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Don Quixote by Miqeul de Cervantes [Saavedra]

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"Now let us come to those references to authors which other books
have, and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple:
You have only to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A
to Z as you say yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in
your book, and though the imposition may be plain to see, because
you have so little need to borrow from them, that is no matter;
there will probably be some simple enough to believe that you have
made use of them all in this plain, artless story of yours. At any
rate, if it answers no other purpose, this long catalogue of authors
will serve to give a surprising look of authority to your book.
Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify whether you have
followed them or whether you have not, being no way concerned in it;
especially as, if I mistake not, this book of yours has no need of any
one of those things you say it wants, for it is, from beginning to
end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle never
dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any knowledge; nor
do the niceties of truth nor the observations of astrology come within
the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have geometrical
measurements or refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything
to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up things
human and divine, a sort of motley in which no Christian understanding
should dress itself. It has only to avail itself of truth to nature in
its composition, and the more perfect the imitation the better the
work will be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing more than
to destroy the authority and influence which books of chivalry have in
the world and with the public, there is no need for you to go
a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy
Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles
from saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run
musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and
well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your
power, and putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or
obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy
may be moved to laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the
simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the
invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to
praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that
ill-founded edifice of the books of chivalry, hated by some and
praised by many more; for if you succeed in this you will have
achieved no small success."

In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his
observations made such an impression on me that, without attempting to
question them, I admitted their soundness, and out of them I
determined to make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt
perceive my friend's good sense, my good fortune in finding such an
adviser in such a time of need, and what thou hast gained in
receiving, without addition or alteration, the story of the famous Don
Quixote of La Mancha, who is held by all the inhabitants of the
district of the Campo de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and
the bravest knight that has for many years been seen in that
neighbourhood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee
in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honoured a knight,
but I do desire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make with
the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, to my thinking, I have
given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that are scattered
through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And so- may God
give thee health, and not forget me. Vale.



In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency
bestows on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to favor good
arts, chiefly those who by their nobleness do not submit to the
service and bribery of the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light
The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your
Excellency's glamorous name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such
grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably under his protection, so that
in this shadow, though deprived of that precious ornament of
elegance and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of
those who know, it dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some
who, trespassing the bounds of their own ignorance, use to condemn
with more rigour and less justice the writings of others. It is my
earnest hope that Your Excellency's good counsel in regard to my
honourable purpose, will not disdain the littleness of so humble a

Miguel de Cervantes



In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to
call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that
keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a
greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a
salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a
pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his
income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet
breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a
brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper
past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and
market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the
bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty;
he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and
a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or
Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the
authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable
conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This,
however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough
not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he
was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up
to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he
almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even
the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his
eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of
tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many
of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well
as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's composition, for their
lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his
sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and
cartels, where he often found passages like "the reason of the
unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that
with reason I murmur at your beauty;" or again, "the high heavens,
that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render
you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves." Over conceits of
this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake
striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what
Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come
to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about
the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to
him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have
had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He
commended, however, the author's way of ending his book with the
promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted
to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed,
which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work
of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a
learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the
better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas,
the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came
up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could
compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul,
because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no
finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter
of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so
absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise,
and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little
sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.
His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books,
enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves,
agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his
mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true,
that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to
say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be
compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke
cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of
Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of
enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he
strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly
of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is
always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and
well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially
when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he
met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as
his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at
that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his
niece into the bargain.

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest
notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he
fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own
honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a
knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on
horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself
all that he had read of as being the usual practices of
knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself
to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal
renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might
of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the
intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself
forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged
to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a
corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and
polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it,
that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This
deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind
of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked
like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong
and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of
slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a
week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces
disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set
to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was
satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more
experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the
most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than
a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "tantum
pellis et ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of
Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in
thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was
not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with
such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and
he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before
belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only
reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a
new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one,
befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so,
after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and
remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided
upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty,
sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he
became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious
to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this
point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself "Don Quixote,"
whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious
history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt
Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting,
however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself
curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom
and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul,
he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to
style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he
described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in
taking his surname from it.

