In the course of the conversation that passed between the two knights, the history relates, that he of the wood said to Don Quixote, ‘Finally, Sir Knight, you must know, my destiny, or rather my choice, led me to place my affection on the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless, because she has no equal, either in point of stature, quality, fortune, or beauty. Now this lady, in return for all my virtuous inclination and amorous desires, like the stepmother of Hercules, employs me in many various toils and dangers, promising at the conclusion of each, that with the next my cares shall be finished; but thus she goes on, stringing one labour to another, without number, and I know not which will be the last that is to produce the accomplishment of my wishes. At one time she commanded me to go and challenge that famous giantess of Seville, called Giralda[152], who is so valiant and strong, (her body being made of brass) and who, without shifting her station, is the most changeable and fickle female in the whole world. I came, saw, and conquered; fixing her motionless to one point, for during a whole week, the wind blew from the north. Another time, she ordered me to weigh the ancient figures called the Valiant Bulls of Guisando[153]; an enterprize more suitable to porters than to knights; nay, she even commanded me to throw myself headlong into the gulph of Cabra, an adventure equally new and dangerous, and bring to her a particular account of what is contained in that dark and deep abyss. I fixed the inconstant Giralda, weighed the bulls of Guisando, precipitated myself into the gulph, and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and yet my hopes are dead; ah, how dead! while her cruelty and disdain are still alive; ah, how much alive! In short, to conclude, she ordered me to traverse all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight-errant in the kingdom to confess that she is preferable, in point of beauty, to all the women upon earth; and that I am the most valiant and amorous knight in the world. In consequence of this command, I have travelled over the greatest part of Spain, and vanquished many knights who have presumed to contradict my assertion: but I value and applaud myself chiefly for having conquered in single combat, that so renowned knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea. Now, in that single conquest, I deem myself superior to all the knights in the universe; for that same Don Quixote hath vanquished all his cotemporaries; and I, in conquering him, have transferred and conveyed to my own person all his honour, glory, and reputation; the victor being always honoured in proportion to the fame of his vanquished foe; wherefore, the innumerable atchievements of the said Don Quixote are placed to my credit, as if they were the effects of my own personal prowess.’
Don Quixote was astonished at hearing the knight of the wood talk in this manner, and was a thousand times tempted to give him the lye; nay, ‘You lye,’ was at the very tip of his tongue; but repressing his indignation as well as he could, that he might make the stranger’s own tongue convict him of falshood, he replied very calmly, ‘That your worship, Sir Knight, may have vanquished the greatest part of the knights-errant in Spain, and even in the whole world, I do not pretend to question; but that you have conquered Don Quixote de La Mancha, I doubt very much; perhaps it might be another who resembles him, though there are few such.’—‘How! not conquer him?’ cried he of the wood; ‘now, by yon canopy of Heaven, under which we sit, I engaged, overcame, and subjected that very individual Don Quixote; he is a tall, meagre, long-legged, lanthorn-jawed, stalking figure; his hair inclining to grey, his nose hooked and aquiline, with long, straight, black, mustachios; in his excursions he assumes the name of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; and is attended by a peasant called Sancho Panza, who serves him in quality of squire; he presses the loins, and governs the reins of a famous steed hight Rozinante; and, in fine, he avows, as the mistress of his heart, one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly known by the name of Aldonza Lorenzo; in like manner, my own mistress, whose name is Casildea, being a native of Andalousia, is now distinguished by the appellation of Casildea de Vandalia. If all these proofs are not sufficient to evince my veracity, here is my sword, which shall make a convert of incredulity itself.’
‘Have a little patience, Sir Knight,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and give ear unto what I am going to say. You must know, that same Don Quixote you mention, is the dearest friend I have upon earth; so that I may say, I love him as well as my own individual person; now your description of him is so punctual and exact, that I should never doubt but he is actually the person you have vanquished, did I not see with my eyes, and, as it were, feel with my hands, the impossibility of the fact; and yet, as divers inchanters are his enemies, particularly one who persecutes him incessantly, some one among them may have assumed his figure, and allowed himself to be overcome, in order to defraud the knight of that fame which his gallant exploits had collected and acquired through the whole known world; in confirmation of this conjecture, I must also tell you, that about two days ago, those perverse inchanters transformed the shape and person of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso, into that of a mean and plebeian country-wench; so that Don Quixote must have also undergone a transformation. And if all this is not enough to ascertain the truth of what I say, here is Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by force of arms, on horseback or on foot, or in any shape you please.’
So saying, he started up, and grasping his sword, stood waiting for the resolution of the Knight of the Wood, who with great deliberation replied; ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn, Signior Don Quixote; he who could vanquish you when you was transformed, may well hope to reduce you in propria persona; but as it is unseemly for knights to perform their exploits in the dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for day, that the sun may shine upon our works; and let this be the condition of our combat, that the vanquished shall comply with the will of the victor, and do every thing that he shall desire, provided his commands be such as a knight-errant can decently obey.’
Don Quixote assured him, that he was extremely well satisfied with the condition and proviso; upon which they went in quest of their squires, who were found snoring in the very same attitudes in which sleep had surprized them. They wakened, and ordered them to get their horses ready; for by sun-rise they intended to engage in a most unparalleled and bloody single combat. Sancho was astonished and confounded at this piece of news; despairing of his master’s safety, when he recollected what the other squire had told him concerning the valour of the knight of the wood. The two squires, however, without pretending to make any words, went to look for their cattle, and found the three steeds, with Dapple, (for they had smelled each other out) very sociably met together. While they were thus employed, ‘Brother,’ said he of the wood to Sancho, ‘you must know that it is customary with your warriors of Andalousia, when they are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle, with their arms across, while their godsons are engaged. This I hint, by way of apprising you that, while our masters are at it, we must exchange a few dry blows too.’—‘That custom, Signior squire,’ answered Sancho, ‘may pass current with those ruffians and warriors you mention; but that it prevails among the squires of knights-errant, I can by no means believe; at least, I have never heard such a custom mentioned by my master, who knows all the ordinances of chivalry by rote. Besides, granting it to be fact, and expressly ordained, that the squires must go to loggerheads while their masters are engaged; I will by no means comply with it, but pay the penalty incurred by peaceable squires, which I am sure cannot exceed a couple of pounds of wax; and that will not cost me so much as the pence I should expend in the cure of my head, which I should lay my account with having split and divided into two halves; and moreover, it is impossible that I should fight, because I have got no sword, and never wore one in my born days.’—‘I know a very good remedy for that inconvenience,’ said the stranger: ‘here are a couple of linen bags, of the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and play away upon each other with equal arms.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Sancho; ‘that sort of exercise will serve to dust our jackets, without hurting our skin.’—‘Not quite so neither,’ resumed the other, ‘for that the bags may not flap in the air, we will clap into each half a dozen clear smooth pebbles, of equal weight and magnitude; so that we may thwack one another without hurt or damage.’—‘Body of my father,’ cried Sancho, ‘mind what sable furrs and flakes of carded cotton he would line the bags withal, to prevent them from grinding our skulls, and making a paste of our bones! Hark ye, master of mine, I’ll have nothing to do with them, though they were fluffed with balls of silk; let our masters fight as they shall think proper, but for our parts, let us drink and live quietly; for old father Time will take care to rid us of our lives, without our seeking occasions to throw them away before the appointed season, at which, being ripe, they drop off of their own accord.’
