The appearance of Aurora that rejoices the earth, had a quite contrary effect upon Sancho Panza; who, missing his Dapple, and searching for him in vain, began to utter the most woeful lamentation that ever was heard; and Don Quixote, waked by the noise, heard him exclaiming in this manner: ‘O son of my bowels! born in my house, the play fellow of my children, the delight of my spouse, the envy of my neighbours, and comforter of my cares! in short, the half of my sustenance: for with six and twenty maravedis, which thou hast daily earned, did I defray one half of my family-expence!’ Don Quixote hearing this complaint, and being informed of the cause, consoled Sancho with all the arguments in his power; and, begging him to have patience, promised to give him a bill of exchange, on sight of which he should receive three asses out of five, which the knight had left at home. Sancho being comforted with this declaration, dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and returned a thousand thanks to Don Quixote for his generosity. As they sauntered among the rocks, the knight’s heart was rejoiced to see places so well adapted to those adventures he was in quest of; for they recalled to his remembrance those wonderful events which had happened to knights-errant among such rocks and solitudes: he went on, musing on these subjects, and indeed so wrapped up and engrossed by them, that he minded nothing else; while Sancho’s only care, now that he thought he travelled in safety, was to satisfy his appetite with what remained of the spoils of the clergy; he therefore jogged on leisurely after his master, sitting side-ways on his ass^[74], and replenishing his own bags out of that which contained the provision; and while he was thus employed, would not have given a farthing for the best adventure that could happen.

Chancing, however, to lift up his eyes, he perceived his master had stopped, and was endeavouring, with the point of his lance to raise some bundle that lay upon the ground; he therefore hastened up to him, in order to lend his assistance, should it be found necessary; and arrived just as the knight had turned up with his lance, a pillion with a portmanteau fixed to it, all rotted and consumed by the weather; but so heavy, that Sancho was obliged to alight, in order to take them up. His master having ordered him to examine the contents of the portmanteau, he obeyed with great alacrity, and though it was shut with a chain and padlock, there were so many holes in it, that he soon reached the inside, where he found four shirts of fine holland, with other provision of linen, equally fashionable and clean, together with a pretty large heap of crowns of gold, wrapped up in a rag; which he no sooner perceived, than he cried in a rapture, ‘Blessed be Heaven for granting us one advantageous adventure!’ then continuing his search, he found a pocket-book richly garnished, which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding him keep the money for his own use. Sancho kissed his hand for the favour, and taking the linen out of the portmanteau, crammed it into the bag that held their provision.

The knight having considered the whole affair, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am of opinion, and I cannot possibly be mistaken, that some bewildered traveller, in his passage over these mountains, has been set upon by robbers, who having slain him, must have dragged his body to be buried in this unfrequented place.’—‘That cannot be the case,’ answered the squire; ‘for if they had been robbers, they would not have left the money behind them.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and I cannot guess nor conceive what the matter can have been. Let us see if there be any thing written in this pocket-book, by which we may trace out and come to the certainty of what we want to know.’ He opened it accordingly, and the first thing he found was the rough draught, though very legible, of a sonnet, which he read aloud for the benefit of Sancho, in these words.

‘From such rhyme,’ said Sancho, ‘there is no information to be got, unless by that Clue we could come to the bottom of the affair^[75].’—‘What clue dost thou mean?’ said the knight. ‘The Clue your worship mentioned just now in the sonnet,’ answered the squire. ‘I mentioned no clue,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but Chloe, which is without doubt the name of the lady of whom the author of these verses complains; and really he must have been a very ingenious poet, or else I know very little of the art.’—‘Then your worship understands crambo?’ said the squire. ‘Better than you imagine,’ answered the knight, ‘as you will see when you carry from me a letter to my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verse from top to bottom; for thou must know, Sancho, that all, or the greatest part of the knights-errant who lived in former ages, were very much addicted to poetry and musick; these two qualities, or rather gifts of nature, being annexed to all errants in love; though the truth is, their couplets were rather sprightly than elegant.’—‘I wish your worship would read on,’ said Sancho; ‘perhaps you may find something more to our satisfaction.’ Accordingly the knight having turned over the leaf, ‘Here is prose,’ said he; ‘and seems to be a letter.’ Sancho asking if it was upon business, his master replied, ‘In the beginning there was nothing but love.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ cried Sancho, ‘read it aloud; for I am highly delighted with matters of love.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Don Quixote; who raising his voice, in compliance with the squire’s request, read what follows.

‘Thy false promises, together with the certainty of my misfortune, have exiled me to a corner of the world, from whence thou wilt hear an account of my death, before this my complaint shall reach thine ears. Thou hast cast me off, ungrateful as thou art, in favour of one who, though he is richer, is not a more deserving lover than me: for if virtue were the wealth that is most esteemed, I should have no cause to envy the happiness of others, or to bewail my own mishap. What thy beauty had raised, thy behaviour has overthrown: by the first I mistook thee for an angel; by the last I discovered thee to be a woman. Mayest thou live in peace, fair authoress of my misfortunes; and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband may never be disclosed, that thou mayest never repent of what thou hast done, nor I enjoy the revenge I do not desire!’