So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a
helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to
the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for
a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a
tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said
to himself, "If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across
some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and
overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist,
or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have
some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and
fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive
voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of
Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently
extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to
present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me
at your pleasure'?" Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of
this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his
Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very
good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love,
though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to
the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought
fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search
for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should
suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided
upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso -she being of El Toboso- a name,
to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had
already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.



These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer
the execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all
the world was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to
right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to
remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his
intention to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning
before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the
month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with
his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by
the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had
made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find
himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one
all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very
outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and
that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to
bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he
ought, as a novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon
the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections
made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any
reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by
the first one he came across, following the example of others in the
same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this
pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the first opportunity, to
scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting
himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for
in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.

Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to
himself and saying, "Who knows but that in time to come, when the
veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who
writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early
morning, will do it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund
Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden
threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted
plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous
harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of
her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and
balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated
steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo
de Montiel;'" which in fact he was actually traversing. "Happy the
age, happy the time," he continued, "in which shall be made known my
deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned
in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician,
whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this
wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the
constant companion of my ways and wanderings." Presently he broke
out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, "O Princess
Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou
done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy
banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in
remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for
love of thee."

So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in
the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their
language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly
and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was
enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled
without anything remarkable happening to him, at which he was in
despair, for he was anxious to encounter some one at once upon whom to
try the might of his strong arm.

Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that
of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what
I have ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the
annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards
nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry,
when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or
shepherd's shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his
sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was
as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the palaces,
of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night
was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of
the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some
carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen
what might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imaged seemed to
him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read of, the
moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its
four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the
drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles
of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced,
and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some
dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet
give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing
that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to
reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two
gay damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two
fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through
the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology,
that is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them
together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was
expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so
with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the
ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour
and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn,
when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his
pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous
bearing and gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships need not
fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of
knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn
maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be." The girls were
looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which
the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called
maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain
their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say,
"Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause
is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for
my desire is none other than to serve you."

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our
cavalier only increased the ladies' laughter, and that increased his
irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment
the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very
peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did
not match any more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or
corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their
manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such
a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so
he said, "Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the
bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything
else here." Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the
Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes),
made answer, "Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for

'My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.'"

The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a
"worthy of Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from
the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of
tricks as a student or a page. "In that case," said he,

"'Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway;'

and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a
single night." So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don
Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had
not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take
great care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate
bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him
as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up
in the stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest,
whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were
now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and
backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or
remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green
ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut.
This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained
all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure
that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour,
taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree
belonging to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:

Oh, never, surely, was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he, Don Quixote hight,
When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself,
Princesses on his hack-

-or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and Don
Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of
declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour
had made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of
Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my
name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your
ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will
show my desire to serve you."

The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had
nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything
to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of something," said Don Quixote,
"for I feel it would come very seasonably." The day happened to be a
Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of
the fish they call in Castile "abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao,"
and in some places "curadillo," and in others "troutlet;" so they
asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was no
other fish to give him. "If there be troutlets enough," said Don
Quixote, "they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to
me whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight;
moreover, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is
better than beef, or kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it
be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot
be borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for him
at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought
him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of
bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight
it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver
up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless
some one else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies
rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or
would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting
one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all
which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his

While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who,
as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and
thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous
castle, and that they were regaling him with music, and that the
stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and
the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he held
that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it
distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was
plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without
receiving the order of knighthood.



Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty
pothouse supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and
shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before
him, saying, "From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your
courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your
praise and the benefit of the human race." The landlord, seeing his
guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring
at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and
entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to
grant the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no less, my lord, from
your High Magnificence," replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell
you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that
you shall dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall
watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I
have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me
lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking
adventures on behalf of those in distress, as is the duty of
chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambition is directed
to such deeds."