‘But, for all that,’ replied he of the wood, ‘we must have a bout, if it should not last half an hour.’—‘By no means,’ said Sancho; ‘I shall not be so uncivil and ungrateful as to have any difference, let it be never so small, with a person at whose cost I have both eaten and drank: besides, who the devil do you think can fight in cool blood, without any sort of anger or provocation?’—‘I know how to remove that objection,’ resumed the stranger: ‘before we begin the battle, I will come up fair and softly, and give your worship two or three such hearty boxes on the ear, as will lay you flat at my feet, and awaken your choler, though it should sleep sounder than a dormouse.’—‘Against that expedient,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know another twice as good: for I will lay hold on a good cudgel, and before your worship comes to awaken my choler, give your own such a lullaby of dry beating, that it shall never wake but in the next world, where you’ll have reason to know that I am not a man who will suffer his nose to be handled by any person whatsomever; wherefore, let every one look to his own affairs. Though it would be the wisest course for every man to let his own choler lie still and sleep: for nobody knows the heart of his neighbour, and some who go out for wool, come home quite shorn. God himself bestowed his blessing upon peace, and curse upon contention; for if a cat that is confined, provoked, and persecuted, turns into a lion, the Lord knows what I, who am a man, may turn into: I therefore, Signior Squire, give your worship notice, that all the mischief and damage which shall proceed from our quarrel, must be charged to your account.’—‘Mighty well,’ replied the stranger, ‘we shall see what is to be done, when God sends us morning.’
Now a thousand kinds of painted birds began to warble from the trees, and in their various and sprightly notes seemed to welcome and salute the fresh and joyous morn, which already, through the gates and balconies of the east, disclosed her beauteous visage; while from her hair distilled an infinite number of liquid pearls, in which delicious liquor the herbs being bathed, seemed to sprout and rain a shower of seed-pearl upon the earth. The willows shed savoury manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks murmured, the woods rejoiced, and the meadows adorned themselves at her approach.
But scarce had the light of day rendered objects distinguishable, when the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the nose of his brother squire, which was so large as almost to over-shadow his whole body. It is actually said to have been of excessive magnitude, crooked in the middle, and studded all over with warts of a mulberry colour, like the fruit called berengena; and it hung down two fingers breadth below his mouth. The size, colour, warts, and curvature of this feature, rendered the face so frightful and deformed, that Sancho no sooner beheld it than he began to shake in every limb, like a child troubled with convulsions; and resolved, in his heart, to endure two hundred buffetings, before his choler should be awaked, so as to fight with such a hobgoblin.
Don Quixote surveying his antagonist, found his vizor already down, and closed in such a manner as effectually concealed his face; but he perceived him to be a muscular man, of a middling stature. Over his arms he wore a loose coat or cassock, to all appearance of the finest cloth of gold, powdered with a number of small moons formed of the brightest looking-glass, which had a most magnificent, gay, and shewy effect. Over his helmet waved a great quantity of green, yellow, and white plumes; and his lance, which leaned against a tree, was excessively long and large, armed with above a hand’s breadth of pointed steel. All these particulars were observed and considered by Don Quixote, who concluded, from what he saw and observed, that the said knight must be a person of Herculean strength. Nevertheless, far from being afraid, like Sancho Panza, he, with the most gallant intrepidity, thus addressed himself to the Knight of the Mirrours: ‘I entreat you, by your courtesy, Sir Knight, if your eager desire of fighting hath not destroyed that quality, to lift up your beaver a little, that I may see whether or not the grace of your countenance corresponds with the gallantry of your demeanour.’—‘Signior cavalier,’ replied he of the looking-glasses, ‘whether you are victor or vanquished in this enterprize, you will have time and opportunity more than sufficient to consider my visage: my reason for not satisfying your desire at present, is, that I should deem it a notable injury to the beautiful Casildea de Vandalia, to spend so much time as it would take to lift up my beaver, before I compel you to confess what you know I pretend to maintain.’—‘Yet, while we mount our steeds,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may easily tell me if I am that same Don Quixote whom you pretend to have overcome.’—‘To that question I answer,’ said he of the mirrours, ‘that you are as like the knight I overcame, as one egg is like another; but as you say you are persecuted by inchanters, I will not venture to affirm whether or not you are the same person.’—‘That is enough,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘to convince me that you are mistaken: nevertheless, to persuade you beyond all possibility of doubt, let us have recourse to our horses, and in less time than you would have taken to lift your beaver, if God, my mistress, and my arm avail me, I shall see your face; and you will see I am not that conquered Don Quixote whom you suppose me to be.’
Thus breaking off the conversation, they mounted their horses; and Don Quixote turned Rozinante, in order to take a sufficiency of ground for returning to encounter his antagonist, while he of the mirrours took the same precaution. But the first had not proceeded twenty paces when he was called back by the other, and the two meeting again half way, ‘Take notice, Sir Knight,’ said he of the looking glasses, ‘the condition of our combat is, that the conquered, as I have already observed, must be at the discretion of the conqueror.’—‘I know it,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘provided the commands imposed upon the vanquished be such as do not transgress the bounds of chivalry.’—‘So I understand the conditions,’ answered he of the mirrours.
