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Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

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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

"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 be 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 comfortably."

"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 be 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

"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 yourself."

"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

"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

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 right."

"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 night."

"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 sighs:

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 be
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 Altisidora."

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 be 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 dead."

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 may."

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

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 quarters.



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

"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 impossibilities."

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

"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 graces.

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 advice."

"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 are more set on
finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from my
own experience; for when I'm digging I never think of my old woman; I
mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids." "You say
well, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will take care that my Altisidora
employs herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for she is
extremely expert at it." "There is no occasion to have recourse to that
remedy, senora," said Altisidora; "for the mere thought of the cruelty
with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to blot him
out of my memory without any other device; with your highness's leave I
will retire, not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful
countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the
common saying, that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.

Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief,
made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.

"Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide thee!
Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as hard as
oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have crowed to thee.'"

So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and
dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.



The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in one
respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his defeat, and
his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay in Sancho, as
had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora; though it was with
difficulty he could persuade himself that the love-smitten damsel had
been really dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful, for it grieved
him that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving him the smocks;
and turning this over in his mind he said to his master, "Surely, senor,
I'm the most unlucky doctor in the world; there's many a physician that,
after killing the sick man he had to cure, requires to be paid for his
work, though it is only signing a bit of a list of medicines, that the
apothecary and not he makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with
me though to cure somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,
pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear by
all that's good if they put another patient into my hands, they'll have
to grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they say, 'it's by his
singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not going to believe that
heaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have, that I should be dealing
it out to others all for nothing."

"Thou art right, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "and Altisidora has
behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she promised; and
although that virtue of thine is gratis data--as it has cost thee no
study whatever, any more than such study as thy personal sufferings may
be--I can say for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lashes
on account of the disenchant of Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee
freely ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will comport
with the cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with the
medicine. I think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider how
much thou wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself
down with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine."

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's breadth
wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and
said he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll hold myself in
readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to profit by it; for
the love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your
worship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself."

"If Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as the
importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, the
mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou hast of
mine, and put a price on each lash."

"Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred and odd;
of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five go for
the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred, which at
a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the whole world
should bid me) make three thousand three hundred quarter reals; the three
thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, which make seven
hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a hundred and fifty
half reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which added to the seven
hundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These
I will stop out of what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll return
home rich and content, though well whipped, for 'there's no taking
trout'--but I say no more."

"O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall be
bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that
heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot be
but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and my
defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou begin
the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will give thee a
hundred reals over and above."

"When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship order it
so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll scarify

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the world,
came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of Apollo's car had
broken down, and that the day was drawing itself out longer than usual,
just as is the case with lovers, who never make the reckoning of their
desires agree with time. They made their way at length in among some
pleasant trees that stood a little distance from the road, and there
vacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's pack-saddle, they stretched
themselves on the green grass and made their supper off Sancho's stores,
and he making a powerful and flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and
headstall retreated about twenty paces from his master among some beech
trees. Don Quixote seeing him march off with such resolution and spirit,
said to him, "Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow
the lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry as
to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so strenuously
as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the desired
number; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, I
will station myself apart and count on my rosary here the lashes thou
givest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves."

"'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay on
in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that, no
doubt, lies the essence of this miracle."

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up the
rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He might
have given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke no
trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, he
told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for
each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real
instead of a quarter.

"Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don Quixote;
"for I double the stakes as to price."

"In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rain
lashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid on
to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would have
thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the roots. Don
Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an end of
himself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he might miss his own
object, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend, let the matter rest
where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it will be
well to have patience; 'Zamora was not won in an hour.' If I have not
reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes; that is
enough for the present; 'for the ass,' to put it in homely phrase, 'bears
the load, but not the overload.'"

"No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'The
money paid, the arms broken;' go back a little further, your worship, and
let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a couple of
bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot, and there will be
even cloth to spare."

"As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may heaven aid
thee; lay on and I'll retire."

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had the
bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which he
whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech a
tremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and all with him!"

At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash, Don
Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that served
him for a courbash, said to him, "Heaven forbid, Sancho my friend, that
to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed for the support
of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a better opportunity, and
I will content myself with a hope soon to be realised, and have patience
until thou hast gained fresh strength so as to finish off this business
to the satisfaction of everybody."

"As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it; but
throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't want to
take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept until
the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the time
being they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues farther
on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognised as such
and did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, and
drawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more
rationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They quartered
him in a room on the ground floor, where in place of leather hangings
there were pieces of painted serge such as they commonly use in villages.
On one of them was painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helen, when
the bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the
story of Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as though she were making
signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea flying
in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories that Helen did
not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing slyly and roguishly; but
the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of walnuts from her eyes.
Don Quixote as he looked at them observed, "Those two ladies were very
unfortunate not to have been born in this age, and I unfortunate above
all men not to have been born in theirs. Had I fallen in with those
gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned or Carthage destroyed, for it
would have been only for me to slay Paris, and all these misfortunes
would have been avoided."

