. 'So bad is it,' said the
first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I could
not have done it.' They then went on with their game, knocking other
books about; and I, having heard them mention the name of Don
Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision in
my memory."

"A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for there
is no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for
some time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for
everybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by
hearing that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of
the pit or in the daylight above, for I am not the one that history
treats of. If it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages
of life; but if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial will
not be a very long journey."

Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don
Quixote, when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senora
that it grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as
from mine they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born
to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any,
dedicated me to her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the
place she occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This
frank declaration should suffice to make you retire within the
bounds of your modesty, for no one can bind himself to do

Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation,
exclaimed, "God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a
date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when
he has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out!
Do you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your
sake? All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not
the woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much
less die!"

"That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about lovers
pining to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-
Judas may believe that!"

While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had
sung the two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound
obeisance to Don Quixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight,
reckon and retain me in the number of your most faithful servants, for
I have long been a great admirer of yours, as well because of your
fame as because of your achievements?" "Will your worship tell me
who you are," replied Don Quixote, "so that my courtesy may be
answerable to your deserts?" The young man replied that he was the
musician and songster of the night before. "Of a truth," said Don
Quixote, "your worship has a most excellent voice; but what you sang
did not seem to me very much to the purpose; for what have
Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this lady?"

"Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with the
callow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he
pleases and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the
matter or not, and now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they
can sing or write that is not set down to poetic licence."

Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and
duchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long
and delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so
many droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess
wondering not only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote
begged their permission to take his departure that same day,
inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like himself it was fitter he
should live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very
readily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good

He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's
ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest
and constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn
in hell; and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out of
her hands; for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and
fro, the image or images of what she loves will not shift to and fro
in her thoughts; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my

"And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a
lace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds

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