Don Quixote having read this letter, observed that nothing else could be inferred either from it, or the verses, but that the author was some despairing lover. Then perusing the rest of the book, he found more verses and letters, some legible, and others not intelligible; but the substance of them all was composed of complaints, lamentations, suspicions, desires, disgusts, favours, and disdain, some of which were extolled, and others deplored. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho rummaged the portmanteau, without leaving a corner in that of the pillion which he did not search, pry into, and overhaul; no seam was left unripped, no lock of wool unpicked, that nothing might be lost through negligence and want of care; so much was his cupidity awakened, by finding the money, which amounted to more than a hundred crowns; and though he reaped no other fruit from his industry, he thought himself abundantly requited for his capers in the blanket, his vomit of the balsam, the benediction of the pack-staves, the fisty-cuffs of the carrier, the loss of his bags, the robbery of his great coat, with all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had undergone in the service of his worthy master, who had made him more than amends by his generous present of this windfall.

The knight of the rueful countenance was impatient to know the owner of the portmanteau; conjecturing by the sonnet, the letter, the gold, and the fine linen, that he must be some lover of quality, whom the disdain and barbarity of his mistress had driven to some desperate end: but, as in that uninhabited and rocky place, there was nobody who could give him the information he wanted, he resolved to penetrate still farther into the mountain, without taking any other road than what Rozinante should chuse for his own conveniency, still confident of meeting with some strange adventure among these briars and brambles.

As he went on, entertaining himself with these reflections, he perceived upon the top of a hill right before him, a man skipping from bush to bush, and rock to rock, with wonderful agility; his body seemed naked, his beard black and bushy, his hair long and matted, his feet unshod, his legs bare, and his thighs covered with breeches, which to all appearance were of crimson, but so ragged, that his skin appeared through many different holes, while his head was without any sort of covering. Notwithstanding the nimbleness with which he passed, all these minute circumstances were seen and remarked by the knight of the rueful countenance, who in vain attempted to follow him; those rough roads being quite unpassable by the feeble Rozinante, who was naturally phlegmatick and tender-footed. However, Don Quixote concluded that this must be the owner of the pillion and portmanteau, and determined within himself to find him out, although he should travel a whole year through the mountains for that very purpose. With this view he ordered Sancho to alight, and take a short cut over one part of the mountain, while he should go round the other; and by this expedient they might come up with the man who had so suddenly vanished from their sight. ‘That proposal I can by no means comply with,’ answered the squire; ‘for if I stir but an inch from your worship, fear instantly lays hold on me, and assaults me in a thousand horrid shapes and visions; and let this serve to apprize you, that henceforward, I will not budge a finger’s breadth from your presence.’—‘Be it so,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘and I am very glad that thou canst avail thyself of my courage, which shall never fail thee, even if thy soul should fail thy body; follow me, therefore, step by step, or at thy own leisure; and use thine eyes like two spy glasses; we will take a compass round this little mountain, and perhaps we may meet again with that man, who is certainly no other than the owner of what we found.’ To this observation Sancho replied, ‘Methinks we may save ourselves that trouble; for if, upon finding him, he should prove to be the owner of the money, I must of course make restitution; therefore we had better spare all this fruitless search; and keep it bona fide, until the true owner appear of himself, without all this intricate enquiry: and before that happens, perhaps I shall have spent the whole, and then I shall be discharged by law.’—‘In that notion thou art mistaken, Sancho,’ resumed the knight; ‘for as we have already good grounds to believe he is the owner, it is our duty to find him out, and restore what we have taken; and though we should not find him, the strong reason we have to believe that it belongs to him will make us equally guilty in detaining it, as we should be if it really did. Wherefore, friend Sancho, do not give thyself any uneasiness about the enquiry; because if we find him, I shall be freed from a great deal of anxiety.’ So saying, he put spurs to Rozinante, and Sancho followed him in his usual manner. Having surrounded part of the mountain, they found in a brook that watered the foot of it, a dead mule saddled and bridled, and half consumed by the dogs and crows; another circumstance which confirmed them in the opinion, that he who fled from them was master both of the mule and portmanteau.