"I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a tavern,
roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of our doings
won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of a better
painter than painted these."

"Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is like
Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him what he
was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if he chanced
to paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a cock,' for fear they
might think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it's all the same,
who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come out, must
have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote
'whatever it might turn out;' or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon
that was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard
whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he
replied De donde diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast
thou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou
rather have it indoors or in the open air?"

"Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it comes
all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields; still I'd
like it to be among trees; for I think they are company for me and help
me to bear my pain wonderfully."

"And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "but, to
enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our own village; for
at the latest we shall get there the day after tomorrow."

Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part he would
like to finish off the business quickly before his blood cooled and while
he had an appetite, because "in delay there is apt to be danger" very
often, and "praying to God and plying the hammer," and "one take was
better than two I'll give thee's," and "a sparrow in the hand than a
vulture on the wing."

"For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "it
seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat again; speak in a plain, simple,
straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find the
good of it."

"I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," argument to my mind; however,
I mean to mend said Sancho, "but I can't utter a word without a proverb
that is not as good as an argument to my mind; however, I mean to mend if
I can;" and so for the present the conversation ended.



All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and inn
waiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging in the
open country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay the
accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the hostelry a
traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one of whom said to
him who appeared to be the master, "Here, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, your
worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters seem clean and cool."

When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, "Look here, Sancho; on
turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my history I
think I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe."

"Very likely," said Sancho; "we had better let him dismount, and
by-and-by we can ask about it."

The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the ground
floor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge hangings of
the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer coat, and
coming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide and cool,
addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he asked, "In
what direction your worship bound, gentle sir?"

"To a village near this which is my own village," replied Don Quixote;
"and your worship, where are you bound for?"

"I am going to Granada, senor," said the gentleman, "to my own country."

"And a goodly country," said Don Quixote; "but will your worship do me
the favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of more
importance to me to know it than I can tell you."

"My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe," replied the traveller.

To which Don Quixote returned, "I have no doubt whatever that your
worship is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second Part
of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and published
by a new author."

"I am the same," replied the gentleman; "and that same Don Quixote, the
principal personage in the said history, was a very great friend of mine,
and it was I who took him away from home, or at least induced him to come
to some jousts that were to be held at Saragossa, whither I was going
myself; indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved him from having
his shoulders touched up by the executioner because of his extreme

"Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro," said Don Quixote, "am I at all like that Don
Quixote you talk of?"

"No indeed," replied the traveller, "not a bit."

"And that Don Quixote-" said our one, "had he with him a squire called
Sancho Panza?"

"He had," said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being very
droll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."

"That I can well believe," said Sancho at this, "for to come out with
drolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your worship
speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel, dunderhead, and
thief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and I have more
drolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only try; come along
with me for a year or so, and you will find they fall from me at every
turn, and so rich and so plentiful that though mostly I don't know what I
am saying I make everybody that hears me laugh. And the real Don Quixote
of La Mancha, the famous, the valiant, the wise, the lover, the righter
of wrongs, the guardian of minors and orphans, the protector of widows,
the killer of damsels, he who has for his sole mistress the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso, is this gentleman before you, my master; all other
Don Quixotes and all other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries."

"By God I believe it," said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered more
drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other
Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. He
was more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I am
convinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good have
been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't know
what to say, for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the Casa del
Nuncio at Toledo, and here another Don Quixote turns up, though a very
different one from mine."

"I don't know whether I am good," said Don Quixote, "but I can safely say
I am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor Don Alvaro
Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far from that, when
it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had been present at the
jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in order to drag his
falsehood before the face of the world; and so I went on straight to
Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of strangers, asylum of
the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the wronged, pleasant exchange
of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in site and beauty. And though
the adventures that befell me there are not by any means matters of
enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do not regret them, simply because I
have seen it. In a word, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La
Mancha, the one that fame speaks of, and not the unlucky one that has
attempted to usurp my name and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat
your worship by your devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a
declaration before the alcalde of this village that you never in all your
life saw me until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print in
the Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship

"That I will do most willingly," replied Don Alvaro; "though it amazes me
to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as much alike in
name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and declare that what I
saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened me cannot have happened."

"No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,"
said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment rested on my giving
myself another three thousand and odd lashes like what I'm giving myself
for her, for I'd lay them on without looking for anything."

"I don't understand that about the lashes," said Don Alvaro. Sancho
replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him if they
happened to be going the same road.