At that instant the strange nose of the squire presented itself to the eyes of Don Quixote, who was no less astonished than Sancho at the sight; insomuch that he took him for some monster, or new-fashioned man, such as are not commonly found in this world. Sancho, seeing his master set out, in order to take his career, would not stay alone with nozzle, being afraid, that one flirt of such a snout in his face would determine the quarrel, and lay him stretched along the ground, either through fear or the severity of the blow, he therefore ran after his master, and laying hold of one of Rozinante’s stirrups, when he saw him ready to turn, ‘I beseech your worship, dear master,’ cried he, ‘before you turn to begin the combat, help me in climbing this cork-tree, from whence I may behold, more to my liking than from the ground, your worship’s gallant encounter with that same knight.’—‘I rather believe, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thy motive for clambering up is to see the bull-fight from a scaffold, without any danger to thyself.’—‘The truth is,’ answered Panza, ‘the outrageous nose of that squire fills me with such astonishment and affright, that I dare not tarry along with him.’—‘It is such indeed,’ replied the knight, ‘that were I any other than what I am, I should be feared at its appearance: come, therefore, and I will help thee to ascend to the place you mention.’
While Don Quixote stopped until Sancho should get up into the cork-tree, the Knight of the Mirrours took as much ground as he thought necessary, and imagining that Don Quixote had done the same, without waiting for sound of trumpet, or other signal, he turned his horse, which was not a whit superior to Rozinante, either in fleetness or appearance, and at his full speed, which was a middling trot, rode forwards to encounter his antagonist; but seeing him busy in the exaltation of Sancho, he pulled in the reins, and halted in the middle of his career; a circumstance that gave infinite joy to his steed, which was already so tired, that he could not move another step. Don Quixote perceiving his enemy approaching with such speed, drove his spurs stoutly into the meagre flanks of Rozinante, and made him spring forwards in such a manner, that the history says, this was the only occasion on which he was ever known to gallop; for, at all other times, his swiftest pace was no other than a downright trot; and with this hitherto unseen fury he arrived at the spot where the Knight of the Mirrours sat, thrusting his spurs rowel-deep into the sides of his horse, without being able to move him one finger’s breadth from the place where he had made his halt. In this confusion and dilemma Don Quixote found his antagonist embroiled with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which, either through want of knowledge or of time, he had not as yet fixed in the rest. Our Manchegan, who never minded these incumbrances, safely, and without the least danger to his own person, encountered him of the mirrours with such vigour, as to bring him, very much against his inclination, to the ground, over the crupper of his horse, with such a fall, that he lay without sense or motion, to all appearance bereft of life.
Sancho no sooner saw him unhorsed, than sliding down from the cork-tree, he ran down to his master, who having alighted from Rozinante, stood over the Knight of the Mirrours, untying his helmet, in order to see, whether or not he was actually dead, and to give him air, in case he should be alive. Then it was he saw—who can relate what he saw, without creating admiration, wonder, and affright in those who hear it! He saw, says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the very physiognomy, the very effigies, the very perspective of the batchelor, Sampson Carrasco; and this he no sooner beheld, than raising his voice, he cried, ‘Come hither, Sancho, and behold what thou shalt see, but not believe; quick, my child, and contemplate the power of magick: here thou wilt see what those wizards and inchanters can do.’ Sancho accordingly approached, and seeing the face of batchelor Carrasco, began to cross and bless himself a thousand times.
Mean while, the overthrown knight, giving no signs of life, Sancho said to Don Quixote, ‘In my opinion, master, right or wrong, your worship should thrust your sword through the jaws of this miscreant, who seems to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and in him, perhaps, you may slay one of those inchanters who are your enemies.’—‘That is no bad advice,’ said the knight, ‘for the fewer enemies the better.’ So saying, he drew his sword, in order to put in execution the advice and counsel of Sancho, when the squire belonging to the Knight of the Mirrours, came up without his frightful nose, and cried aloud, ‘Take care what you do, Signior Don Quixote; he who lies at your feet is your friend the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and I am his squire.’
Sancho seeing him without his original deformity, ‘And the nose?’ said he. ‘I have it here,’ replied the other; who putting his hand in his right side-pocket, pulled out a paste-board nose, covered with varnish, such as we have already described. Sancho having considered him more and more attentively, broke out into a loud exclamation of wonder, crying, ‘Blessed virgin watch over me! Sure this is not my neighbour and gossip Tommy Cecial?’—‘The very same,’ answered the unsnouted squire, ‘Thomas Cecial I am, your own friend and gossip, Sancho Panza, and I will presently tell you by what round-about conduits, tricks, and mischievous stories, I have been brought hither: in the mean time, supplicate and beseech your master’s worship not to treat, maltreat, wound, or slay, the Knight of the Looking-glasses, who now lies at his feet; for, without all doubt, he is no other than our townsman, the inconsiderate and ill-advised batchelor Sampson Carrasco.’
About this time, the Knight of the Mirrours came to himself; and Don Quixote perceiving he had recovered the use of his senses, clapped the point of his naked sword to his throat, saying, ‘Knight, you are a dead man, if you do not instantly confess that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia, in beauty; and in the next place, you must promise, (provided you escape with life from this contention and overthrow) to go to the city of Toboso, and present yourself before her, in my name, that she may dispose of you according to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you at your own disposal, you shall return in quest of me; for the tracks of my exploits will serve as a guide to conduct you to the place where I shall be, and give me an account of what hath passed between you; these conditions being conformable to what we agreed upon before the combat, and not deviating from the customs of knight-errantry.’—‘I confess,’ said the vanquished knight, ‘that the clouted dirty shoe of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, excels the dishevelled, though shining locks of Casildea: I promise to go and return from her to your presence, and give you a full and particular detail of what you demand.’—‘You must, in like manner, confess and believe,’ added Don Quixote, ‘that the knight whom you overcame neither was nor could be Don Quixote de La Mancha, but some other who resembled him; as I confess and believe, that although you appear to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, you are not really he, but another cloathed in his appearance, with which my enemies have invested you, in order to arrest my arm, and restrain the impetuosity of my rage, so as that I may bear the glory of my conquest with moderation.’—‘I confess, judge, and perceive, in all respects, as you believe, judge, and perceive,’ answered the discomfited knight; ‘and I beseech you to allow me to rise, if the severity of my fall, which hath put me in a miserable plight, will permit me to get up.’