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag,
and had already some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was
quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to
make sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour.
So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in
view, and that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers
as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to
be; and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same
honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of
the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of
Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the
Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar,
the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters,
where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of
his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids
and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice
of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at
last he had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon
his property and upon that of others; and where he received all
knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for
the great love he bore them and that they might share their
substance with him in return for his benevolence. He told him,
moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he
could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be
rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched
anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the
castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies
might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so
thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any
money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a
farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of
any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was
mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, because in the
author's opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious
and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed
therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as
certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there were
so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in
case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little box of
ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains and
deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was
not always that there was some one to cure them, unless indeed they
had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by
fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial
of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured
of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they
had not received any damage whatever. But in case this should not
occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were
provided with money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments
for healing purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires
(which was rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried
everything in cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's
croup, as if it were something else of more importance, because,
unless for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very
favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him
(and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command him) never
from that time forth to travel without money and the usual
requirements, and he would find the advantage of them when he least
expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was
arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard
at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote
placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing
his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately
air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his
march night began to fall.

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze
of his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony
he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness,
they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what
composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his
lance, gazed on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever
so long; and as the night closed in with a light from the moon so
brilliant that it might vie with his that lent it, everything the
novice knight did was plainly seen by all.

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to
water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armour as
it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a
loud voice, "O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to
lay hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt
on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst
lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness." The carrier gave no
heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if
he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung
the armour some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his
eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady
Dulcinea, exclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter
that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection;
let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;"
and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his
buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a
blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the ground, so
stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been
no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour
and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.

Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for
the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of
giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour
in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a
word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and
once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second
carrier's head into pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it
open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the
spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his
buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, "O
Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for
thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on
the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself so
inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the
world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the
plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don
Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not
daring to quit the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The
landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already told
them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even
if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling
them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed
knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born
knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to
account for his treachery. "But of you," he cried, "base and vile
rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye can
against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence
will be." This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he
filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for this
reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him,
and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same
calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the
landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at
once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure
could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness
which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low
people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he
had already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle,
nor was it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he
understood the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being
dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder,
and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he
had now done all that was needful as to watching the armour, for all
requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had
been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told
him he stood there ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as
much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt
himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul
alive in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at
his bidding.

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a
book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to
the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two
damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and
bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were
repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he
raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with
his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering
between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this,
he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with
great self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to
prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what
they had already seen of the novice knight's prowess kept their
laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy
lady said to him, "May God make your worship a very fortunate
knight, and grant you success in battle." Don Quixote asked her name
in order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was
beholden for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon
her some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm.
She answered with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and
that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the
stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she might be she would
serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she
would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed the "Don" and
called herself Dona Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other
buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the same
conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and she
said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a
respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote
requested that she would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona
Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these
never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw
himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and
saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he
returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in
language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of
it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with
no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon
him to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.



Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so
gay, so exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his
joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the
advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him,
especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go
home and provide himself with all, and also with a squire, for he
reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man
with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a
knight. With this object he turned his horse's head towards his
village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out
so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.

He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed
to come feeble cries as of some one in distress, and the instant he
heard them he exclaimed, "Thanks be to heaven for the favour it
accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the
obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my
ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want
of help, and needing my aid and protection;" and wheeling, he turned
Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He
had gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to
an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a
youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor
were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a
belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands,
repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!" while the youth
made answer, "I won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I
won't do it again, and I'll take more care of the flock another time."

Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice,
"Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot
defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance" (for there was a
lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), "and I will
make you know that you are behaving as a coward." The farmer, seeing
before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his
head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, "Sir Knight,
this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch
a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I
lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and
knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the
wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies."

"Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun that
shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him
at once without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I
will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him

The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant,
of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.

He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it
up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to
pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he
had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for
there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of
shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he
was sick.

"All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and
the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have
given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the
shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the
barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he
was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."

"The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let
Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real."

"I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! No, senor, not
for the world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint

"He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have only
to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the
order of knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I
guarantee the payment."

"Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this
master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of
knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."

"That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be Haldudos
knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works."

"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine- of what works
is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?"

"I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer, "be good
enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of
knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by
real, and perfumed."

"For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it to
him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you
have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you
out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie
closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this
command upon you, that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know
that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of
wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind
what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have
been already declared to you."

So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The
farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared
the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres,
and said, "Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as
that undoer of wrongs has commanded me."