By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn together
with a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him, showing that
it was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman
there present, should make a declaration before him that he did not know
Don Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he was not the one
that was in print in a history entitled "Second Part of Don Quixote of La
Mancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas." The alcalde finally put it in
legal form, and the declaration was made with all the formalities
required in such cases, at which Don Quixote and Sancho were in high
delight, as if a declaration of the sort was of any great importance to
them, and as if their words and deeds did not plainly show the difference
between the two Don Quixotes and the two Sanchos. Many civilities and
offers of service were exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in the
course of which the great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he
disabused Don Alvaro of the error he was under; and he, on his part, felt
convinced he must have been enchanted, now that he had been brought in
contact with two such opposite Don Quixotes.

Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half a
league two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote's village, the
other the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval Don
Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea's enchantment
and the remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh amazement, and
embracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and Don Quixote went
his. That night he passed among trees again in order to give Sancho an
opportunity of working out his penance, which he did in the same fashion
as the night before, at the expense of the bark of the beech trees much
more than of his back, of which he took such good care that the lashes
would not have knocked off a fly had there been one there. The duped Don
Quixote did not miss a single stroke of the count, and he found that
together with those of the night before they made up three thousand and
twenty-nine. The sun apparently had got up early to witness the
sacrifice, and with his light they resumed their journey, discussing the
deception practised on Don Alvaro, and saying how well done it was to
have taken his declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable
form. That day and night they travelled on, nor did anything worth
mention happen them, unless it was that in the course of the night Sancho
finished off his task, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He
watched for daylight, to see if along the road he should fall in with his
already disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his journey there
was no woman he met that he did not go up to, to see if she was Dulcinea
del Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain that Merlin's promises could
not lie. Full of these thoughts and anxieties, they ascended a rising
ground wherefrom they descried their own village, at the sight of which
Sancho fell on his knees exclaiming, "Open thine eyes, longed-for home,
and see how thy son Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich,
very well whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote,
who, if he comes vanquished by the arm of another, comes victor over
himself, which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory anyone
can desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped, I went
mounted like a gentleman."

"Have done with these fooleries," said Don Quixote; "let us push on
straight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to our
fancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life."

With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their



At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw two
boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said to the
other, "Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as long
as thou livest."

Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not mark,
friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as long as
thou livest'?"

"Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"

"What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the object
of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea more?"

Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing a
hare come flying across the plain pursued by several greyhounds and
sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and hide itself under
Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to Don Quixote, who was
saying, "Malum signum, malum signum! a hare flies, greyhounds chase it,
Dulcinea appears not."

"Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for granted
that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the malignant
enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she flies, and I catch
her and put her into your worship's hands, and you hold her in your arms
and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen is there to be
found here?"

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, and
Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was answered by
the one who had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou
livest," that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy,
and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he lived. Sancho took
out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the boy for the cage,
which he placed in Don Quixote's hands, saying, "There, senor! there are
the omens broken and destroyed, and they have no more to do with our
affairs, to my thinking, fool as I am, than with last year's clouds; and
if I remember rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that it
does not become Christians or sensible people to give any heed to these
silly things; and even you yourself said the same to me some time ago,
telling me that all Christians who minded omens were fools; but there's
no need of making words about it; let us push on and go into our

The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gave
them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the town
they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy with
their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way
of a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour, the
buckram robe painted with flames which they had put upon him at the
duke's castle the night Altisidora came back to life. He had also fixed
the mitre on Dapple's head, the oddest transformation and decoration that
ever ass in the world underwent. They were at once recognised by both the
curate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms. Don
Quixote dismounted and received them with a close embrace; and the boys,
who are lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and came
running to see it, calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and see
Sancho Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast
leaner than ever."

So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the
curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and
proceeded to Don Quixote's house, at the door of which they found his
housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had already reached.
It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, as well, and she with
her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her daughter by the
hand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him coming in by no means
as good case as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, "How
is it you come this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping and
footsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."

"Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are pegs
there are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there you'll hear
strange things. I bring money, and that's the main thing, got by my own
industry without wronging anybody."

"You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no matter
whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it,
you'll not have brought any new practice into the world."

Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything,
for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she
taking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand,
while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don
Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in the
company of the curate and the bachelor.

Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in
private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them of
his defeat, and of the engagement he was under not to quit his village
for a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without departing a
hair's breadth from it, as became a knight-errant bound by scrupulous
good faith and the laws of knight-errantry; and of how he thought of
turning shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitude
of the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give range to his
thoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he
besought them, if they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented
by more important business, to consent to be his companions, for he would
buy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important
point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had
given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what they
were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the shepherd
Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the
shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he should
once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his
chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be cured,
fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a bright one,
and offered to share the life with him. "And what's more," said Samson
Carrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I'll be
always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into my
head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions where we shall be
roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of us should choose
the name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and that
we should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up and
carving her name on it, as is the habit and custom of love-smitten

"That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved from
looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the ornament
of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all the graces,
and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is appropriate, be it ever
so hyperbolical."

"Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about for
accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or

"And," added Samson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them by the
names of the ones in print that the world is filled with, Filidas,
Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell them
in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make them our own. If my
lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, I'll sing
her praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I'll call her
Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same thing; and
Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa
Panza as Teresaina."

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate
bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he had
made, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he could
spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave of him,
recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and treat
himself to a suitable diet.

It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three of
them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to Don
Quixote, and said the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that we were
thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectable
life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements, and turn
'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going there?' Nay!
indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.'"

"And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear, out in
the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and the
howling of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a business for
hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the time they were
in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils, it's better to be a
knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor; take my advice--and I'm
not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty
years upon my head--stay at home, look after your affairs, go often to
confession, be good to the poor, and upon my soul be it if any evil comes
to you."

"Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well what
my duty is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and rest assured
that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail
to have a care for your interests, as you will see in the end." And the
good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and niece,
helped him to bed, where they gave him something to eat and made him as
comfortable as possible.



As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever downwards
from its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and as Don
Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay its course,
its end and close came when he least looked for it. For-whether it was of
the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heaven's will
that so ordered it--a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed for
six days, during which he was often visited by his friends the curate,
the bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire Sancho Panza never
quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at finding himself
vanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation and
disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state,
strove by all the means in their power to cheer him up; the bachelor
bidding him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for which
he himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that would take the
shine out of all Sannazaro had ever written, and had bought with his own
money two famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and the
other Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friends
called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfied
with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him to attend to
the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixote
heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire,
who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before them. The
doctor's opinion was that melancholy and depression were bringing him to
his end. Don Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a
wish to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the
saying is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought
he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up,
and in a loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me
such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men
can neither limit them nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they struck
her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during his
illness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor? Has anything strange
occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this
moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of
chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and
deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusions
has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some amends by reading
other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece, I feel myself at the
point of death, and I would fain meet it in such a way as to show that my
life has not been so ill that I should leave behind me the name of a
madman; for though I have been one, I would not that the fact should be
made plainer at my death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends the
curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for
I wish to confess and make my will." But his niece was saved the trouble
by the entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he
exclaimed, "Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote
of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name
of Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless
troop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of
knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which
reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right
senses, I loathe them."

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever
that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, "What?
Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea
being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on the
point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, are
you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven's sake, be rational and
let's have no more nonsense."

"All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a reality
to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my good. I feel,
sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let me
have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for in
extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while the
curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary."

They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but, though
uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs by
which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden and
complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the words
already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and so
rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of
mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed
him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwards
with him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor
the condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and niece
weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.

The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the Good
is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to him
while he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears
burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a
truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano
the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a
gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved,
not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the had
been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all the
devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said,
"Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho
Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him and
me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim be
made against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; but
that if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I
owe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much
good may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him
the government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give
him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his
character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turning
to Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as
mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into,
that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice and
live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to
let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or
any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't be lazy, but
get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd's trim as
we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcinea
disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of
vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were
overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must have
seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to
upset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror

"Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these cases is
quite right."

"Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests there are
no birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixote
of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my
repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for
me; and now let Master Notary proceed.

"Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece,
here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portion
of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And the
first disbursement I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe
for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over and
above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now
present, I appoint my executors.

"Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry,
she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained by
information taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and
if it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece
insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she shall
forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shall
devote to works of charity as they please.

"Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any happy
chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to have
written a history now going about under the title of 'Second Part of the
Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him on my behalf
as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without intending
it, the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absurdities as he
has written in it; for I am leaving the world with a feeling of
compunction at having provoked him to write them."

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he
stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter
and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived after
that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house was
all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank and
Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out or
softens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might be
expected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the sacraments,
and had in full and forcible terms expressed his detestation of books of
chivalry. The notary was there at the time, and he said that in no book
of chivalry had he ever read of any knight-errant dying in his bed so
calmly and so like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears and
lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say died.
On perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso
Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed
away from this present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this
testimony in order to remove the possibility of any other author save
Cide Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making
interminable stories out of his achievements.

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village
Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the towns
and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the right to
adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece contended
for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper are
omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco,
however, put the following lines:

A doughty gentleman lies here;
A stranger all his life to fear;
Nor in his death could Death prevail,
In that last hour, to make him quail.
He for the world but little cared;
And at his feats the world was scared;
A crazy man his life he passed,
But in his senses died at last.

And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by this
brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or clumsy
cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless
presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee.
But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to them:

Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!
Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king,
Was meant for me alone.

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mine
to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in spite of
that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would venture
with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write the
achievements of my valiant knight;--no burden for his shoulders, nor
subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to know
him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary mouldering
bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, in opposition
to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making him rise from the
grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at full length,
powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for the two that he
has already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to
whom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are
quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of
those made by the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt
thou discharge thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that
bears ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have
been the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as
he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver over to
the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of
chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now
tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell."

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