He was accordingly assisted in rising, by Don Quixote and his own squire Tommy Cecial, from whose person Sancho could not withdraw his eyes, while he asked a thousand questions; the answers to which manifestly shewed, that he was really and truly the individual Tommy Cecial, whom he pretended to be; but the apprehension which Sancho had conceived, from what his master said touching the inchanters, who had metamorphosed the Knight of the Mirrours into the Batchelor Carrasco, hindered him from giving credit to the truth of what he saw with his own eyes. Finally, both master and man remained under the influence of that deception, while he of the mirrours, with his squire, in exceeding bad humour and evil plight, took his leave of Don Quixote and Sancho, to go in quest of some place where he might beplaister and besplinter his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to the prosecution of their journey; in which the history leaves them, to explain the mystery of the knight of the looking-glasses and his snouted squire.
Don Quixote went on his way rejoicing; he gloried, he triumphed in the importance of his conquest, imagining the knight of the mirrours to be the most redoubtable of all knights that had yet ever appeared; and what afforded him likewise great matter of comfort was, that this knight, having engaged himself by the ties of honour, from which he could not deviate, without forfeiting his title to the order, he conceived hopes of hearing soon from Dulcinea, and of being certainly informed whether the inchantment of that princess still continued; though, indeed, it happened, that he and the knight of the mirrours thought, at that time, differently upon this subject; inasmuch as the latter was solely intent upon thinking how he should repair the damage done to his carcase.
And here the historian informs his readers, that when Sampson Carrasco advised Don Quixote to resume the profession of knight-errantry, it was in consequence of mature consultation between him, the curate, and the barber, when they deliberated upon the means of keeping him in peace and quiet at home, so that his brains, for the future, should not be disturbed in pursuit of those wild extravagances; the result of which was, that the only way to cure the frenzy of this unhappy man, was at present not to check his ungovernable obstinacy, but to humour it, and encourage him to go out again, as they saw it was impossible to prevent him; that Sampson should arm himself, and take an opportunity of meeting and challenging him, as a knight-errant; that he should settle the terms with him, that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the conqueror; that, in consequence of this agreement, Don Quixote, when overcome, (which they looked upon as a matter of little doubt and difficulty) should be ordered to return home, and not to pass the bounds of his own village for the space of two years, without the good-will and permission of the other; that, no doubt, this he would religiously comply with, as not daring to violate the laws of the order; and that there might be hopes, he would either in that space of time be naturally cured of those extravagant follies, or they might find out some method of diverting his mind from the farther pursuit of them. Carrasco undertook the affair very readily; and this Thomas Cecial, an intimate friend and companion of Sancho, and a queer sort of fellow, proffered his service to go upon the expedition, in the quality of squire. Sampson got himself accoutred in the manner you have read, and Cecial appeared in the terrors of that tremendous paste-board nose, to disguise himself from Sancho; and being thus equipped, they followed him so close, that they were very near coming up with him at the adventure of the waggon of Death; they met him however in the wood, where ensued what the attentive reader must already be acquainted with; and where, had it not been for Don Quixote’s heated imagination, which hurried him into the belief that the batchelor was not the batchelor Signior Sampson Carrasco, would have been effectually stopped in the progress of his university degrees, and would not even have found a nest where he expected a flight of sparrows.
Thomas Cecial, finding the unhappy success that attended their undertaking, said, ‘Mr. Carrasco, I cannot in my conscience see why we ought to complain; it is one thing to undertake, but another thing to finish: we looked upon Don Quixote as mad, and ourselves as hugely wise; but, behold the end! we take our march back again, both from a fool’s errand, and you most handsomely drubbed to boot, while he pursues his journey in safety and triumph; and I should really be curious to know which is the greatest fool, he who is made so by nature, or he who makes himself one?’—‘There is this difference,’ replied the batchelor, ‘between a natural and a wilful fool; that the former will always remain so, the latter may cease to be so when he has a mind.’—‘As that is the case,’ said Thomas, ‘I think I have been a monstrous fool in coming here to attend you as your squire; and therefore, that I may be so no longer, I will this instant hie me to my own habitation.’—‘In that particular, you may do what seems good unto you,’ replied Sampson; ‘but as for me, I see not the place of my dwelling, until I shall have taken bodily vengeance upon Don Quixote: ’tis not now from motives of charity or benevolence; no, ’tis revenge, and the anguish of my ribs, that prompt me to persevere in attempting the work of his reformation.’
They entertained one another in this manner, till they came to a village, where they had the good fortune to find a bone-setter, who put the batchelor’s ribs somewhat to rights; and Cecial took the route for his own village, leaving Carrasco deep in his meditations, projecting schemes of revenge. In due time, the history will again mention him; but, at present, let us share with Don Quixote in the transports of his joy.
Don Quixote, as we have observed, went on his way, glorying in his success. From that day, he dated himself the most renowned and invincible of all knights that had ever yet gone through a course of labours on this our earth: he looked upon all dangers, all difficulties that possibly could come in his way, as already vanquished, already overcome: he now valued not a rush the machinations of the most powerful inchanters. The very traces of former misfortunes, those drubbings out of number he had undergone, in discharging the functions of knighthood, were now quite obliterated from his memory. He thought no more of the shower of stones which had so sorely afflicted his jaw-bones, nor the mortifying ingratitude of the galley-slaves; nor did he think any more of the pack-staves of the Yanguesian carriers, who had the hardiness to make his sides resound like the dusting of a carpet: in short, the idea he conceived of his own felicity was so great, that, ‘Could I,’ said he to himself, ‘but accomplish the great point of delivering my celestial princess from the power of inchantment, I should not envy the glory that ever was or will be purchased by any knight in the universe.’