"My oath on it," said Andres, "your worship will be well advised
to obey the command of that good knight- may he live a thousand years-
for, as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay
me, he will come back and do as he said."

"My oath on it, too," said the farmer; "but as I have a strong
affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the
payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave
him such a flogging that he left him for dead.

"Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer of
wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that
I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive."
But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge
in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.

Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to
look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly
what had happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold;
but for all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly
satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a
very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road
towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice,
"Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on
earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen
to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and
pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of
knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance
that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day
plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly
lashing that tender child."

He now came to a road branching in four directions, and
immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where
knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should take.
In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having deeply
considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will
to that of his hack, who followed out his first intention, which was
to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two miles
Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards
appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at
Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades,
with four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely
had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this
must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he
could those passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to
come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a
lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his
stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his
breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood
waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now
considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough
to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, "All the world
stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is
no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso."

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of
the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and
language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished,
however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession
that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a
joke and was very sharp-witted, said to him, "Sir Knight, we do not
know who this good lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for,
if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and
without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part
required of us."

"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what merit
would you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential
point is that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm,
swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle,
ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by
one as the order of knighthood requires, or all together as is the
custom and vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you
relying on the justice of the cause I maintain."

"Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your worship in the
name of this present company of princes, that, to save us from
charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we have
never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of
the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship
will be pleased to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no
bigger than a grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the
ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will
be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed
with you that even though her portrait should show her blind of one
eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would
nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that
you desire."

"She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quixote,
burning with rage, "nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and
civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter
than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have
uttered against beauty like that of my lady."

And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who
had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not
contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would
have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over
went his master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and
when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with
lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and
all the while he was struggling to get up he kept saying, "Fly not,
cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am
I stretched here."

One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good
nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this
style, was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs;
and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in
pieces, with one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that,
notwithstanding and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a
measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and
to leave him alone, but the muleteers blood was up, and he did not
care to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and
gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a
discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks
that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the
brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired,
and the traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for
talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found
himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when
whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and
well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as
it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishap, and
entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered
in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.



Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself
of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some
passage in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about
Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on
the mountain side, a story known by heart by the children, not
forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old
folk; and for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of
Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the case in which he
found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he began to roll
on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the
wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:

Where art thou, lady mine, that thou
My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
Or else thou art untrue.

And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:

O noble Marquis of Mantua,
My Uncle and liege lord!

As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened
to come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had
been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man
stretched there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what
was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of
Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his
ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the
loves of the Emperor's son and his wife all exactly as the ballad
sings it.

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him
of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his
face, which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he
recognised him and said, "Senor Quixada" (for so he appears to have
been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a
quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), "who has brought your
worship to this pass?" But to all questions the other only went on
with his ballad.

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could
perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise
him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon
his ass, which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and
collecting the arms, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied
them on Rocinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass by the
halter he took the road for the village, very sad to hear what
absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking. Nor was Don Quixote less so, for
what with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and
from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more he
drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only
the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own
adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the
Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez,
took him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the
peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for
reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave
to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the "Diana" of
Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case
so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to
listen to such a lot of nonsense; from which, however, he came to
the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to
reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of
Don Quixote's; who, at the end of it, said, "Senor Don Rodrigo de
Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned
is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing,
and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world
have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen."

To this the peasant answered, "Senor- sinner that I am!- cannot your
worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of
Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is
neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor

"I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know that I may be
not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and
even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that
they have done all together and each of them on his own account."

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village
just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it
was a little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen
riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the
proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house,
which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the
village barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and his
housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice, "What does your
worship think can have befallen my master, Senor Licentiate Pero
Perez?" for so the curate was called; "it is three days now since
anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance,
or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that
I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and
has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his
reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself
that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of
adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have
brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in
all La Mancha!"

The niece said the same, and, more: "You must know, Master
Nicholas"- for that was the name of the barber- "it was often my
uncle's way to stay two days and nights together poring over these
unholy books of misventures, after which he would fling the book
away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and
when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four
towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said
was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he
would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet,
saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage
Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I
take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships
of my uncle's vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before
things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books- for
he has a great number- that richly deserve to be burned like

"So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith to-morrow shall
not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be
condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my
good friend seems to have behaved."