While they were looking at this object, they heard a shepherd’s whistle, and presently on the left appeared a good number of goats, and behind them, on the top of the mountain, they descried the goatherd, who seemed to be a man in years. Don Quixote calling aloud, entreated him to come down; and he, in the same tone, asked what had brought them to that place, which was seldom trodden, except by the feet of goats, wolves, and other wild beasts that harboured thereabouts? Sancho bade him come down, and they would tell him what had brought them thither; upon which the goatherd descended, and coming up to Don Quixote, ‘I will wager,’ said he, ‘that you are looking at the hireling mule, which lies dead in that bottom, where in good sooth it hath lain full six months. Pray, have you met with its master?’—‘We have met with nothing,’ answered the knight, ‘but a pillion and portmanteau, which we found not far from hence.’—‘I have often seen the same things,’ replied the goatherd, ‘but would never touch nor go near them, being afraid of some misfortune, or of being questioned for theft; for the devil is very cunning, and raises blocks under our feet, over which we stumble, and very often fall, without knowing how or wherefore.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘though I saw them also, I would not go within a stone’s throw of them; there I left them, and there they remain as they were; for I don’t chuse to steal a dog with a collar about his neck^[76].’—‘Pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said Quixote, ‘dost thou know who the owner of these things is?’—‘All that I can say of the matter,’ answered the goatherd, ‘is, that it may be about six months, more or less, since there came to our hut, which is about three leagues from hence, a very genteel young man of a comely appearance, riding upon that very mule that now lies dead, with the same pillion and portmanteau which you say you found. He asked what part of the mountain was the most woody and concealed, and we told him, that it was this very spot where we now are; and it is so, for if you go half a league farther into the mountain, you will perhaps find it a very difficult matter to return: and I marvel much how you have got so far, for there is neither high-road nor by-path that leads to this place. But as I was saying, the young man hearing our reply, turned his mule, and rode towards the place to which we had directed him, leaving us all very much pleased with his appearance, though not a little surprized at his question, and the speed with which we saw him ride back, into the heart of the mountain: from that time we saw no more of him, till a few days after; when he sprung upon one of our shepherds on the road; and, without saying why or wherefore, beat and bruised him unmercifully; after which he went to the sumpter ass, and carrying off all the bread and cheese that was on his back, with surprizing nimbleness, ran back again to the thicket. As soon as we understood this particular, several of us goatherds went in search of him, through the most wild and unfrequented part of the mountain, for the space of two days, at the end of which we found him lying in the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us in a very civil manner, with his cloaths all torn, and his face so tanned and disfigured by the sun, that we should scarce have known him, had not his cloaths, tattered as they were, which we had before taken particular notice of, assured us that he was the person we went in search of. He saluted us very courteously, and in a few words, though very well chosen, bade us not wonder at seeing him in that condition; for he was obliged in that manner to do penance, which had been enjoined him, on account of his manifold sins and transgressions. We earnestly begged to know who he was; but that he never could be prevailed upon to tell: we desired him also, whenever he should have occasion for food, without which he could not live, to tell us where we should find him, and we would bring it to him with great care and affection; or if that was not to his liking, we desired him to ask it civilly, without taking it by force. He thanked us kindly for our tenders of service, begged pardon for the assaults he had committed, and promised for the future, to ask it for God’s sake, without giving offence to any person whatsoever. With regard to the place of his habitation, he said, he had no other than that which chance presented every night when it grew dark; and concluded his discourse with such piteous lamentation, that our hearts must have been made of flint, if we could have heard it without shedding tears, considering the woeful change he had undergone since we saw him at first: for as I have already observed, he was a genteel, comely youth, and by his courteous and polite discourse, shewed himself to be a person of good birth and excellent breeding; and though we who heard him were only home-bred country people, the gentility of his carriage was easily perceived by our clownish ignorance. In the midst of this conversation that passed between him and us, he grew silent all of a sudden, and nailed, as it were, his eyes to the ground, for a considerable space of time, during which we remained in suspense and no small concern, to see the effect of this stupefaction; for by his staring at the ground for a good while, without moving his eye-lids, then shutting them close and biting his lips, and then drawing up the skin of his forehead, we could easily perceive that he was seized with some fit of madness; and he soon confirmed the truth of our opinion, for he sprung up with surprizing force from the ground on which he had thrown himself, and attacked the person who was next to him with such rage and resolution, that if we had not taken him off, he would have beaten and bit him to death; crying aloud all the time, “Ha, treacherous Fernando! now shalt thou pay for the injury thou hast done me. These hands shall tear out thy heart, in which all kinds of wickedness, particularly fraud and deceit, are harboured and dwell!” To these he added other expressions, tending to reproach that Fernando with treachery and baseness. When we had got our friend out of his clutches, with no small trouble, he went off without speaking another word, and ran at full speed among these shrubs and brambles, so as that it was impossible for us to follow him. From these things we conjectured that his madness came upon him by fits, and that some person of the name of Fernando must have done him some deadly wrong, which hath driven him to distraction. Indeed, this conjecture has been since confirmed by his different behaviour on divers occasions, when he hath met with our shepherds, from whom he hath sometimes begged part of their provision, and at other times hath taken it by force; for when the fit of lunacy is upon him, though they offer it of their own free will, he will not accept of it peaceably, without coming to blows; but when he is in his right senses, he begs it for God’s sake, in a very courteous and civil manner, and returns many thanks for the favour, accompanied with abundance of tears. And truly, gentlemen,’ added the goatherd, ‘I and four more country lads, two of them my own servants, and the other two friends of mine, yesterday resolved to go in search of him, and after having found him, to carry him, either by force or fair means, to the city of Almodavar, which is about eight leagues from hence, and there have him cured, if he be curable; or learn of him, when he is in his senses, who he is, or whether or not he has any relations to whom we may give an account of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can say, in answer to the questions you asked; and you may take it for granted, that the owner of the goods you found, is the very same person whom you saw skip about half-naked, with such agility:’ for Don Quixote had said that they had seen a man in that condition, leaping from rock to rock.

The knight was very much surprized at this information of the goatherd, which making him still more impatient to know who this unfortunate lunatick was, he determined with himself to put his former design in execution, and go in quest of him, through the whole mountain, without leaving a cave or corner unsearched until he should find him. But accident was more his friend on this occasion than he could either imagine or expect; for at that instant, the young man of himself appeared in the cleft of a rock hard by the place where they stood; and came towards them, muttering something to himself, which they could not have understood had he been near, much less as he was at some distance from them. His equipage was just as it has been described; but, as he approached, Don Quixote perceived that his buff doublet, though torn to rags, still retained the perfume: from whence he concluded, that the person who wore such dress, could not be a man of the lowest rank. When he came up, he saluted them very politely, though with a hoarse, mistuned voice; and the salutation was returned with no less courtesy by Don Quixote, who alighting from Rozinante, with genteel and graceful deportment, went and embraced the stranger, whom he strained within his arms a good while, as if he had been a very old acquaintance. The other, who might have been called the tatterdemalion of the distracted, as Don Quixote was stiled the knight of the rueful countenance, after having submitted to this embrace, stepped back, and laying his hands on the shoulders of the knight, stood looking attentively in his face, in order to recollect him; no less astonished, perhaps, at the figure, mien, and armour of Don Quixote, than this last was surprized at his forlorn appearance. At length, the first who broke silence after the embrace, was the ragged youth, who spoke what you may read in the following chapter.

CHAP. X.
THE CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIERRA MORENA.

The history relates, that Don Quixote listened with vast attention to the shabby knight of the mountain, who began the conversation thus: ‘Assuredly, Signior, though I have not the honour to know who you are, I thank you heartily for those expressions of kindness with which you treat me; and wish I were in such a situation as would enable me to repay this courteous reception with something more than mere good-will: but my hapless fortune affords me nothing to offer in return for the civilities that are shewn me, except a hearty inclination to make a more adequate satisfaction.’—‘My will and desire,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to serve you is so strong, that I was determined not to quit these mountains until I had found you, and learned of yourself whether or not the grief you manifest in this strange course of life, could be alleviated by any kind of remedy, for which, had need required, I would have searched with all possible diligence; and had your misfortune been such as shut up all the avenues to advice and redress, I was resolved to join your lamentations, and bemoan your misery to the utmost of my power: for, in all misfortunes, the greatest consolation is a sympathizing friend; and if this my friendly intention deserves the least return of civility, I entreat you, Signior, by that courtesy which I see you so eminently possess, and moreover conjure you by that object, which of all others in this life you have most loved, or are most in love with, to tell me who you are, and inform me of the cause that brings you to live and die in this solitude, like the brute beasts among which you dwell, so different from that rank and situation to which your appearance and person declare you are entitled. And I swear by the order of chivalry which I have received, unworthy sinner that I am! and by the profession of a knight-errant, that if you comply with this my request, I will serve you with that earnestness which my duty obliges me to express; either in remedying your mishap, if it admits of remedy, or in condoling with you, as I have already promised.’ The knight of the wood, hearing him of the rueful countenance talk in this manner, could do nothing for some time but gaze, and stare, and survey him from head to foot; at length, having examined him thoroughly, he said, ‘If you have got any food, for God’s sake spare me a little; and after I shall have eaten it, I will do as you desire, in return for the civility you now shew me.’

Sancho immediately pulled from his bag, and the goatherd from his scrip, some victuals to appease the hunger of the tatterdemalion, who swallowed what they gave him like a frantick person, with such hurry, that he left not the interval of an instant between one mouthful and another, but seemed to devour rather than eat, without either speaking or being spoke to by the spectators. His repast being ended, he beckoned them to follow, and conducted them to a verdant spot of grass, at the turning of a rock, a little way from the place where they were; and sitting down on the green turf, they followed his example; not a word being spoke all the time, until the ragged knight, after having adjusted himself in his seat, began in this manner. ‘If you desire, gentlemen, that I should, in a few words, inform you of the immensity of my misfortunes, you must give me your promise that you will not by any question, or otherwise, interrupt the thread of my doleful story; for if you should, that instant I will break off the narration.’ This warning recalled to the knight’s memory the story recounted by his squire, which still remained unfinished, because he had not kept an exact account of the goats, as they passed the river. But, to return to the tattered knight: ‘I give you this precaution,’ added he, ‘because I would briefly pass over the detail of my misfortunes, the remembrance of which brings fresh addition to my woe; and the fewer questions you ask, the sooner shall I have finished the relation; although, in order to satisfy your curiosity to the full, I will not fail to mention every material circumstance.’ Don Quixote promised, in behalf of himself and the company, to avoid all manner of interruption; and the stranger, thus assured, began in these words:

‘My name is Cardenio, the place of my nativity one of the best cities in this province of Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great, that no doubt they have been lamented by them, and even felt through my whole kindred, though all their wealth would not alleviate my woe; for the goods of fortune are but of little service against those ills inflicted by the hand of Heaven. In the same country lived, shall I call her, a paradise, which love had adorned with all the charms I could desire to possess; such was the beauty of Lucinda, a young lady as well-born and rich as I, though more fortunate and endowed with less constancy than what was due to my honourable intentions. This Lucinda did I admire, love, and adore, even from my most tender years; and she made me all the returns of love and inclination that I could expect from her infant age. Our parents were not ignorant of our mutual affection, which gave them no offence, because they foresaw that if it should increase with our years, it could have no other issue than marriage; an union which the equality of our age and fortune seemed to point out. Meanwhile, our passion growing up with our age, Lucinda’s father thought himself obliged to forbid me his house, imitating in that particular, the parents of Thisbe, whom the poets have celebrated so much. This prohibition added flame to flame, and wish to wish, for though our tongues were restrained, they could not silence our pens, which commonly express the sentiments of the heart with more liberty, because the presence of the beloved object often confounds the most determined intention, and puts to silence the most undaunted tongue.

‘Good Heaven! what letters did I write! what chaste endearing answers did I receive! what songs did I compose, inspired by love that displayed the soul unmasked, inflamed each soft desire, regaled the fancy, and indulged the wish! in fine, my patience being exhausted, and my heart almost consumed with the desire of seeing her, I resolved to execute the scheme which seemed most favourable for my love and pretensions; and this I put in practice, by demanding her in marriage of her father, who thanked me for the honour I intended him, by this proposal of marrying into his family; but said, as my own father was alive, it was properly his business to make the demand; for, unless his consent and inclination were obtained, Lucinda was not a person either to be given or taken in marriage by stealth. I thanked him in my turn, for his politeness; and thinking there was a great deal of reason in what he said, assured myself that my father would readily agree to the proposal whenever I should make it. I therefore flew instantly to disclose my sentiments to him on that subject; and entering the closet where he was, found him reading a letter, which, before I could speak a syllable, he put into my hands saying, “By this letter, Cardenio, you will see how much Duke Ricardo is inclined to do you service.” This Duke Ricardo, as you must know, gentlemen, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in the best part of this province. I took and read this letter, which was so extremely kind, that I myself should have blamed my father, had he refused to comply with what he requested in it: this was to send me immediately to this house, he being desirous that I should live as the companion, not the servant, of the eldest son; and he would take care of my fortune in such a manner as should manifest the esteem he had for me. Having read the letter, I was struck dumb at knowing the contents; especially when I heard my father pronounce, “Two days hence, Cardenio, you shall set out, according to the pleasure of the duke; and you ought to thank God for having opened an avenue, through which you may arrive at that fortune I know you deserve.” To this declaration he added other services, as became a prudent father; and I, the night before I departed, finding means to speak with Lucinda, told her what had happened; nay, I even imparted it to her father, entreating him to wait a few days, without disposing of her to any other, until I should know in what manner Ricardo wanted to employ me. He gave me his promise accordingly, and she confirmed it by a thousand vows and anxious sighs.

‘I at length arrived at the seat of Duke Ricardo, by whom I was so well received and kindly entertained, that Envy presently began to do her office, possessing the old servants with the opinion, that every expression of favour I received from the duke was prejudicial to their interest. But he who was most rejoiced at my residing there, was the duke’s second son, Fernando, a gay, genteel, liberal, and amorous youth, who in a short time was pleased to honour me with such intimacy of friendship as became the subject of every body’s discourse; and though the eldest brother loved and favoured me also, he did not carry his favour and affection to such a pitch. Now, as all secrets are communicated between friends, and the confidence in which I lived with Fernando was soon changed into friendship, he imparted to me his most secret thoughts, and among other things, a love affair that gave him a good deal of disquiet. In short, he had an inclination for a country-maid, who was his father’s vassal; her parents were very rich, and she herself so beautiful, reserved, modest and discreet, that nobody who knew her could determine in which of these qualifications she most excelled. These accomplishments of this fair maiden inflamed the desires of Don Fernando to such a pitch, that he resolved, as the easiest conquest over her virtue, to promise he would marry her; for he found it impossible to gratify his wish in any other way. I, prompted and bound by my friendship, endeavoured to dissuade and divert him from his purpose, by the strongest arguments and most lively examples I could produce; but finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to communicate the whole affair to his father Duke Ricardo.

‘Don Fernando, having abundance of cunning and discernment, suspected my intention; and was afraid, that the obligation he saw I was under, as a faithful servant, would not allow me to conceal an affair so prejudicial to the honour of the duke my master; he therefore, in order to divert and deceive me, observed that he could find no better remedy to remove the beauty that enslaved him from his remembrance, than that of absence for a few months; and therefore desired that we should go to my father’s house, upon pretence, as he would tell the duke, of seeing and purchasing some fine horses in our town, which produces the best in the world. Scarce had he uttered this proposal, when prompted by my love, exclusive of his prudent intention, I approved of it, as one of the best concerted schemes that could be imagined; and was rejoiced at meeting with such a fair conjuncture and occasion of returning to my dear Lucinda. Induced by this motive and desire, I applauded his pretence, and enforced his proposal, advising him to execute his plan with all speed; for absence would certainly do its office, in spite of the most established inclination. At that very time, as I afterwards understood, he had enjoyed the country-maid, under the title of her husband, and waited for an opportunity of owning it with safety to himself, being afraid of the duke’s resentment, in case he should discover his folly. It happened afterwards, that as love in young people is, for the most part, nothing but appetite, whose only aim is pleasure, and this being enjoyed, what seemed love vanishes, because it cannot exceed the bounds of nature; whereas real love is bounded by no such limits: I say, as soon as Don Fernando enjoyed the country girl, his desires were appeased, and his raptures abated; and if at first he pretended to seek a cure for them in absence, he now earnestly desired to be absent, that he might avoid any farther gratification.

‘The duke having given him leave, and ordered me to attend him, we arrived at our habitation, where he was received by my father in a manner suitable to his rank and family. I went instantly to visit Lucinda, whose presence in a moment rekindled all my desires, which indeed were neither dead nor decayed within me: and, to my infinite misfortune, I made Don Fernando acquainted with my love, because I thought, by the laws of that intimate friendship with which he honoured me, I ought to conceal nothing from him. I therefore praised the beauty, grace, and discretion of Lucinda, in such a manner, as excited his curiosity to see such an accomplished young lady. Prompted by my evil genius, I gratified his desire, shewing her to him one night by the light of a taper at the window from which I used to converse with her. At sight of her he absolutely forgot all the beauties he had formerly seen; he was struck dumb with wonder; he seemed to lose all sense, became absent and pensive; and in short, enamoured of her to that degree, which you will perceive in the course of my unhappy story: and the more to inflame his desire, which he concealed from me, and disclosed to Heaven alone, he happened one day to find a letter which she had written, desiring me to ask her in marriage of her father, so prudent, modest, and tender, that upon perusing it, he said, “In Lucinda alone are concentered all the charms of beauty and understanding, which are divided among the rest of her sex.” True it is, and I will now confess it, and although I knew how justly Fernando applauded Lucinda, I was vexed at hearing these praises proceed from his mouth, and began to dread and suspect his inclination; for he was eternally talking of her, and always turned the discourse upon her, even when he was obliged to bring her in by the head and shoulders; a circumstance that waked a sort of jealousy within me; not that I imagined ought could alter the faith and affection of Lucinda; yet, notwithstanding, my destiny made me dread the very thing that confidence insured. Don Fernando always contrived means to read the letters I sent to Lucinda, together with her answers, on pretence of being highly pleased with the good sense they contained; and it once happened, that she having desired me to send her a book of knight-errantry, in which she took great delight, called Amadis de Gaul——’

Don Quixote no sooner heard him mention this book, than he said, ‘Had you told me in the beginning of your story, that your mistress Lucinda was an admirer of books of chivalry, you would have had no occasion to use any other argument to convince me of her sublime understanding; which I should not have deemed quite so extraordinary as you have represented it, had she wanted relish for that sort of reading: wherefore you need not spend any more words with me, in extolling her beauty, virtue, and good sense; for, upon the knowledge of her taste only, I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and discreet lady in the universe. I wish, however, that you had sent along with Amadis de Gaul, the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I know your mistress Lucinda would have been greatly pleased with Darayra and Garaya, together with the judicious sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses of his eclogues, sung and represented by him with such grace, spirit, and discretion; but the time will come when that omission may be rectified; indeed, the fault may be repaired as soon as you shall please to accompany me to the place of my habitation, where I can supply you with more than three hundred books, which are the feast of my soul, and entertainment of my life; though now I recollect, not one of them remains in my possession; thanks to the malice of wicked and envious inchanters. But I hope you will be so good as to forgive me for having contradicted my promise of not interrupting your story; for when the subject turns upon chivalry or knights-errant, I can no more forbear interposing, than the rays of the sun can cease to warm, or those of the moon to wet: but I ask pardon; pray proceed with your story; for that is most to the purpose at present.’

While Don Quixote was talking in this manner, Cardenio hung his head, and fell into a profound reverie; and though the knight repeated his request, would neither lift up his head, nor answer one word. At length, after a long pause, looking up, ‘You cannot,’ said he, ‘beat it out of my thoughts; nor is there any person upon earth, who can persuade me to the contrary; and he must be a blockhead, who imagines or believes otherwise, than that the villain Master Elisabat carried on a criminal correspondence with Queen Madasima.’—‘By Heaven, ’tis false,’ cried Don Quixote, with great indignation and impetuosity, as usual; ‘that report is the effect of malice, or rather mere wantonness. Queen Madasima was a most royal dame, and it is not to be presumed, that a princess of her rank would confer favours upon a mere quack doctor. Whosoever thinks otherwise, lyes like a very great scoundrel; and I will prove him such either on horseback or a foot, armed or disarmed, by night or by day, as will most suit his inclination.’ Cardenio stood all the while looking attentively at him, and being by this time seized with the paroxism of his madness, could not proceed with his story; neither, if he had proceeded, would Don Quixote have listened to it, for he was offended at what he had heard to the prejudice of Queen Madasima^[77], whose reputation interested him as much as if she had been actually his own mistress: such wonderful impression had those profane books made on his imagination!

I say, then, Cardenio being by this time under the influence of his distraction, and hearing himself called lyar and scoundrel, with other terms of reproach, could not relish the joke; but, snatching up a large pebble that lay near him, aimed it so successfully at Don Quixote’s breast, that he fell fairly on his back with the blow. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the madman with his clenched fist; but the lunatick received him with such a blow, as knocked him down to the ground at once, and then getting upon him, mauled his carcase to his heart’s content; while the goatherd, who attempted to defend him, met with the same fate. Having thus mastered and pummelled them all round, he left off, and with great composure retreated to the thickets from whence he came. Sancho then arose; and, enraged to find himself handled in this manner for nothing, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, saying that he was to blame for the whole, because he had not informed him, that the man had intervals of madness; which had they known, they might have guarded against them. The goatherd affirmed, that he had apprized them of what might happen; and if they had not heard him, it was no fault of his. The squire replied; the goatherd retorted; and, in conclusion, they went by the ears together, and pulled each other’s beards with such fury, that there would not have been a single hair left on either chin, had not Don Quixote interposed. Sancho, grappling stoutly with his adversary, cried, ‘Give me leave, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance; this is no armed knight, but a plebeian like myself, of whom I can securely take satisfaction for the injury he has done me, by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of honour.’—‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but the cause of what hath happened, cannot be justly imputed to him.’ Peace accordingly ensued, and the knight asked the goatherd again, if there was a possibility of finding Cardenio; for he was extremely desirous of hearing the conclusion of his story. The goatherd repeated what he had said before, that he did not certainly know whereabouts he resided; but, if they should stay long in these parts, they could not fail of finding him either mad or sober.

CHAP. XI.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHERE HE DID PENANCE, IN IMITATION OF BELTENEBROS.

Don Quixote, having taken leave of the goatherd, and mounted Rozinante again, commanded Sancho to follow him; and the squire, bestriding his ass, obeyed with great reluctance. As they advanced at leisure, into the most rocky part of the mountain, Sancho longed to death for an opportunity of talking, and waited impatiently till his master should begin, that he might not transgress his orders; but, being utterly unable to keep silence any longer, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘be pleased to give me your blessing, and grant me leave to return immediately to my wife and children, with whom, at least, I can talk and prattle my fill; for in commanding me to travel with you, through these desarts, night and day, without opening my lips when I am disposed to speak, your worship buries me alive; if it were the will of Heaven, that beasts spoke as they did in the days of Hyssop, I should be the less uneasy, because I would converse with my ass at pleasure; and that would be some comfort to me in my misfortunes; but it is a very hard case, and what I cannot bear with patience, to travel in search of adventures all my life, and find nought but rib-roastings, blankettings, robberies, and fisty-cuffs; and, after all, be obliged to sew up our mouths, without daring to bring up what lies upon our stomachs, more than if we were dumb.’

‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘thou art impatient until I take off the interdiction I have laid upon thy tongue. I take it off, then; say what you please, on condition that this repeal shall last no longer than our stay in this mountain.’—‘Be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘to-day I will speak, to-morrow God’s will be done; and the first use I make of this safe conduct, is to ask why your worship was in such a passion about that Queen Magimasa, or how d’ye call her; or of what signification was it to you, whether that same Abat was her sweetheart or not? Had your worship overlooked that circumstance, that you had no concern in, I firmly believe the madman would, have gone on with his story, and you would have saved yourself the pebble-shot, with more than half a dozen kicks and cuffs.’

‘In faith, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘If thou knewest, as I do, what an honourable and princely lady that Queen Madasima was, thou wouldst say, I had great patience in forbearing to demolish the mouth from whence such blasphemy proceeded; for sure, ’tis no less to say, or even think, that a queen should take a surgeon to her bed. The truth of the story is, that Master Elisabat, whom the lunatick mentioned, was a man of prudence and discernment, and served the queen in quality of tutor and physician; but to suppose that there was any indecent familiarity between them, is a piece of folly that deserves to be severely chastised: and to convince thee that Cardenio knew not what he said, thou mayest remember he was deprived of his senses, when he took notice of that circumstance.’—‘This I’ll venture to say,’ replied the squire, ‘that the words of a madman are not to be minded; for, if fortune had not stood your worship’s friend, and directed to your breast the pebble that was aimed at your head, we should have been in a fine condition, for your having quarrelled about that lady, whom Heaven confound! you may depend upon it, Cardenio would have been acquitted on account of his madness.’

‘Every knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is obliged to quarrel with those who are out of their senses, as well as those who are in them, if they asperse the honour of women, whatsoever they might be. How much more, then, in behalf of princesses of such high quality and accomplishments as adorned Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular affection, on account of her admirable qualifications; for, over and above her beauty, she had a great share of prudence and resignation in her calamities, which were manifold: and the advice and company of Master Elisabat were of great service in encouraging her to bear her afflictions with patience and equanimity. From hence, the ignorant and malicious vulgar took occasion to say and suppose, that she admitted of his caresses; but they lye. I say again, all those who either say or think so, lye in their throats, and I will tell them so two hundred times over.’—‘As for my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I neither say nor think any such thing; those that do may dine upon it: if they were too familiar, by this time they have answered for it to God. I prune my own vine, and know nothing about thine. I never meddle with other people’s concerns. He that buys and denies, his own purse belyes, as the saying is. Bare I was born, and bare I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. If he did lie with her, that is no matter of mine. Many people hunt the hare without ever finding the scut; for, Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly. And evil tongues will not refrain from God himself.’

‘Good Heaven,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what fooleries art thou stringing together, Sancho? Pray, what relation have these old saws to the subject of our conversation? I charge thee to hold thy peace, and henceforth entertain thyself with spurring up thy ass, and leave off talking of things which do not concern thee: or let thy whole five senses be convinced, that every thing I have done, am doing, or will do, is highly reasonable, and in exact conformity with the laws of chivalry, which I understand better than any knight that ever professed the order.’—‘Yes Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to be sure it is an excellent law of chivalry, to stroll about bewildered in these mountains, where there is neither high road nor bye path, in search of a madman, who, after we have found him, will perhaps take it in his head to finish what he left undone; not of his story, but of your worship’s pate and my ribs, which he may chance to break in a thousand shivers.’

‘I say again, Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘hold thy peace; for I would have thee know, that I am not detained in this place, so much by the desire of finding the lunatick, as of performing in it an exploit by which I shall acquire everlasting renown throughout the whole known world; and put the stamp of perfection upon the wonderful efforts of knight-errantry?’—‘And will this exploit be attended with much danger?’ said Sancho. ‘No,’ answered he of the rueful countenance, ‘though the dice may run so as to produce bad instead of good fortune; but the whole will depend upon thy diligence.’—‘Upon my diligence!’ cried the squire. ‘Without doubt,’ answered his master; ‘for, if thou wilt return speedily, from the place to which thou must be sent, my affliction will soon be at an end, and my glory will speedily begin: and, that I may no longer keep thee in suspence about the meaning of my words, know, Sancho, that the celebrated Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect knights-errant; one of them, said I? he alone was the only, single, chief, and superior of all his cotemporaries. Contempt and shame upon Bellianis, and all those who say he equalled him in any one particular; for, by this light, they are all egregiously deceived! I say, moreover, when a painter desires to become famous in his art, he endeavours to imitate the originals painted by the most noted artists; and the same maxim holds in every other science and exercise that adorns a commonwealth: therefore, he who wants to attain the virtues of prudence and equanimity, must endeavour to imitate the character of Ulysses, in whose person and sufferings Homer has drawn an excellent picture of wisdom and patience, as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, represents the piety of an affectionate son, and the sagacity of a wise and valiant general; not that they are described and set forth exactly as they were, but as they ought to have been, as examples of virtue to posterity. In the same manner, Amadis shone like the north-star, the Lucifer and sun of all valiant and amorous knights; and therefore must be imitated as a pattern, by all those who serve under the banners of love and chivalry. Now, this being the case, friend Sancho, I find that the knight-errant who approaches the nearest to this great original, will bid fairest for attaining the perfection of chivalry: and one of the circumstances in which that knight gave the highest proofs of his worth, prudence, valour, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring to the poor rock, when he was in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, there to do penance under the feigned name Beltenebros^[78]; an appellation certainly very significant and proper to the way of life he had voluntarily chosen. As it is therefore more easy for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, overthrowing armies, scattering navies, and dissolving inchantments; and as this solitude is so well adapted to such designs, I am resolved to seize occasion by the forelock, which she now so complaisantly presents.’

‘In reality,’ said Sancho, ‘what is your worship resolved to do in this remote place?’—‘Have I not already told thee,’ replied the knight, ‘that I am determined to imitate Amadis, in acting the desperado, the lunatick, the madman: to copy also after the valiant Don Roldan, when he discovered, in a fountain, certain marks by which he was convinced that Angelica the fair had committed uncleanness with Medoro. A piece of information attended with such grief and anxiety, that he ran mad, tore up the trees by the root, sullied the waters of the transparent springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, set fire to cottages, demolished houses, dragged mares along the ground, and performed a thousand other insolent feats worthy to be inserted in Fame’s eternal record; and because I do not propose to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando, for he went by all these names, literally in all the extravagancies he thought, said, and did, I will copy his outlines as well as I can, in the most essential parts of his character; nay, perhaps, I may content myself with the sole imitation of Amadis, who, by his tears and sighs alone, acquired as much fame as the other with all the mischief he did.’—‘If I apprehend the matter aright,’ said Sancho, ‘the knights who played such mad pranks were provoked, and had some reason to act these fooleries and penance: but what cause hath your worship to turn madman? With what lady are you in disgrace? or by what signs are you given to understand that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been playing the rogue either with Moor or Christian!’—‘This is the point,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘and refinement of my design; a knight who turns madman, because he cannot help it, can claim no merit from his misfortune; but the great matter is to run distracted without cause, and give my lady reason to conceive what I could do were I moistened, when I can do so much being dry. More especially, as I have sufficient cause in the long absence to which I am doomed by my ever-darling mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; for, according to the words of the shepherd Matias Ambrosio, which thou mayest have heard,