He was lost in these reveries, when Sancho interrupted him: ‘Signior, you will hardly believe what a fool I am; but it is an actual truth, that I cannot keep myself from thinking on that horrid and unmeasurable nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial.’—‘And dost thou really believe,’ replied the other, ‘that the Knight of the Mirrours was Sampson Carrasco; and that thy old companion, Thomas Cecial, was his squire?’—‘As to that affair, I can say nothing to it,’ answered Sancho; ‘only one thing I am positive in, that no one but himself could have given me such an account of my house, my wife, and my children; and as to his face, when that nose was slipt off, it was the very individual face of Thomas Cecial, just as I have beheld it many a time, when we were next door neighbours in our village: and as for his voice, I will take my oath, it is the same to a tittle.’—‘Come, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let us reason coolly upon this head: what probability is there, that Sampson Carrasco should come, as a knight-errant, armed cap-a-pee, to offer me combat? Am I his enemy, or did I ever give him occasion to bear resentment against me? Do you imagine I am his rival, or that he has entered into the profession of chivalry, as envying the glory I have acquired by arms?’—‘But then, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘what account can we give of the resemblance of that same knight and his squire to Sampson Carrasco, and my old friend Thomas Cecial? And if it be inchantment, as your worship says, were there no other two in the world but them whose likeness they could assume?’—‘It is all design,’ answered the other; ‘and the contrivance of those cursed inchanters that persecute me, who easily foreseeing I should be victorious in the combat, changed the form of the vanquished knight into that of the batchelor, that the friendship I have for him might check the fury of my sword, and shield him against the effects of my just indignation; and by that means save the life of him who by treachery and artifice had attempted to take away mine. But what farther proof need there be of the power of those inchanters, to change the appearance of human countenances, the fair into the deformed, and the deformed into the fair, than what thou thyself hast lately found by certain experience? Thou, who not two days since beheld the peerless Dulcinea in all the charms and lustre of perfect beauty, while at the same time she appeared to me an ugly rustick wench, with bleared eyes, and stinking breath; and doubtless, if the wicked magician could effect such a diabolical inchantment as that, it is not to be wondered at, if he did the like by Carrasco and Thomas Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my victory: however, this is my consolation, that the prowess of my arm hath prevailed against my enemy, whatever shape he has assumed.’—‘It is God alone who knows the truth of all things,’ answered Sancho: who, well knowing that the transformation of Dulcinea was the effect of his own inchantments, upon that account was not quite convinced by his master’s arguments; but durst not mutter the least word, lest something should have dropped from him, by which he might have betrayed himself.
While they were discoursing in this manner, a gentleman, mounted in the jockey-fashion, on a fine flea-bitten mare, came up with them, dressed in a riding-coat of fine green cloth, faced with murry-coloured velvet, and a hunting-cap of the same; his furniture of a piece, murry-coloured and green; he had a belt of green and gold, at which hung a Moorish scymitar, and his buskins were wrought in the same manner; his spurs were not gilt, but so finely varnished with green, that as they were more of a piece with the rest of his dress, they looked better than if they had been pure gold. When this gentleman overtook them, he saluted them with great politeness, and was spurring on, in order to pass them, when Don Quixote calling to him, said, ‘Signior, if you are not in haste, and are a going this way, I should be exceeding glad to join company with you.’—‘Sir,’ answered the other, ‘I should not have been in such haste to pass you, but was afraid your horse might be unruly, in the company of my mare.’—‘If that be all,’ answered Sancho, ‘you may stop your mare when you please, with great safety; ours is the most sober and most discreet horse in the world, and has more breeding than ever to let his naughtiness get the better of him upon such occasions, and never transgressed in this particular but once, and then my master and I both suffered severely in the flesh for it: I say once more, your worship may stop; for if your mare was served up in a dish, our steed would not so much as smell to her.’ Upon this assurance, the gentleman stopped, and looked with amazement at the air and appearance of Don Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which hung like a wallet before Sancho, at the pummel of his ass’s pannel; and, on the other hand, Don Quixote beheld him with no less attention, conceiving him to be some person of figure and distinction. The traveller seemed to be a man about fifty; he had some, though few, grey hairs; his features were sharp, and in his looks appeared neither levity nor moroseness: in short, his appearance bespoke him a man of consequence. He looked with a kind of astonishment at Don Quixote, as having never beheld such a phænomenon before; the lankness of the horse, and the tall stature of the person that rode him, the sepulchral meagreness of his aspect, his solemn gravity, the strangeness of his armour, all together forming such a composition as perhaps had never before been seen in that country.
Don Quixote observed with what attention the traveller considered him; and, by the surprize he saw him in, guessing what he wanted to know, as he was himself the very flower of civility, and of excessive complaisance, he was resolved to be beforehand with him, and save him the trouble of asking any question: ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not at all surprized to find, that with amazement you contemplate this my appearance, so new to you, and so different from that of other mortals; but your wonder will cease, when I have told you that I am of the fraternity of those knights whom people distinguish by the title of adventure-hunters. I have left my native home, mortgaged my all, bid adieu to ease and pleasure, and cast myself upon fortune, to dispose of me as she shall think proper; my design being to awaken the lost and decayed spirit of knight-errantry: it is now some time since I entered upon the resolution of accomplishing this aim, during which period I have suffered a variety of fortune, tossed about from one adventure to another, sometimes triumphant, at other times not so successful, until I have in a great measure fulfilled my design, having relieved many disconsolate widows, afforded protection to many distressed damsels, and been of aid and assistance to divers married women and fatherless children, the true duty and intent of our order; so that, by numberless exploits becoming a Christian hero, I am now celebrated in print through almost all the nations of the habitable globe. Thirty thousand copies of my renowned history are already in the hands of the publick; and if Heaven does not think proper to put a stop to it, in all likelihood there will be a thousand times as many more. In one word, Sir, I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise stiled the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; and though I own it is illiberal to sound one’s own praises, yet am I sometimes obliged to do it; but then, never unless when no one is by to do it for me; so that, Signior, after what I have told you, neither my lance nor my shield, my horse nor my squire, the wanness of my countenance, nor the lankness of my person, and all my whole composition together, ought any more to affect you with surprize, since you know the profession I am of, and the order I belong to.’
There Don Quixote stopped to give the traveller an opportunity of reply; but he was so long before he opened his mouth, that it seemed as if he could make no answer; however, after a long pause, ‘Sir Knight,’ said he, ‘you was not mistaken, when, by the surprize you saw me in, you guessed the desire I had to be informed; but I am still as much surprized as ever, and though what you say may be right, that my knowing who you are ought to have made my wonder cease, it is yet far from having that effect upon me. Can it be possible, that there are indeed now in the world knights-errant really existing, and that there are published accounts of real adventures? I should never have once dreamed that there was such a thing upon earth as any one who assisted married women and orphans, relieved widows, and protected damsels, if I had not had this opportunity of being convinced by now seeing you; and Heaven be praised, that this noble history of your real and glorious atchievements is in print, as it must efface and discredit those numberless romances about knights-errant, who never had being, and with which the world was so pestered and abused, to the apparent corruption of the mind of the readers, and the discredit of real and true history.’—‘As to that circumstance, Sir, there is much to be said, and you must not be too rash in believing, that the histories of knight errantry are all fable.’—‘Is there any one,’ answered the traveller, ‘who makes a doubt of it?’—‘I do, for one,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we will drop that subject for the present, as I doubt not but, if we continue any time travelling together, I shall be able, by the blessing of God, to convince you of your error, and to shew you that you are prejudiced only by the number of those who have entertained a notion, that such accounts are fictitious.’