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what
was the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, "Open,
your worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor the Marquis of Mantua,
who comes badly wounded, and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom
the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised
their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the
ass because he could not, they ran to embrace him.

"Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse's fault;
carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and
see to my wounds."

"See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did not
my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To
bed with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here
without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a
hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought
your worship to such a pass."

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his
wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from
having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat
with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.

"So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By the
sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day over."

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer
to all was- give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for
that was what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned
the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He
told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way
home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did
the next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master
Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote's house.



He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of
the room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and
right willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper
with them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very
well bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper
saw them she turned about and ran out of the room, and came back
immediately with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying,
"Here, your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don't leave
any magician of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in
revenge for our design of banishing them from the world."

The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and
he directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what
they were about, as there might be some to be found among them that
did not deserve the penalty of fire.

"No," said the niece, "there is no reason for showing mercy to any
of them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling
them out of the window into the court and make a pile of them and
set fire to them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a
bonfire can be made without the smoke giving any annoyance." The
housekeeper said the same, so eager were they both for the slaughter
of those innocents, but the curate would not agree to it without first
reading at any rate the titles.

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The four books
of Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious thing," said the
curate, "for, as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth
and origin; so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it
to the flames as the founder of so vile a sect."

"Nay, sir," said the barber, "I too, have heard say that this is the
best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so,
as something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned."

"True," said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be spared
for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it."

"It is," said the barber, "the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful
son of Amadis of Gaul."

"Then verily," said the curate, "the merit of the father must not be
put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper;
open the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of
the pile for the bonfire we are to make."

The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy
"Esplandian" went flying into the yard to await with all patience
the fire that was in store for him.

"Proceed," said the curate.

"This that comes next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece,'
and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis

"Then to the yard with the whole of them," said the curate; "for
to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel
and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his
author, I would burn with them the father who begot me if he were
going about in the guise of a knight-errant."

"I am of the same mind," said the barber.

"And so am I," added the niece.

"In that case," said the housekeeper, "here, into the yard with

They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she
spared herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.

"Who is that tub there?" said the curate.

"This," said the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"

"The author of that book," said the curate, "was the same that wrote
'The Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no deciding which of the
two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less
lying; all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a
swaggering fool."

"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'" said the barber.

"Senor Florismarte here?" said the curate; "then by my faith he must
take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and
visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style
deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress

"With all my heart, senor," said she, and executed the order with
great delight.

"This," said the barber, "is The Knight Platir.'"

"An old book that," said the curate, "but I find no reason for
clemency in it; send it after the others without appeal;" which was

Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, "The Knight
of the Cross."

"For the sake of the holy name this book has," said the curate, "its
ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross
there's the devil; to the fire with it."

Taking down another book, the barber said, "This is 'The Mirror of

"I know his worship," said the curate; "that is where Senor
Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades,
greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the
veracious historian Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to
more than perpetual banishment, because, at any rate, they have some
share in the invention of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the
Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him
here, and speaking any language but his own, I shall show no respect
whatever; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my

"Well, I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not
understand him."

"Nor would it be well that you should understand him," said the
curate, "and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had
not brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed
him of a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who
try to turn books written in verse into another language, for, with
all the pains they take and all the cleverness they show, they never
can reach the level of the originals as they were first produced. In
short, I say that this book, and all that may be found treating of
those French affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry
well, until after more consideration it is settled what is to be
done with them; excepting always one 'Bernardo del Carpio' that is
going about, and another called 'Roncesvalles;' for these, if they
come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the
housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve."

To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as
right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to
the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say
anything opposed to them. Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin
de Oliva," and beside it was another called "Palmerin of England,"
seeing which the licentiate said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of
at once and burned until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm
of England be kept and preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let
such another case be made for it as that which Alexander found among
the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of the works
of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons,
first because it is very good, and secondly because it is said to have
been written by a wise and witty king of Portugal. All the
adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and of
admirable contrivance, and the language is polished and clear,
studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with
propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to you, Master
Nicholas, I say let this and 'Amadis of Gaul' be remitted the
penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without
further question or query."