These last words of Don Quixote gave the gentleman in green a suspicious idea of his understanding: he had a notion that he must be disordered in his senses, and was expecting some other proof of it; but, without entering into farther discourse, Don Quixote desired his companion to let him know who he was, as he himself had given an account of his life and situation. To which request the gentleman replied, ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I am a gentleman born in a village where, if it pleases God, we shall all dine to-day; my fortune is better than moderate, and my name Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my time chearfully, with my wife, my children, and my friends; my usual diversions are fishing and hunting; but I neither keep hounds nor hawks; all I have are some decoy-partridges and a good ferret. My library consists of about some six dozen of Spanish and Latin books; some are books of history, others of piety; for as to books of chivalry, I have not yet allowed them to come under my roof: I am more inclined to the reading of profane than religious authors, if the subjects they treat of are of an innocent nature, if the stile is engaging, and the incidents affecting and surprizing: but, indeed, Spain produces mighty few performances of this sort. I live in terms of good neighbourhood with all about me; sometimes I go to their houses, sometimes I invite them to mine; my table is neat and clean, and sufficiently affluent, without extravagance. I slander no one, nor do I allow backbiters to come near me; my eyes pry not into the actions of other men, nor have I any impertinent curiosity to know the secrets of their lives. I go to mass every day, and the poor man partakes of my substance; I make no ostentation in the good I do, that I may defend myself against the attacks of hypocrisy and vain-glory, well knowing, that the best fortified heart is hardly proof against these sly deceivers. As far as I have an opportunity, I am a reconciler of differences among my neighbours: I particularly pay my devotions to the blessed Mother, and have an entire dependance on the mercies of God our Saviour.’
Sancho had listened with uncommon attention to what the gentleman in green said; and this discourse seemed to him of such exalted piety and virtue, that he immediately conceived such a man must be endowed with the power of working miracles: fully persuaded of the truth of this supposition, he threw himself off his ass, ran up to the gentleman, seized his right stirrup, and with a heart overflowing with devotion, and eyes full of tears, fell a kissing his feet. Which humility, when the traveller perceived, ‘What is the matter, friend,’ said he; ‘what is the meaning of these embraces?’—‘Pray let me alone,’ said Sancho; ‘for in my life before, excepting your worship, did I never know a saint mounted on horseback.’—‘I have no title to be thought so,’ answered the gentleman; ‘on the contrary, I am a miserable sinner; but the simplicity of your behaviour, my friend, shews, that you yourself must be a very good man.’ Upon this declaration Sancho quitted him, and again remounted Dapple, having by his behaviour unbended the solemn gravity of his master into a smile, and increased the wonder of Don Diego.
Don Quixote then made enquiry into the number of children he had, informing him at the same time, that the ancient sages, who were not enlightened with the knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of fortune and nature, abundance of friends and encrease of dutiful children, as constituting part of the supreme happiness. ‘Sir,’ answered Don Diego, ‘I have one son; and if I had none, should, peradventure, think myself happier than I am; not that he is very bad, but because he does not come up to what I would wish him to be. He is now eighteen years of age, six of which he has spent at Salamanca, studying Greek and Latin; and when I would have had him apply to something else, I found him so dipt in poetry, if that deserves the name of science, that I could not prevail upon him to take to the study of the law, which was what I wanted he should do; nor would he apply to divinity, the first and noblest of all sciences. I was desirous to make him the honour and ornament of his family, as we live in an age, and under a monarch, where useful and virtuous learning is so amply recompensed: for what is learning without virtue; no better than pearls on a dunghill! He will spend whole days in examining whether such a verse in Homer’s Iliad be expressed with propriety, whether such an epigram of Martial is to be construed into a lewd sense or not, and whether such a verse in Virgil will bear this or that meaning. In a word, these authors, with Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus, engross the whole of his time and conversation. As to the modern authors of his own country, he seems to have no great relish for them, though, notwithstanding his seeming disregard, he is now busied in making a kind of commentary upon four verses, which, I believe, are designed as a subject for a prize in the schools.’
To this information, the other answered, ‘Signior, children are to be considered as part of the bowels of the parents, and be they good or bad, we must treat them as such, and cherish them accordingly. It is incumbent upon parents to lead them betimes into the paths of decency and virtue, to instil into them sound principles, and train them up in Christian discipline, that by these means they may be the stay of their declining years, and an honour to their own descendants. I am not against using persuasion to incline them either to the study of this or that science, but look upon using force as altogether unwarrantable; more especially as the young gentleman does not study in view of getting his livelihood, he being so fortunate as to have that secured by inheritance: then I think he should be indulged in pursuing whatever his genius or inclination mostly prompts him to; and though in poetry there is more pleasure than utility, it generally does honour to the person who has a vein for it. I liken poetry to a young, tender, and beautiful virgin, whom many other virgins, that is, all the other sciences, are assiduous to ornament, enrich, and embellish; now as she makes use of them all, so likewise does she reflect a lustre upon them all. But then this tender virgin is not to be handled roughly; she is not to be dragged through the streets, exposed in publick places, or stand as a prostitute at the gates of palaces. She is a kind of alchemy of such rare virtue, that whoever knows the nature of her composition may change her into pure gold of inestimable value: whoever would keep her must narrowly look after her; she must not be indulged in the indecency of obscene satire, nor allowed to run into insipid sonnets; and though she may enjoy the profits arising from heroick poetry, weeping tragedy, or laughing comedy, yet the muse must not be venal; no buffoons must have any thing to do with her, and she must be kept sacred from the unhallowed multitude, who neither know nor esteem those hidden treasures she carries about her. And think not that by the multitude I only mean the common rank of men; no, under that class I number all who are strangers to real knowledge, be they peers or be they princes. But, whoever is possessed of those qualifications I have been mentioning, and with them attempts the study and execution of poetry, I say, his name will be famous and held in veneration wherever politeness extends its influence. As to what you say of your son’s not esteeming the poetry of his own country, I don’t think he is quite right in that opinion, and for this reason: the mighty Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek; nor Virgil in Greek, for the same reason that he was a Roman; and, in general, every one of the ancient poets wrote in the language of his own country, and did not seek