"Nay, gossip," said the barber, "for this that I have here is the
famous 'Don Belianis.'"

"Well," said the curate, "that and the second, third, and fourth
parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of
bile, and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of
Fame and other greater affectations, to which end let them be
allowed the over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall
mercy or justice be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip,
do you keep them in your house and let no one read them."

"With all my heart," said the barber; and not caring to tire himself
with reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take
all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to
one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than
weaving the broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about
eight at a time, she flung them out of the window.

In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the
barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it
said, "History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco."

"God bless me!" said the curate with a shout, "'Tirante el Blanco'
here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury
of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of
Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan,
and the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with
the mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and
the loves and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love
with the squire Hipolito- in truth, gossip, by right of its style it
is the best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die
in their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great deal
more of which there is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I
say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such fooleries,
deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it home with you and
read it, and you will see that what I have said is true."

"As you will," said the barber; "but what are we to do with these
little books that are left?"

"These must be, not chivalry, but poetry," said the curate; and
opening one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Montemayor, and,
supposing all the others to be of the same sort, "these," he said, "do
not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor
can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of
entertainment that can hurt no one."

"Ah, senor!" said the niece, "your worship had better order these to
be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after
being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took
a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and
piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is
an incurable and infectious malady."

"The damsel is right," said the curate, "and it will be well to
put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend's way. To
begin, then, with the 'Diana' of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should
not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the
sage Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer
pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of
being the first of books of the kind."

"This that comes next," said the barber, "is the 'Diana,' entitled
the 'Second Part, by the Salamancan,' and this other has the same
title, and its author is Gil Polo."

"As for that of the Salamancan," replied the curate, "let it go to
swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be
preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and
make haste, for it is growing late."

"This book," said the barber, opening another, "is the ten books
of the 'Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian

"By the orders I have received," said the curate, "since Apollo
has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been
poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written,
and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this
species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be
sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I
make more account of having found it than if they had given me a
cassock of Florence stuff."

He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on,
"These that come next are 'The Shepherd of Iberia,' 'Nymphs of
Henares,' and 'The Enlightenment of Jealousy.'"

"Then all we have to do," said the curate, "is to hand them over
to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall
never have done."

"This next is the 'Pastor de Filida.'"

"No Pastor that," said the curate, "but a highly polished
courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel."

"This large one here," said the barber, "is called 'The Treasury
of various Poems.'"

"If there were not so many of them," said the curate, "they would be
more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain
vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved
because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other
more heroic and loftier works that he has written."

"This," continued the barber, "is the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de

"The author of that book, too," said the curate, "is a great
friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration
of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he
enchants when he chants them: it gives rather too much of its
eclogues, but what is good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept
with those that have been set apart. But what book is that next it?"

"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.

"That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine,
and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in
verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with
something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the
Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in
winning the full measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the
mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters."

"Very good," said the barber; "and here come three together, the
'Araucana' of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo,
Justice of Cordova, and the 'Montserrate' of Christobal de Virues, the
Valencian poet."

"These three books," said the curate, "are the best that have been
written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the
most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures
of poetry that Spain possesses."

The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and
so he decided that, "contents uncertified," all the rest should be
burned; but just then the barber held open one, called "The Tears of

"I should have shed tears myself," said the curate when he heard the
title, "had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one
of the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very
happy in the translation of some of Ovid's fables."



At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, "Here, here,
valiant knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your
strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the
tourney!" Called away by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no
farther with the scrutiny of the remaining books, and so it is thought
that "The Carolea," "The Lion of Spain," and "The Deeds of the
Emperor," written by Don Luis de Avila, went to the fire unseen and
unheard; for no doubt they were among those that remained, and perhaps
if the curate had seen them they would not have undergone so severe
a sentence.

When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was
still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide
awake as if he had never slept.

They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he
had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, "Of a
truth, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call
ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of
the Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers
having carried off the honour on the three former days."

"Hush, gossip," said the curate; "please God, the luck may turn, and
what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your
worship have a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are
over-fatigued, if not badly wounded."

"Wounded no," said Don Quixote, "but bruised and battered no
doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk
of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival
him in his achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of
Montalvan did he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as
soon as I rise from this bed. For the present let them bring me
something to eat, for that, I feel, is what will be more to my
purpose, and leave it to me to avenge myself."

They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more
he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness.

That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were
in the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed
that deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and
the laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was
verified the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.

One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately
applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up and plaster the room
where the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them
(possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease), and they
might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this
was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the
first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding
the room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking
for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it
with his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction
without saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper
whereabouts was the room that held his books.

The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she
was to answer, said, "What room or what nothing is it that your
worship is looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house
now, for the devil himself has carried all away."

"It was not the devil," said the niece, "but a magician who came
on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and
dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and
what he did there I know not, but after a little while he made off,
flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we
went to see what he had done we saw neither book nor room: but we
remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old
villain said in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the
owner of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house
that would be discovered by-and-by: he said too that his name was
the Sage Munaton."

"He must have said Friston," said Don Quixote.

"I don't know whether he called himself Friston or Friton," said the
housekeeper, "I only know that his name ended with 'ton.'"

"So it does," said Don Quixote, "and he is a sage magician, a
great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by
his arts and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single
combat with a knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and
he will be unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours
to do me all the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be
hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven."

"Who doubts that?" said the niece; "but, uncle, who mixes you up
in these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your
own house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than
ever came of wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come
back shorn?"

"Oh, niece of mine," replied Don Quixote, "how much astray art
thou in thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and
stripped off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a
hair of mine."

The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw
that his anger was kindling.

In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly
without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former
delusions, and during this time he held lively discussions with his
two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he maintained,
that knights-errant were what the world stood most in need of, and
that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The
curate sometimes contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if
he had not observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring
him to reason.

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of
his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is
poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked
him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor
clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as
esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be
ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an adventure might
occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave
him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for
so the labourer was called) left wife and children, and engaged
himself as esquire to his neighbour. Don Quixote next set about
getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and
making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He
provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a
friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned
his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he
might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he
charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he would, and
that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he was not
much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a
little, trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant
taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no instance
occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined to take
him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when a
chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the first
discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts
and such other things as he could, according to the advice the host
had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper
and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one
night, and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight
they held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made
for them.

Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota,
and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master
had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and
road he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de
Montiel, which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last
occasion, for, as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on
them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.

And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will take
care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have
promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend Sancho
Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the
knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands
or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there shall be no
failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean
to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently,
waited until their squires were old, and then when they had had enough
of service and hard days and worse nights, they gave them some title
or other, of count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province
more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that
before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has
others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable
thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this
wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in
ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even
more than I promise thee."

"In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king by one
of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old
woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes."

"Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.

"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am
persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth,
not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you,
senor, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit
her better, and that only with God's help."

"Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he will give
her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to
come to be content with anything less than being governor of a

"I will not, senor," answered Sancho, "specially as I have a man
of such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to
give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear."



At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that
there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his
squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have
shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza,
where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of
whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we
shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and
it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of
the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long
arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long."

"Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants
but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that
turned by the wind make the millstone go."

"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to
this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid,
away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage
them in fierce and unequal combat."

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of
the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most
certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack.
He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard
the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were,
but made at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a
single knight attacks you."

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails
began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish
more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady
Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance
in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's
fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of
him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it
round with such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping
with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a
sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his
ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with
such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.

"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to mind
what you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could
have made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same
kind in his head."

"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of war
more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and
moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who
carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into mills
in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the
enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but
little against my good sword."

"God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise
got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and
then, discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to
Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to
find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great
thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved at the loss of his
lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, "I remember having
read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name, having
broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or
branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many
Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his
descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I
mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such
another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am
determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself
very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an
eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed."

"Be that as God will," said Sancho, "I believe it all as your
worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on
one side, may be from the shaking of the fall."

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no complaint
of the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain
of any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it."

"If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I
would rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my
part, I confess I must complain however small the ache may be;
unless this rule about not complaining extends to the squires of
knights-errant also."

Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity,
and he assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose,
just as he liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the
contrary in the order of knighthood.

Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master
answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might
eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as
comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas
what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master
munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota
with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied;
and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after
draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had
made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation
going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally
they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don
Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a
lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one.
All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in
order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in
the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the
memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for
having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he
made but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him,
neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery
notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had
power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it
somewhat less full than the night before, which grieved his heart
because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency
readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has
been already said, he confined himself to savoury recollections for

They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto
Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here,
brother Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he saw it, "we may plunge
our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but
observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the
world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless
indeed thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base
folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they
be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws
of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight."

"Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall be
fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful
and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as
regards the defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to
those laws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself
against any assailant whatever."

"That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding me
against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural

"I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and will keep
this precept as carefully as Sunday."

While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars
of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less
tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling
spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach
attended by four or five persons on horseback and two muleteers on
foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on
her way to Seville, where her husband was about to take passage for
the Indies with an appointment of high honour. The friars, though
going the same road, were not in her company; but the moment Don
Quixote perceived them he said to his squire, "Either I am mistaken,
or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been
seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless
are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that
coach, and with all my might I must undo this wrong."

"This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look,
senor; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs
to some travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and
don't let the devil mislead you."

"I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that on
the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the
truth, as thou shalt see presently."

So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the
road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought
they had come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud,
"Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn
princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else
prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil

The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don
Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, "Senor
Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St.
Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are
any captive princesses coming in this coach."

"No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said Don
Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with
levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and
determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the
mule, he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and
sore wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how
his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a mule and
made off across the country faster than the wind.

Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting
briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his
gown. At that instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he
was stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him
lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won.
The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all
this about battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some
distance off talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho,
knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured
him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on
the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to mount, who,
trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in the
saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance
looking on, watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring
to wait for the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their
journey making more crosses than if they had the devil after them.

Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the
coach: "Your beauty, lady mine," said he, "may now dispose of your
person as may be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the
pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this
strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know the name
of your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha,
knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peerless and
beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the service
you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return to
El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell
her what I have done to set you free."

One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was
listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would
not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to
El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in
bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, "Begone,
caballero, and ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless
thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here a Biscayan."

Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very
quietly, "If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have
already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature." To
which the Biscayan returned, "I no gentleman! -I swear to God thou
liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword,
soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on
land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest
otherwise thou liest."

"'"You will see presently," said Agrajes,'" replied Don Quixote; and
throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler
on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.

The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to
dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let
out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his
sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from
which he was able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield;
and they went at one another as if they had been two mortal enemies.
The others strove to make peace between them, but could not, for the
Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not let
him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that
strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified
at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and
set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which
the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over
the top of his buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have
cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this
prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, "O lady of my soul, Dulcinea,
flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in
fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this
extreme peril." To say this, to lift his sword, to shelter himself
well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an
instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The
Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage
by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he
waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion, being unable
to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which, dead tired
and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir a step.

On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary
Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in
half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and
under the protection of his cushion; and all present stood
trembling, waiting in suspense the result of blows such as
threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and the rest of her
following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the
images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all
of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it
spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the history
leaves this battle impending, giving as excuse that he could find
nothing more written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what
has been already set forth. It is true the second author of this
work was unwilling to believe that a history so curious could have
been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the
wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve
in their archives or registries some documents referring to this
famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair of
finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven
favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in the
Second Part.



In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and
the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to
deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full
and fair they would at least have split and cleft them asunder from
top to toe and laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so
critical point the delightful history came to a stop and stood cut
short without any intimation from the author where what was missing
was to be found.

This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having
read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the
poor chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so
it seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It
appeared to me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all
precedent that so good a knight should have been without some sage
to undertake the task of writing his marvellous achievements; a
thing that was never wanting to any of those knights-errant who,
they say, went after adventures; for every one of them had one or
two sages as if made on purpose, who not only recorded their deeds but
described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret
they might be; and such a good knight could not have been so
unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had in
abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a
gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the
blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had
either concealed or consumed it.

On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books
there had been found such modern ones as "The Enlightenment of
Jealousy" and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares," his story must
likewise be modern, and that though it might not be written, it
might exist in the memory of the people of his village and of those in
the neighbourhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to

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