for another to clothe the majesty of his ideas. As this is the case, I think it should be a prevailing maxim in all countries; nor should we undervalue the German poet for writing in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his; but, perhaps, your son does not dislike Spanish poetry, but Spanish poets, as being destitute of the knowledge of other languages or sciences, that might contribute to cultivate, assist, and enliven their own natural genius; and even this prejudice might be carried too far; for the maxim that a poet is born with his talent, is certainly just; that is, a real poet comes forth a poet into the world, and with this natural endowment, implanted in him by his Creator, produces, without the help of study or cultivation, such things as verify that of the poets when they say, “Est Deus in nobis.” One so born a poet, if he cultivates his genius by the assistance of art, must be much better, nay, greatly preferable to him who, without natural fire, attains to the knowledge of the rules only; for it is obvious, that as art does not exceed nature, but serves to polish and bring it to perfection, so art assisting nature, and nature so assisted by art, form the accomplished poet. To conclude, Signior, my advice is, that your son should be allowed to follow the bent of his own inclination; and as he must be already an exceeding good scholar, having mastered the learned languages, which may be looked upon as having mounted the first steps in his progress to the seat of the sciences, by the assistance of that knowledge he will be able, without more help, to climb to the top of human literature, which as much adorns and sets off a gentleman as a mitre does a bishop, or the long robe the counsel learned in the law. If you find him writing satires injurious to private characters, burn his works and rebuke him; but if he composes discourses, that comprehend for their subject of satire vice in general, as Horace did with so much elegance, then commend him: for, though it be unlawful to mark and single out particular persons, it is allowable to write against particular vices; for example, to write against envy, or to lash the envious, and so of others. Here are some poets, indeed, who, rather than baulk their fancy of saying a smart thing, will risk being sent to the isles of Pontus. As the manners, so will the verses be; if the former are chaste, the latter will be so likewise. Writing is the interpreter of the mind, which will always produce what is consonant to its own native conceptions; and when kings, and the great men of the earth, once see this wonderful gift of poetry employed on subjects of wisdom, virtue, and dignity, they bestow marks of honour, esteem, and munificence upon the poet; they crown him from the leaves of that tree, which is proof against the glancing thunderbolt, emblematically denoting, that such as wear that crown ought to be secure against all hurt or offence.’
The traveller wondered so much at Don Quixote’s discourse, that he began to be staggered in his mind, whether he was a madman or not. But as this conversation did not altogether hit Sancho’s taste, he had, in the midst of it, gone out of the road, to beg a little milk of some shepherds who were milking ewes hard by; and the gentleman in green, who seemed very fond of the good sense and ingenious conversation of Don Quixote, was going to renew their dialogue, when the Don, suddenly lifting up his eyes, saw a carriage with the king’s colours meeting them upon the road, and taking this for some new adventure, called to Sancho to bring his helmet. Sancho, hearing the voice of his master, left the shepherd in great hurry, and mounting Dapple, arrived where Don Quixote was, to whom there happened a very terrible and tremendous adventure.
The history then proceeds to inform us, that when Don Quixote called upon Sancho to bring him his helmet, he, Sancho, was deep in bargain with the shepherds about some curds; and finding himself summoned in such violent haste by his master, was at a prodigious loss what to do with them, for he had paid for them, and could not bear the thoughts of losing his purchase: in this extremity he had recourse to his master’s helmet, in which he safely stowed them, and hugging himself in this lucky thought, away he trotted to receive the commands of his lord and master, who desired him to deliver his helmet; ‘For,’ said he, ‘if I know aught of adventures, that which I descry yonder will prove such a one as will oblige me to have recourse to arms.’
Don Diego, upon hearing this declaration, looked about him every where, but could discover nothing, except a carriage coming towards them, with two or three flying flags, by which he guessed the carriage might be loaded with some of the king’s money, and mentioned this observation to Don Quixote, who minded not what he said, his brain wandering so upon adventures, that every thing must be one, and nothing but a series of one adventure upon the back of another; he therefore answered the gentleman to this effect; ‘Sir, forewarned and fore-armed is half the day; I am not now to learn that I have enemies of all kinds, visible and invisible, neither know I the time, the place, the hour, nor under what appearance they will attack me.’ With these words, turning about, he demanded his helmet of Sancho; who not having time to disengage the curds from it, was obliged to deliver it, with that lining in the inside, to his master, who took it, and without farther examination, clapped it in a great hurry upon his head, which pressing and squeezing the curds, the whey began to ooze down his beard; and this circumstance so startled him, that he called out to Sancho, ‘What can this mean? Is my skull softening, or my brains melting, or do I sweat from head to foot? Surely, this I can say, that if I do sweat, it is not through fear, though I am fully persuaded this will prove a most terrible adventure. If you have got any thing, let me have it to wipe me; for this deluge of sweat blinds my eyes.’ Sancho replied not, but gave him a cloth, and with it sent up his thanks to the Almighty, that his master had not found out what it was. Don Quixote, after rubbing himself, took off his helmet, to see what it was that sat so cool upon his head, and, perceiving something white and clotted, put it to his nose, and snuffed at it; ‘By the life of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,’ cried he, ‘thou hast put curds into my helmet, thou traitor, thou ill-bred squire!’ To which apostrophe, Sancho answered with great unconcern and tranquillity, ‘If they are curds, let me have them to eat; but the devil ought rather to eat them, for I am sure it must be he who put them there. I offer to defile your worship’s helmet! in good troth, I can perceive, by the help of that understanding God has given me, that I am not without my inchanters too, who are at me, as a sort of member and limb of your worship; and I’ll be sworn, have put that nastiness there, to instigate your worship to wrath against me, and stir up your worship to anoint my ribs in the manner your worship was wont to do. But this time they have missed their aim I trow, as I can depend upon the just sentence of my master, who will easily weigh with himself, that I had neither curds, cream, nor any such stuff; and that, if I had, it was more likely I should have crammed them into my own guts than put them into his worship’s helmet.’—‘All this is possible,’ cried Don Quixote: and all this the other gentleman saw, and saw with astonishment, more especially when our hero, after having cleaned his head, beard, chops, and helmet, clapped the latter upon his skull, and fixing himself in his seat, tried whether or not his sword could be easily drawn; then grasping his spear, ‘Now,’ cried he, ‘happen what will happen, here am I, determined for the combat, should the prince of the evil spirits set himself in battle array against me.’
By this time the carriage with the streamers was come up, attended only by the driver (who rode one of the mules) and a man who sat upon the fore-part of it. Don Quixote wedged himself directly in their way, and called out, ‘Whither, my brethren, are you bound? what carriage is this? what does it contain? what ensigns are those displayed?’ To which interrogations the waggoner replied, ‘The carriage itself belongs to me, and within are two savage lions, which the general of Oran sends to court to his majesty: the streamers are the ensigns of our lord the king, to shew that what is here contained belongs to the crown.’—‘Are these lions large?’ answered Don Quixote.—‘So large,’ replied the man, who sat on the fore-part of the waggon, ‘that lions of a more monstrous size never came from Barbary into this kingdom. I am their keeper, and have had several under my charge before now, but never any so big as they: there is a male and female; the he is in the first cage, and the female in the other; they are now ravenous with hunger, having had no food to-day, and therefore I must entreat you to get out of the way, as we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.’ To which intreaty, Don Quixote answered with a half smile, ‘What are your lion whelps to me, and at this time of day too! are lion whelps brought against me! I’ll make those who sent them hither—yes, by the holy God! I’ll make them see whether I am a man to be scared by lions. Come, honest friend, get off; and as you are their keeper, open the cages and turn them out; for, in the midst of this plain, will I make the savage beasts of the wilderness know who Don Quixote de La Mancha is, in defiance of the inchanters who have sent them against me.’
‘Aha!’ said Don Diego to himself, ‘I think our Knight of the Rueful Countenance has now given us a pretty incontestable sample of what he is; these curds have certainly soaked his skull, and suppurated his brains.’ Then Sancho came up to Diego, and said, ‘For God’s sake, Signior, take care that my master’s worship does not encounter these lions, or belike we shall all of us be tore to pieces.’—‘What!’ answered he, ‘is your master then really so much out of his wits, that you believe and dread he will engage these savage monsters?’—‘He is not out of his wits,’ replied Sancho, ‘but prodigious bold.’
‘I’ll make him give over,’ answered the other; then going up to Don Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cages, he said, ‘Signior, gentlemen of the order of knights-errant ought to go upon adventures that have a probability of success, not such as are quite desperate; for that courage which is almost temerity, savours rather of madness than true fortitude. Besides, these lions do not come with any hostile design against you; no, they think of nothing less; they are going to be presented to the king, and as they are on their way to court, I think they should not be stopped in their journey.’—‘Pray, good Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you will please to get away from hence, and look after your ferrets and decoy-partridges, do, and leave every one to mind his own business: this is my business, and it behoves me to know whether or not these lions come against me.’ Then turning to the keeper, ‘Sirrah,’ said he, ‘if you do not immediately open the cages, I swear by the living God, I will this instant pin you to the place where you sit.’
The carter seeing the obstinate resolution of this armed phantom, who addressed him, begged for the sake of charity, he would let him take off his mules, and get with them out of danger, before the lions were uncaged, ‘For should my cattle be slain,’ said he, ‘I am undone for ever, having nothing to depend upon for bread but this cart and these mules.’—‘Man of little faith,’ said Don Quixote, ‘alight; take off thy mules, and do what thou wilt; but thou shalt quickly see thou hast laboured in vain, and that thou mightest have spared thyself this unnecessary trouble.’
The carter then got off, and unharnessed in great hurry, and the keeper spoke aloud, ‘I call all present to witness that I am forced against my will, to open the cages, and let loose the lions; and I here declare, that this gentleman is chargeable with, and answerable for, all the harm they shall do, as also for my salary and perquisites over and above. And now, gentlemen, pray take care of yourselves, and get out of the way; for, as to me, I know they will do me no harm.’ Don Diego again urged him to forbear attempting so extravagant an action, alledging it was tempting of God, to think of going about such a desperate undertaking. The other replied, that he knew what he did, and Don Diego once more desired him to think well of what he was about, as he was certain that he deceived himself. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you do not care to be a spectator of what you think will be a tragical adventure, set spurs to your mare, and provide for your own safety.’ Sancho, upon this intimation, fell a blubbering, and earnestly besought him not to think of entering upon this adventure; ‘For, in companion of this,’ said he, ‘the windmills, the terrible adventure of the fulling-mill hammers, nay, all the exploits your worship has performed during the course of your life, are but custards and puff-paste. Consider, Sir,’ continued he, ‘that there can be no inchantment in this cage; I myself have peeped through the cage, and there I saw the claw of a real living lion; and sure I am, that the beast that owns such a claw must be bigger than a mountain.’—‘Be he large or small,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thy fear would magnify him to the bigness of one half of the globe. Be gone, leave me: if I die, you know our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea. I say no more!’ He spoke several other things, which shewed he was determined on what he was about, and that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.
Don Diego would willingly have stopped him; but had neither weapons nor armour equal to the other’s, and, besides, did not think it prudent to engage with a man who was frantick; for, by this time, he was convinced that Don Quixote was so in all respects; who still pressing the keeper, and repeating his threats, Don Diego clapped spurs to his mare, Sancho applied his heels to Dapple, the carter put forward his mules, and all endeavoured to get as fast out of the way as they could, before the beasts were let loose. Sancho deplored the fate of his master, who he believed was just going to be sacrificed by the lions: he bewailed his own hard fortune, and cursed the hour when he thought of serving him again; however, amidst the intenseness of his grief, he ceased not to punch and jog on his ass, that he might get from the cart as fast as possible. The keeper seeing that these runaways were now safe at a sufficient distance, renewed his expostulations with Don Quixote, who said, ‘I hear you, friend; but give yourself no more trouble with arguments or entreaties, it will all signify nothing; and therefore I desire you will make haste.’
While the keeper protracted the time in opening the first grate, Don Quixote considered with himself, whether he had best alight for the combat, or continue on the back of Rozinante; and determined, at last, to fight on foot, lest his steed might take fright at the sight of the lions. Accordingly, he leaped upon the ground, threw away his lance, braced his shield, and drew his sword; in which attitude, approaching with great steadiness, he placed himself just before the cart, recommending himself, with great devotion, first to the protection of the Almighty, and then to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso.