The duke and duchess did not repent of the joke they had executed upon Sancho Panza, with respect to his government, especially as the steward arrived the same day, and gave a circumstantial detail of all the words and actions which he had said and performed during the term of his administration. In fine, he magnified the assault of the island, and the terror of Sancho, and described the manner of his departure, from the account of which they received no small pleasure and satisfaction.

The history afterwards relates, that the day appointed for the combat arrived; and the duke having again and again instructed his lacquey Tosilos how to manage Don Quixote, so as to conquer without slaying, or even wounding the knight, ordered the lances to be divested of their iron heads, observing to Don Quixote that Christianity, upon which he valued himself, would not allow him to let the combat be fought with any risk or danger of his life; and that he hoped the knight would be satisfied with his granting a field for the lists in his territories, an indulgence contrary to the decree of the holy council, which prohibits all such challenges: he therefore desired that the battle might not be fought to the last extremity. Don Quixote said his excellency might order the particulars of that affair according to his own pleasure, and that he would punctually comply with every circumstance of the disposition.

The dreadful day then being arrived, and the duke having caused a spacious scaffold to be erected before the courtyard of the castle, for the accommodation of the judges of the field, and the mother and daughter, who were plaintiffs in the cause; an infinite number of people assembled from all the neighbouring towns and villages, to see the novelty of this battle; for such a combat had never been seen nor heard of in that country, by either the living or the dead. The first that entered the lists was the master of the ceremonies, in order to examine the ground; and he accordingly surveyed the whole field, to see that there was no deceit, or any thing concealed that might occasion stumbling or falling; then came the duennas and took their seats, veiled down to the eyes, and even to the bosom, with demonstrations of excessive grief. They being seated, Don Quixote presented himself in the lists; and in a little time appeared the great lacquey Tosilos upon a mighty steed that shook the very ground, accompanied with a number of trumpets, his vizor being down, and his whole body stiffened with strong and shining armour; his horse seemed to be of the Friezland breed, broad built, and of a flea-bitten colour, with a stone of wool hanging to every foot. Thus approached the valiant combatant, well instructed by the duke how to engage the valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, and particularly cautioned against taking away the life of his knightly opponent; for he was warned to avoid the first encounter as he would shun his own death, which must have been certain had they met full shock in the midst of their career. This champion, crossing the field, and riding up to the place where the duennas were seated, began very earnestly to contemplate the person who claimed him as her husband^[195]; while the master of the field, calling to Don Quixote, who had likewise entered the lists, and kept close to Tosilos, asked the duennas if they consented to depend upon Don Quixote de La Mancha for the redress of their grievances; they replied in the affirmative, declaring, at the same time, that whatever he should do in the affair they would hold as well done, firm, and sufficient^[196]. By this time, the duke and duchess had placed themselves in a gallery that overlooked the barriers, which were crouded with an infinite number of people, who came to see the dreadful and never-beheld encounter; but, before they engaged, it was stipulated, that if Don Quixote should overcome his antagonist, he, the said antagonist, should marry the daughter of Donna Rodriguez; but should victory declare for the defendant, he should be released from the promise they pretended he had made, without giving any other satisfaction.

The master of the ceremonies having divided the sun, and stationed each combatant in his proper post, the drums began to thunder, the sound of trumpets filled the air, the earth trembled beneath their feet, and the hearts of the gazing multitude throbbed with suspense and expectation, some hoping, and others fearing, the good or bad success of the battle. Finally, Don Quixote, recommending himself with all his heart to our Lord God, and to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, waited with impatience for the precise signal of engaging; while our lacquey, engrossed by far other sentiments, thought of nothing but what we will now explain. While he stood gazing at his female enemy, she appeared in his eyes the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in the whole course of his life, and the little blind urchin, vulgarly known by the name of Cupid, was unwilling to lose this opportunity to triumph over a lacqueyan soul, and register this subject in the list of his atchievements; he, therefore, approached him fairly and softly, and unperceived let fly an arrow two yards long, which, entering his left side, transfixed his heart: nor was it difficult to perform this exploit; for Love is invincible, and makes his entrance and exit wheresoever he chuses to pass, without being called to account by any person upon earth—I say, when they gave the signal for battle, our lacquey’s soul was transported by the beauty of her, to whom, by this time, he had surrendered his liberty; and therefore, he was not so much affected by the sound of the trumpet as his antagonist Don Quixote, whose ears it no sooner saluted, than he sprang forwards to assault his adversary with all the mettle that Rozinante could exert; and his good squire Sancho seeing him begin his career, exclaimed with an audible voice, ‘God be thy guide, thou cream and flower of knights-errant: God grant thee the victory, seeing thy cause is the best!’

Although Tosilos saw Don Quixote advancing against him, he did not budge one step from his station, but called aloud to the field-master, to whom, when he went up to see what he wanted, he thus addressed himself: ‘Tell me, Signior, is not this combat appointed to determine whether I shall or shall not marry that lady?’ To this question the other having replied in the affirmative, ‘Well, then,’ resumed the lacquey, ‘I have a tender conscience, that would be grievously burdened should I proceed in this quarrel; and, therefore, I own myself vanquished, and will forthwith take the lady to wife.’ The field-master was surprized at this declaration of Tosilos; and, being in the secret of the plan, knew not what answer to make; while Don Quixote, perceiving his enemy did not come on to the assault, checked Rozinante in the middle of his career. The duke, being ignorant of the cause that retarded the battle, was by the field-master, informed of what Tosilos had said, at which he was extremely surprized and incensed; whereas, Tosilos, in the mean time, rode up towards the place where Donna Rodriguez was seated, and pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Madam, as I am willing to marry your daughter, there is no occasion to seek that by disputes and contention which I may obtain peaceably without the danger of death.’ The valiant Don Quixote hearing this address, ‘Since that is the case,’ said he, ‘I am released and acquitted of my promise; let them marry a-God’s name, and as our Lord bestows the bride, may St. Peter bless the nuptials!’

The duke descending into the court-yard of the castle, and advancing to Tosilos, ‘Knight,’ said he, ‘is it true, that you own yourself vanquished, and that, instigated by your timorous conscience, you consent to marry this damsel?’ When he answered, ‘Yes, my lord.’—‘He is very much in the right,’ cried Sancho: ‘Give always to the cat what was kept for the rat; and, Let it still be thy view all mischief to eschew.’ As for Tosilos, he began to unlace his helmet, and earnestly begged that somebody would come to his assistance; for his breath was almost gone, and he could not bear to be confined so long in such a narrow lodging. People accordingly ran to his relief; and his head being uncased, Donna Rodriguez discovered the individual countenance of our lacquey, which the daughter no sooner beheld than she cried aloud, ‘A cheat! a cheat! My Lord Duke has palmed his lacquey upon us, in lieu of my lawful husband: I demand justice of God and the king, for this malicious, not to call it knavish contrivance.’

‘Ladies,’ said Don Quixote, ‘give yourselves no concern; there is neither malice nor knavery in the case; or if there is, it cannot be occasioned by the duke, but by those wicked inchanters who persecute me without ceasing: envious of the glory I should have acquired in this atchievement, they have metamorphosed your husband’s face into the aspect of this man, who, you say, is the duke’s lacquey. Take my advice, therefore, maugre the malice of mine enemies, bestow your hand upon him; for, without all doubt, he is the very person whom you desire to obtain as an husband.’

The duke, overhearing this admonition, had well-nigh vented all his indignation in laughter, saying, ‘The adventures that happen to Signior Don Quixote are so extraordinary, that I am apt to believe this is not really my lacquey; but, let us make use of this expedient and stratagem: we will, if it be agreeable, delay the marriage a fortnight, and confine this person, of whom we are doubtful, and in that time perhaps he will retrieve his former figure; for surely the rancour of those wicked inchanters, who hate Don Quixote, cannot last so long; especially as such delusions and transformations avail them so little.’—‘O my lord!’ cried Sancho, ‘those banditti have been long accustomed to chop, change, and transmography every thing that belongs to my master; some time ago he vanquished an errant, called the Knight of the Mirrours, and in a twinkling they transformed him into the figure of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, a townsman and great friend of ours; as for my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, they have changed her into a homely country wench; and, therefore, I take it for granted that this man will die and live a lacquey all the days of his life.’

Here the daughter of Donna Rodriguez interposing, ‘Be he who he will,’ said she, ‘I am obliged to him for asking me in marriage: and I would rather be the lawful wife of a lacquey, than the deluded mistress of a gentleman; although he who deluded me has no pretensions to that title.’ In fine, all these incidents and explanations ended in the resolution to confine Tosilos, until they should see the issue of his transformation; while, with unusual acclamation, the victory was adjudged to Don Quixote; though the greatest part of the spectators seemed melancholy and disappointed, because they had not seen two such hopeful combatants hew one another in pieces: in the same manner as the boys are out of humour, when the execution is prevented by the malefactor’s being pardoned, either by the party or the king.

The crowd dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle, Tosilos was sent to prison; Donna Rodriguez and her daughter rejoiced exceedingly, when they saw, that one way or another, this affair would end in marriage, and the lover consoled himself with the same prospect.

CHAP. V.
GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE
TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE;
AND OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN HIM
AND THE GAY AND WITTY ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS.

By this time Don Quixote thought he would do well to quit that idle way of life which he led in the castle; for he imagined himself much to blame in living thus buried and inactive among those infinite dainties and entertainments with which he, as a knight-errant, was indulged by that noble pair; and he concluded that he would be obliged to give a severe account to Heaven of this idleness and sequestration. He, therefore, one day, begged leave of the duke and duchess to depart; and they granted his request, with marks of being extremely grieved at his intention. The duchess delivered to Sancho Panza his wife’s letter, and the good squire wept bitterly when he understood the contents; saying, ‘Who could have thought such mighty hopes as were engendered in the breast of my wife Teresa Panza, by the news of my government, would vanish in my returning again to the woeful adventures of my master Don Quixote de La Mancha? Nevertheless, I am pleased to find that my Teresa behaved like herself, in sending the acorns to the duchess; for had she failed in that particular, I should have been sorely vexed, and she would have shewn herself ungrateful: what comforts my poor heart is, that they cannot call this present a bribe; for I was actually in possession of the government before the acorns were sent: and it is but reasonable, that folks who receive any sort of benefit should shew their gratitude, even though in trifles. In effect, naked I took possession of the government, and naked I resigned my office; therefore, I may say with a safe conscience, which is no small boast, I naked was born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain.’

This conference Sancho held with his own bosom on the day of their departure: as for Don Quixote, having taken leave of their graces over-night, he in the morning presented himself armed in the court-yard of the castle, where he furnished a spectacle to all the people of the family, not even excepting the duke and duchess, who viewed him from the gallery. Sancho was mounted upon Dapple, extremely well pleased with the contents of his bags, wallet, or store; for the duke’s steward, who acted the part of the Countess Trifaldi, had given him a small purse of two hundred crowns, to answer the emergencies of the road: but of this supply Don Quixote was ignorant. While every individual, as we have said, stood gazing at the knight, all of a sudden, from among the other duennas and damsels of the duchess, the gay and witty Altisidora, raising her voice, pronounced what follows, in a lamentable tone.

While the afflicted Altisidora complained in these strains, Don Quixote surveyed her attentively; and, without answering a word to her lamentation, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘By the age of thine ancestors, my dear Sancho, I conjure thee to tell me the truth: say, hast thou actually got the three caps and the garters, which this enamoured damsel mentions?’ To this question the squire replied, ‘The three caps I have; but as to the garters, I know nothing of the matter.’

The duchess was surprized at the freedom of Altisidora’s behaviour; for, although she knew her to be forward, merry, and frank, she did not think the girl possessed of assurance enough to attempt a scheme of this nature; and her admiration was the greater, as she had not been previously apprized of the intended joke. The duke, however, in order to reinforce the jest, addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words: ‘It does not look well, Sir Knight, that you who have met with such honourable reception and treatment in this my castle, should presume to carry off by stealth three knight-caps, at least, if not a pair of garters likewise, belonging to my damsel: these are marks of a bad heart, and but ill agree with your reputation. Restore the garters to the right owner; otherwise, I challenge you to mortal combat, without any apprehension that knavish inchanters will transform or change my face, as they have practised upon my lacquey Tosilos, your last antagonist.’

‘God forbid,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I should unsheath my sword against your illustrious person, of whom I received such favours! The three night-caps shall be restored; for Sancho owns they are in his custody: but it is impossible to make restitution of the garters, as neither he nor I did ever receive them; and I dare say your damsel will find them, if she will take the trouble to rummage her own drawers. I, my lord duke, was never a thief, and I hope never shall in the whole course of my lite, provided God will not withdraw from me his guiding hand. The damsel, according to her own declaration, talks like an enamoured person; but surely I am not to blame for her impertinence: and, therefore, I have no reason to ask pardon either of her or your excellency, whom I entreat to look upon me with more favourable sentiments, and beseech anew to consent that I may prosecute my journey.’—‘God grant your departure may be so happy,’ said the duchess, ‘that we may always hear good news of Don Quixote’s exploits. Go, then, a God’s name; for the longer you stay, your presence blows up the fire the more fiercely in the bosoms of the damsels who behold you: as for mine, I will chastise her in such a manner, that from henceforward she shall never transgress either in word or deed.’—‘One word more, however, I beg thou wilt hear me speak, O valiant Don Quixote!’ said Altisidora. ‘I crave pardon for having taxed you with the garters; for, as I shall answer to Heaven and my own conscience, they are now upon my legs; and I have been guilty of a mistake, like the man who went in search of his ass, while he was mounted on his back.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried the squire: ‘I should be a rare fellow indeed, to receive and conceal stolen goods; had I been that way inclined, I might have had opportunity enough in my government.’

Don Quixote bowing his head, made a profound reverence to the duke and duchess, and all the spectators; then turning Rozinante, and being followed by Sancho upon Dapple, he set out from the castle, directing his course to Saragossa.

CHAP. VI.
SHEWING HOW ADVENTURES THRONGED UPON DON QUIXOTE
SO THICK AS TO ENTANGLE ONE ANOTHER.

When Don Quixote found himself in the open field, free and disembarrassed from the complaints of Altisidora, he seemed to be placed in the very center of his own wish, and to enjoy a renovation of spirits, in order to prosecute anew the aim of his chivalry. Turning, therefore, to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘liberty is one of the most precious gifts which Heaven hath bestowed on man, exceeding all the treasures which earth encloses, or which ocean hides; and for this blessing, as well as for honour, we may and ought to venture life itself: on the other hand, captivity and restraint are the greatest evils that human nature can endure. I make this observation, Sancho, because thou hast seen the delicacies and the plenty with which we were entertained in that castle: yet, in the midst of those savoury banquets, and ice-cooled potations, I thought myself confined within the very straits of famine, because I did not enjoy the treat with that liberty which I should have felt, had it been my own; for obligations incurred by benefits and favours received, are fetters which hamper the freeborn soul. Happy is he to whom Heaven hath sent a morsel of bread, for which he is obliged to none but Heaven itself.’

‘But notwithstanding all that your worship hath said,’ replied Sancho, ‘we, for our parts, ought not to be ungrateful, considering the two hundred crowns of gold which the duke’s steward gave me in a purse, and which, as a plaister and a cordial, I keep next my heart, in case of emergency; for we shall not always find such castles where we can be entertained; on the contrary, we may sometimes stumble upon sorry inns, where we shall be soundly cudgelled.’

With this and other such discourse, the two errants, knight and squire, amused themselves while they proceeded on their journey. Having travelled a little more than a league, they perceived upon a green spot of ground, about a dozen countrymen at dinner, with their cloaks spread under them; and hard by, certain white sheets at some distance from one another, that seemed to cover something, above which they were raised up and stretched with great care and caution. Don Quixote approaching the men, first of all saluted them courteously, and then asked what it was they covered so carefully with these pieces of linen. ‘Signior,’ replied one of the countrymen, ‘under these sheets are carved images for an altar-piece to be set up in our town; we cover them in this manner, that they may not be sullied, and carry them upon our shoulders that they may not be broken.’—‘If you please,’ replied the knight, ‘I should be glad to see them; they must certainly be good images, which you so carefully convey.’—‘Good!’ cried the other, ‘aye, that the price of them will declare: I can assure you there is not one of them that does not cost above fifty ducats; and that your worship may be convinced of the truth of what I say, stay a moment, and you shall see it with your own eyes.’

So saying, he left his dinner, and rising up, uncovered the first piece, which represented St. George on horseback, with his lance thrust into the throat of a serpent coiled at his feet, exhibiting all the fierceness with which that animal is usually painted; and the whole groupe looked, as the saying is, like a flame of gold.

Don Quixote, immediately recognizing the subject, ‘This knight,’ said he, ‘was one of the best errants that ever signalized themselves in divine warfare; his name was St. George, and he was, moreover, a protector of damsels. Let us see the next;’ which, when displayed, appeared to be the image of St. Martin on horseback, dividing his cloak with the beggar. Don Quixote no sooner beheld it, than he said to Sancho, ‘This knight was also one of the Christian adventurers, and, I believe, more liberal than valiant, as thou mayest perceive by this circumstance of dividing his cloak, and giving one half to the beggar; and, doubtless, this incident must have happened in the winter season, otherwise the saint was so charitable he would have given the whole.’—‘Nay, that surely was not the case,’ replied the squire; ‘but he held fast by the old proverb, which says, The man in wisdom must be old, who knows in giving where to hold.’

Don Quixote smiled at this remark, and desired the man to lift the third cover, under which appeared the figure of the patron of Spain on horseback, with his bloody sword, trampling down and bruising the heads of the Moors. Don Quixote seeing this representation, exclaimed, ‘Ah! this is a knight, and chief in the squadrons of Christ; his name is Don San Diego Mata Moros^[197], and he was one of the most valiant saints and knights which earth ever produced, or heaven now contains.’ Then they unveiled the fourth, which exhibited St. Paul falling from his horse, with all the circumstances usually set forth in the picture of his conversion, so lively represented, that one would have almost thought Christ was speaking, and Paul answering the voice. ‘This,’ said Don Quixote, ‘was the most bitter enemy the church of God ever had, while our Lord and Saviour was on earth, and afterwards the greatest defender it will ever have: a knight-errant in his life, and a perfect saint in his death; an unwearied labourer in the vineyard of our Lord, a teacher of the Gentiles, schooled by Heaven, and whose professor and master was Jesus Christ himself.’

There being no other images to see, Don Quixote desired the man to cover up those he had examined; and addressing himself to the bearers, ‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘I look upon it as a good omen to have met with these images; for these saints and knights were of my profession, which is the exercise of arms: with this difference, however, they were saints, and fought in a divine manner; and I, who am a sinner, fight in the manner of men. They conquered Heaven by the force of their arms; for the kingdom of Heaven suffers violence; whereas I know not, hitherto, what I have conquered by the toils and troubles I have undergone: but if my Dulcinea del Toboso should be delivered from those she now sustains, my fortune will be bettered, my judgment repaired, and perhaps my steps may be directed through a better path than that which I at present follow.’

This declaration was closed with an exclamation of Sancho, who cried aloud, ‘The Lord give ear, I pray; and sin be deaf for aye!’ The men were equally astonished at the knight’s appearance and discourse, one half of which they did not understand; nevertheless, they made an end of their meal, shouldered their images, and taking leave of Don Quixote, pursued their journey. Sancho was, on this occasion, as much astonished at the learning of his master, as if he had never known him before that day; and imagined there was not an history or event in the whole world, that was not decyphered on his nail, or nailed to his memory. ‘Truly, master of mine,’ said he, ‘if what has happened to us to-day may be called an adventure, it is the most sweet and delicious of all that have yet befallen us in the whole course of our peregrinations; from this we have escaped with whole skins and fearless hearts; we have neither unsheathed our swords, battered the earth with our poor carcases, nor are we left in a starving condition; blessed be God who hath spared me to see this good luck with my own eyes!’—‘Thou sayest well, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘but thou must take notice, that all times are not the same, nor equally fortunate; and those incidents which the vulgar call omens, though not founded on any natural reason, have, even by persons of sagacity, been held and deemed as fair and fortunate. One of these superstitious omen-mongers rises in the morning, goes abroad, chances to meet a friar belonging to the beatified St. Francis; and, as if he had encountered a dragon in his way, runs back to his own house with fear and consternation. Another Foresight^[198] by accident scatters the salt upon the table, by which fear and melancholy are scattered through his heart; as if nature was obliged to foretel future misfortunes by such trivial signs and tokens; whereas, a prudent man and a good Christian will not so minutely scrutinize the purposes of Heaven. Scipio chancing to fall in landing upon the coast of Africk, and perceiving that his soldiers looked upon this accident as a bad omen, he embraced the soil with seeming eagerness, saying, “Thou shalt not ’scape me, Africk; for I have thee safe within my arms.” Therefore, Sancho, my meeting with those images I consider as a most happy encounter.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ answered the squire; ‘but I wish your worship would be pleased to tell me, for what reason the Spaniards, when they join battle, and invoke that same St. Diego Mata Moros, cry, “St. Jago!” and “Close, Spain!” Is Spain cloven in such a manner, as to want closing; or what is the meaning of that ceremony?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘thy simplicity is very great. You must know, that God has given this great Knight of the Red Cross, as a patron and protector to Spain, especially in those dreadful battles fought against the Moors. The Spaniards, therefore, invoke and call upon him as their defender on all such occasions; nay, many times hath he been seen overthrowing, trampling, slaying, and destroying the squadrons of the children of Hagar^[199]; and of this truth I could convince thee by many examples recorded in the authentick histories of Spain^[200].’

Sancho changing the subject of conversation, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I was astonished at the boldness of her grace’s damsel, Altisidora. I’faith! she must be rarely pricked and stabbed by him they call Cupid; who, they say, is a mischievous blind boy, and is able, with those bleared eyes of his, or rather with no eyes at all, if once he takes aim, to pierce through and through with his arrows, the smallest heart that ever was seen. I have also heard it observed, that by the modesty and reserve of young women, these same amorous shafts are blunted and broken; but in Altisidora they seem rather to be whetted than blunted.’—‘Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘you must know that love has no respect of persons; nor, in his progress, does he confine himself within the bounds of reason; indeed he is of the same disposition with death; for he assaults the lofty palaces of kings, as well as the humble cottages of swains. When he once has taken full possession of the soul, his first exploit is to expel fear and modesty; and without these did Altisidora declare her passion, which engendered not pity, but confusion in my breast.’—‘O monstrous and notorious cruelty!’ cried Sancho, ‘unheard-of ingratitude! I can say for myself, that the least kind word from her would have subdued and made me her bond slave. Ah, the son of a whore! what a heart of marble, bowels of brass, and soul of plaister!—But I cannot, for the blood of me, conceive what the damsel could see in your worship, to tame and bring her to such an humble pass; what finery, what good humour, what gentility could she observe about your person? or what beauty could she spy in that face? for women are taken with these qualities either severally or conjunctly. Verily, verily, I have often stopped to survey your worship from the sole of your foot to the last hair upon your scull; and I protest before God! I think you would be more apt to frighten than to captivate a fair lady; and as I have, moreover, heard it said, that beauty is the chief and principal article that inspires love, your worship being quite destitute of that commodity, I cannot imagine what the poor creature was in love with.’—‘Take notice, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘there are two kinds of beauty, one of the mind, and another of the body: that of the mind displays itself in the understanding, in honourable and virtuous behaviour, in a liberality of disposition, and in good breeding; now, all these qualifications may center in an ugly man; and when this kind of beauty, preferable to that of the body, is the object of admiration, it produces love that glows with equal impetuosity and advantage. For my own part, Sancho, I can easily see that I am not beautiful; but I likewise know I am not deformed; and a gentleman who is not altogether monstrous, may inspire the most ardent love, provided he is in possession of those qualities of the mind which I have mentioned.’

Thus discoursing together they entered a wood, at a small distance from the highway; and, all of a sudden, without dreaming of any such lett or impediment, Don Quixote found himself entangled among some nets of green thread, which were spread and stretched from tree to tree. As he could not conceive the meaning of this phænomenon, ‘I believe,’ said he to Sancho, ‘that this of the nets must be one of the newest adventures that ever were imagined or contrived. Let me die if the inchanters by whom I am persecuted, have not a mind to entangle me in them, and obstruct my journey, in revenge for my rigour and indifference towards Altisidora! But I shall give them to understand, that although these nets, instead of thread, were made of the hardest adamant, and stronger than that in which the jealous God of blacksmiths caught Mars and Venus together, I would break through them as easily as if they were of rushes and unspun cotton.’

So saying, he endeavoured to proceed and destroy this obstacle, when all at once, from a tuft of trees, came forth two most beautiful shepherdesses, at least they were clad like shepherdesses, though their jackets and petticoats were of fine brocade—I say, their petticoats were of the richest gold tabby; their hair hung loose upon their shoulders, and in shining might have vied with the rays of Apollo himself; their heads were adorned with garlands of green laurel, interwoven with sprigs of red amaranth; and their age seemed to be neither under fifteen, nor turned of eighteen; a sight that struck Sancho with admiration, the knight with surprize, and suspended the sun in the middle of his career. All the four, for some time, remained in silent wonder; and at length, the first who spoke was one of the two country maidens, who, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Forbear, Sir Knight,’ said she, ‘and do not break our nets, which, I assure you, were not spread for your inconvenience, but merely for our own pastime: and because I know you will ask for what reason they are placed, and who we are, I will satisfy your curiosity in a few words. At a village about two leagues from hence, which is inhabited by many people of fortune and fashion, it was agreed among a number of friends and relations, that they, their wives, sons, daughters, neighbours, friends and kinsfolks, should come and enjoy the fine season in this spot, which is the most agreeable situation in all this country; and here form a new pastoral Arcadia, the girls being habited like shepherdesses, and the young men like swains. We have studied two eclogues; one of the famous poet Garcilasso, and another of the most excellent Camoens, in his own Portuguese language; though they are not yet represented, for we arrived only yesterday. Among these trees we have pitched some field-tents, upon the banks of a plentiful stream which fertilizes all these meadows; and last night we spread these nets from tree to tree, in order to deceive and catch the simple little birds, which, frightened by the noise we make, may fly into the snare: if you chuse to be our guest, Signior, you shall be treated liberally and courteously, for at present neither melancholy nor disgust shall enter this place.’

Here she left off speaking; and Don Quixote replied—‘Assuredly, most beauteous nymph, Acteon himself could not be seized with more surprize and admiration, when he all of a sudden beheld Diana bathing, than that which but now overwhelmed me at sight of such uncommon charms! I applaud the scheme of your entertainments and diversions; I thank you heartily for your courteous proffer, and if I can serve you in any shape, you may command me, with full assurance of being obeyed; for I have chosen this profession solely because it consists in being grateful and benevolent to all mankind, especially to persons of rank such as your appearance declares you to be; and if these nets, which I suppose occupy but a small space, were extended over the whole circumference of the globe, I would find new worlds through which I might pass, rather than by breaking the least mesh, run the risque of interrupting your diversion. That you may give some credit to this exaggeration, be pleased to take notice, that he who makes it is no other than Don Quixote de La Mancha, if peradventure such a name hath ever reached your ears.’

The young lady no sooner heard these words, than turning to the other shepherdess, ‘O my dear companion!’ cried she, ‘what an happy incident is this! that there knight, I assure thee, is the most valiant, enamoured, and courteous person in the whole world, if we are not misled and deceived by the printed history of his exploits, which I have read from end to end; and I’ll lay a wager that honest man who accompanies him is one Sancho Panza, his squire, whose pleasantry is above all comparison.’—‘You are in the right,’ said Sancho; ‘I am that same pleasant fellow and loyal squire whom your ladyship hath so honourably mentioned; and that gentleman is my master, the very individual historified and aforesaid Don Quixote de La Mancha.’

‘Good now, my dear,’ said the other, ‘let us beseech them to stay; our fathers and brothers will be infinitely pleased with their conversation; for I have likewise heard the same account of the knight’s valour and the squire’s pleasantry: as for Don Quixote, in particular, he is said to be the most constant and loyal lover that ever was known; and that his mistress is one Dulcinea del Toboso, who bears away the palm of beauty from all the ladies in Spain.’—‘Aye, and justly too,’ said the knight; ‘unless your unequalled beauty should invalidate her claim. Weary not yourselves, fair ladies, in persuading me to stay; for the indispensible duties of my profession will not allow me to rest in any place whatever.’

Just as he pronounced these words, they were joined by a brother of one of the two nymphs, clad likewise in the fashion of a shepherd, though his dress, in point of richness and gaiety, corresponded with that of the ladies, who told him that the gentleman on horseback was the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, and the other his squire Sancho, whose characters he already knew from his having perused their history. The gallant youth paid his compliments, and pressed Don Quixote to accompany them to the tents, in such a manner that he could not help complying. Then setting up the shout, the nets were filled with different kinds of little birds, which, deceived by the colour of the meshes, flew precipitately into the very danger they sought to avoid.

In this place they were joined by above thirty persons, gaily clad like shepherds and shepherdesses, who were immediately informed of the names of Don Quixote and his squire; a circumstance which afforded them no small satisfaction, as the history had already made them acquainted with the characters of both.

Repairing to the tents, where they found tables ready furnished with elegance and abundance, they complimented the knight with the place of honour, and all the company gazed upon him with admiration. At length, when the cloth was taken away, Don Quixote raising his voice, thus harangued them with great solemnity: ‘Of all the crimes which mankind commit, though some say pride is the greatest, I affirm that ingratitude is the most atrocious, adhering to the common supposition, that hell is crouded with the ungrateful. This crime I have, as much as in me lies, endeavoured to avoid ever since the first moment in which I could exercise my reason; and though I may not be able to repay in kind the benefits which I receive, I substitute the will for the deed: when that is not sufficient, I publish them to the world; for he that promulgates the favours he has received, would also requite them with equal generosity, if it was in his power to make such recompence. But, for the most part, people who receive benefits are inferior to those who bestow them; and, therefore, God is above all, because he is the fountain of all good things. Yet there is an infinite difference between the benefits conferred by men and those bestowed by God, so as to reject all comparison; and this narrowness and insufficiency on our part, is in some measure supplied by gratitude. Now, I being grateful for the favours you have done me, which I cannot repay in the same measure, and being hampered by the narrow limits of my ability, must offer that which is in my power to present; I say, therefore, that I will for two natural days, in the middle of that high-road that leads to Saragossa, maintain that the ladies here present, disguised in pastoral habits, are the most fair and courteous damsels in the whole world, excepting always and only, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts; without offence to the honourable hearers be it spoken.’

Here Sancho, who had stood listening attentively to what he said, exclaimed with great vociferation, ‘Is it possible, now, that there can be persons in the world, who have the presumption to say and swear that my master is a madman? Pray tell me, gentlemen and ladies, shepherds and shepherdesses, is there ever a country-curate in Spain, let him be never so wise and learned, that could say what my master has just now said; or is there a knight-errant, let him be never so famed for valour, who could make such an offer as my master has made!’

Don Quixote turning to Sancho, with rage and indignation in his countenance, ‘Miscreant,’ said he, ‘is it possible there should be a person upon earth who would not say thou art stark mad, and that thy soul is lined and bordered with fillets of malice and knavery? By what authority, wretch! art thou entitled to intermeddle in my affairs, and give thy opinion whether my brain be sound or crazy? Seal up thy lips, and make no reply; but saddle Rozinante, if he is without his saddle, and let us go immediately and perform my promise; for as I have justice on my side, you may deem all those who shall contradict my assertion as already vanquished.’

So saying, he rose from his seat with great fury and demonstrations of wrath, leaving the whole company astonished, and doubting whether they should consider him as a lunatick or person of sound intellects. However, they endeavoured to dissuade him from publishing such a declaration, saying they took his gratitude for granted, and that there was no need of new proofs to demonstrate his valour, seeing those were sufficient which they had seen recorded in the history of his atchievements.

Notwithstanding this remonstrance, the knight executed his design; he mounted Rozinante, embraced his shield, and grasping his lance, posted himself in the middle of the king’s highway, which was not far from their verdant habitation, being followed by Sancho upon Dapple and the whole flock of those pastoral gentry, who were curious to see the issue of his arrogant and hitherto unseen enterprize.

Having taken possession of the ground, he wounded the very vault of heaven with the loudness of the tone in which he pronounced these words: ‘O ye passengers and travellers, knights, squires, persons on horseback or a-foot, who come or are to come this way, within the space of two days, from this present hour, know that Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant, is here posted to maintain that the nymphs who inhabit these meadows and woods, excel in beauty and courtesy all the ladies upon earth, exclusive of Dulcinea del Toboso, the mistress of my soul. Let him who thinks the contrary, advance; here I am ready to receive him.’

Twice did he repeat this declaration, and twice was it repeated unheard by any knight adventurer; but fortune, which was bent upon directing his affairs to better purpose, ordained, that in a very little time he descried upon the road a great number of men on horseback, some of them armed with lances riding towards him in great haste, and all in a cluster. Those who were with Don Quixote no sooner perceived this troop, than they turned their backs and retired a good way from the road, knowing that some mischief would befal them, should they keep their ground: the knight alone maintained his post with an undaunted heart, and Sancho Panza shielded himself with the flanks of Rozinante.

When this troop of lancemen advanced, one of them that rode before the rest, began to halloo as loud as he could cry to Don Quixote, ‘Get out of the way, thou servant of the devil, or these bulls will trample thee to dust!’—‘So ho, caitiffs!’ replied the knight; ‘your bulls shall not avail against me, even though they are the fiercest that ever fed upon the banks of Xarama; confess, ye miscreants, unsight, unseen, the truth of what I have proclaimed, or meet my vengeance in the field of battle.’

The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to retire, had he been never so willing; so that the drove of wild bulls and tame cattle, together with a multitude of drivers and other people employed to convey them to a place where, in a few days, they were to be baited—the whole throng, I say, passed over the bellies of Don Quixote, Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, whom they in a twinkling overthrew and rolled in the mire, in such a manner that the squire was squeezed as flat as a pancake, his master astonished, Dapple terribly bruised, and Rozinante in no very catholick condition. At length, however, all the four got upon their legs; and Don Quixote, staggering here, and tumbling there, began to pursue the drove on foot, calling aloud—‘Halt, and wait a little, ye felonious plebeians; he is a single knight who defies you to the combat, and not of the disposition and opinion of those who say—“Lay a bridge of silver for a flying enemy.”’

But notwithstanding all his exclamation, the drovers did not slacken their pace, or mind his threats, more than they minded last year’s weather. Don Quixote being so tired, that he could run no farther, sat down upon the side of the road, more incensed than revenged, and waited for Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, who soon arrived. Then the knight and squire, mounting their beasts, proceeded on their journey with more shame than satisfaction; and never dreamed of returning to take a formal leave of the feigned or counterfeit Arcadia.

CHAP. VII.
IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE EXTRAORDINARY INCIDENT
THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE,
AND MAY WELL PASS FOR AN ADVENTURE.

The dust and drought which Don Quixote and Sancho derived from the uncivil behaviour of the bulls, were remedied by a clear and limpid stream which they had the good fortune to find in a good shade, and on the margin of which this down-trodden pair, the master and man, seated themselves, after Rozinante and Dapple were unbridled, and unhaltered, and left to the freedom of their own will. Sancho immediately had recourse to the store of his wallet, from which he drew forth what he usually called his belly-timber; but not before he had rinsed his mouth, and his master had washed his own face, in consequence of which refreshment they recovered their exhausted spirits. Nevertheless, Don Quixote forbore eating, out of pure vexation; while Sancho, who durst not touch the food that was before him, waited, out of pure good manners, until his master should begin. Seeing, however, the knight so absorbed in his own imagination, that he forgot to lift the bread to his mouth, he, without letting one word escape his own, but trampling under-foot all kind of good-breeding, began to cram his paunch with the bread and cheese which constituted his provision. ‘Eat, friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and support life, which is of more importance to thee than to me, and leave me to die by the strength of imagination and the severity of my misfortunes. I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and thou to die eating; and that thou mayest be convinced of this truth, consider me recorded in history, renowned in arms, courteous in demeanour, respected by princes, courted by damsels; and, after all, when I expected palms, triumphs, crowns of laurel, obtained and merited by my valiant atchievements, I have this morning seen myself trampled, spurned, and bruised, by the feet of filthy, unclean animals! This consideration blunts my teeth, stupifies my grinders, benumbs my hands, and deprives me wholly of appetite; so that I believe I shall die of hunger, the most cruel of all deaths.’—‘At that rate,’ answered the squire, without suspending the action of his jaws, ‘your worship will not approve of the proverb which says—“Let Martha die, but not for lack of pye.” At least I, for my own part, have no intention to starve myself; on the contrary, I am resolved to follow the example of the cordwainer who stretches the leather with his teeth until it is sufficient for his purpose; now, I will also employ my teeth in stretching out my life with eating, to that end which is ordained by Heaven; and you must know, Signior, that it is the greatest madness in nature to seek to despair like your worship. Take my advice; eat a little for refreshment, and then take a nap upon the green couch of this delightful grass, and when you awake you will see how much you’ll be relieved.’

The knight relished his advice, which he thought savoured more of the philosopher than of the ideot; and said to him, ‘Now, Sancho, if thou wouldst do that for me which I am going to mention, my relief would be more certain, and my affliction diminished: my proposal is, that while I sleep, in compliance with thy advice, thou wouldst go aside a little farther, and, exposing thy flesh to the air, bestow upon it, with the reins of Rozinante’s bridle, three or four hundred stripes, of the three thousand three hundred which thou hast undertaken to endure for the disinchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a lamentable circumstance that the poor lady should remain so long inchanted, through thy carelessness and neglect.’—‘There is much to be said on that subject,’ replied Sancho: ‘let us both go to sleep in the mean time; and afterwards God must ordain that which will come to pass. Your worship must know, that it requires great resolution in a man to scourge himself in cold blood; especially when the stripes fall upon a body which is poorly fed and supported: let my Lady Dulcinea have a little patience; when she least thinks of it, she will see my body scourged into a perfect sieve; and while there is life there is hope; my meaning is, that while I hold life, I shall never quit the desire of performing my promise.’

Don Quixote, thanking him for his good-will, took a little sustenance, Sancho ate voraciously, and then both laid themselves down to sleep, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, those two friends and inseparable companions, at full liberty to feed, without restraint, upon the luxuriant grass with which the meadow abounded.

The day being far spent before they awoke, they remounted their cattle, and pursued their journey with uncommon expedition, in order to reach an inn which they descried at a league’s distance. I say, an inn, because it was so called by Don Quixote, contrary to his former custom of mistaking every inn for a castle. When they arrived at this place of entertainment, they asked if they could be accommodated with lodging; and the landlord replied in the affirmative, telling them at the same time, that his house afforded as good conveniences and entertainment as could be found in the whole city of Saragossa. They alighted accordingly, and Sancho carried his bags into an apartment, of which the innkeeper gave him the key; then he led the cattle to the stable, where he gave them their allowance; from thence he went to receive the commands of his master, who had sat down upon a bench, and thanked Heaven, in a particular manner, that Don Quixote had not committed his usual mistake. They retired to their chamber, and supper-time approaching, Sancho desired to know what they could have for that meal. To this interrogation mine host replied, that his taste should be fitted to a hair, and that he might bespeak what he liked best; for, as far as the birds of the air, the fowls of the land, and the fish of the sea could go, he would find the house provided. ‘Less than all that will serve,’ answered Sancho: ‘we shall be satisfied with a couple of chickens roasted; for my master has a very delicate taste, and eats but little; and as for myself, I am not a very unconscionable cormorant.’

The other frankly owned he had no chickens; for the kites had destroyed the whole brood. ‘Well, then, Mr. Landlord,’ said the squire, ‘you may order a pullet to be put to the fire; but see it be very tender.’—‘A pullet!’ cried the innkeeper; ‘body o’ my father! now, as I’m an honest man, I sent above half a hundred yesterday to market; but setting aside pullets, you may have what you will.’—‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho, there will be no want of veal or kid.’—‘At present,’ replied the innkeeper, ‘there is really none in the house; we are just out of these articles; but next week she shall have enough and to spare.’—‘To be sure, we shall be much the better for that!’ answered Sancho; ‘I’ll lay a wager all these wants will be supplied with plenty of eggs and bacon.’—‘’Fore God!’ said the host, ‘my guest has an admirable knack at guessing; I have told him there is neither hen nor pullet in the house, and he would have me treat him with eggs^[201]! Shift about, if you please, to some other delicacies, and think no more of poultry.’

‘Body o’ me!’ cried Sancho, ‘let us come to some resolution; tell me at once what is in the house, and pray, Mr. Landlord, no more of your shiftings.’—‘What I really and truly can afford,’ said the innkeeper, ‘is a dish of cow-heel, so delicate they might be taken for calves-feet; or you may call them calves-feet, that might pass for cow-heel. They are stewed with pease, onions, and bacon, and this blessed minute cry—“Come, eat me; come, eat me.”’—‘I mark them for my own,’ cried Sancho, ‘from henceforth for ever, amen. Let no man touch the mess, for which I will pay you handsomely; for nothing in the whole world could be more agreeable to my taste; and, provided I have cow-heel, the calves-feet may go to the devil.’—‘No man shall interfere with you,’ replied the landlord; ‘as for the other company in the house, they, out of pure gentility, bring along with them their own cook, butler and sumpter mule.’—‘Nay, as for gentility,’ said the squire, ‘no man has more of that than my master; but his profession will not admit of travelling stores and butteries: lack-a-day! we lay ourselves down in the middle of a green field, and fill our bellies with medlars and acorns.’ Such was the conversation that passed between the innkeeper and Sancho; who would not, however, go any greater lengths in satisfying the curiosity of mine host, who was very desirous to know the office or profession of his master.

Supper being ready, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, whither the landlord brought the pot just as it was, and very decently sat down to partake of the meal. At that instant, the knight heard people talking in the next room, from which he was divided only by a partition of lath, and could plainly distinguish these words: ‘As you hope to live, Don Geronimo, I conjure you, as supper is not yet ready, to read another chapter of the second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha.’

The knight, hearing his own name mentioned, started up immediately, and listening with great attention, heard Geronimo reply to this effect: ‘What pleasure can you have in reading such absurdities, Don John? No person who has seen the first part of the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, can possibly be entertained with this which is called the second.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don John, ‘it will not be amiss to read a little; for there is no book so bad as to contain nothing that deserves regard. What displeases me most in this performance is, the author’s describing Don Quixote as altogether disengaged and detached from Dulcinea del Toboso.’

The knight, hearing this remark, was filled with rage and vexation, and exclaimed aloud, ‘If any person whatever affirms that Don Quixote de La Mancha either has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will, with equal arms, make him know and own, that his affection is far distant from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot possibly be forgot; nor is Don Quixote susceptible of forgetfulness: his motto is Constancy, which he professes to maintain with gentleness and suavity of manners.’—‘Who is he that answers?’ cried the voice. ‘Who should it be,’ replied Sancho, ‘but Don Quixote de La Mancha, in his own person, who will make good whatever he has said, and whatever he shall say; for, “A good paymaster wants no pawn.”’

Scarce had the squire pronounced these words, when two gentlemen, for such they appeared, entered the apartment; and one of them throwing his arms about Don Quixote’s neck, ‘Your appearance,’ said he, ‘does not belye your name, and your name cannot but give credit to your appearance. Without all doubt, you, Signior, are the true Don Quixote de La Mancha, the north-star and luminary of knight errantry, maugre and in despite of him who has thought proper to usurp your name, and annihilate your exploits; I mean, the author of this here book:’ which he took from his companion, and put into the hand of Don Quixote; who, without answering one word, began to turn over the leaves, and in a very little time gave it back to the stranger, saying—‘In the little I have read, I find three things worthy of reprehension in the author; first, some expressions in the prologue or preface; secondly, his using the Arragonian dialect, and writing sometimes without articles; and thirdly, that which confirms my opinion of his ignorance, his erring and deviating from the truth in the most material circumstances of the history; for he says, the wife of my squire Sancho Panza, is called Mary Gutierrez, whereas her name is Teresa Panza; now, if he blunders in such an essential circumstance, we may justly conclude that his whole history is full of mistakes^[202].’

‘A pleasant historian, i’faith!’ cried Sancho: ‘he must be well acquainted with our adventures, to be sure, when he calls my dame Teresa by the name of Mary Gutierrez! Take the book again, Signior, and see if he has lugged me in, too, under a borrowed name!’—‘From what you have said, friend,’ replied Don Geronimo, ‘I find you must certainly be Sancho Panza, squire to Signior Don Quixote.’—‘Even so,’ answered the squire; ‘and I am proud of the occupation.’—‘Then, in good sooth!’ said the cavalier, ‘this author has not treated you so handsomely as from your appearance I conclude you deserve; he represents you as a gormandizer, a simpleton without the least vein of humour or pleasantry; and, in short, quite different from the Sancho described in the first part of the history of your master!’—‘The Lord in heaven forgive him!’ cried Sancho: ‘he might have let me sleep in my corner, without remembering there was such a sinner as me upon the face of the earth: for, “He that has skill should handle the quill^[203];” and I know that St. Peter is well at Rome.’

The two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their apartment, as they knew the inn could not afford any thing proper for his entertainment; and the knight, who was always the pink of courtesy, complied with their request; so that Sancho remained undisputed master of the pot. Cum mero mixto imperio, he seated himself at the head of the table, in company with the landlord, who vied with him in affection for the cow-heel and calves-feet.

Don John, in the course of the conversation at supper, asked what news Don Quixote had concerning the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he begged to know if she was married, brought to-bed, or in a state of pregnancy; or, if still single, she, as far as modesty and decorum would permit, smiled upon the passion of her lover Don Quixote. ‘Dulcinea,’ answered the knight, ‘is still unmarried, and my passion more intense than ever: our correspondence stands on the old footing, and her beauty is transformed into the appearance of a base-born, rustick wench.’

Then he, in a very circumstantial manner, related the inchantment of his mistress, together with his adventure in the cave of Montesinos, and the means prescribed by the sage Merlin for her relief; namely, the flagellation of Sancho.

Unspeakable was the satisfaction which the two cavaliers enjoyed in hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and they were equally astonished at the folly of his adventures and the elegance with which he related them: here they esteemed him as a man of sound understanding; and there he slipped through their opinion into the sink of madness; so that they could not determine what rank he should maintain between lunacy and discretion.

Meanwhile, Sancho having finished his meal, left his landlord more than half seas over; and entering the chamber where his master sat, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I’ll be hanged if the author of that book your worships were talking of, has any mind or inclination that he and I should be messmates. Since he has given me the character of a glutton, as your worships have observed, I wish he may not have likewise called me a drunkard.’—‘He has indeed,’ replied Don Geronimo: ‘but I do not remember the expression, though I know the words are very scurrilous and false above measure, as I can plainly perceive in the physiognomy of honest Sancho here present.’—‘Take my word for it, noble gentlemen,’ said the squire, ‘the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history must be persons quite different from those recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, who are no other than we ourselves, here standing and sitting in your presence: my master, valiant, sagacious, and enamoured; and I simple, and withal pleasant, but neither sot nor gormandizer.’—‘I believe what you say,’ replied Don John: ‘and wish it were possible to obtain a mandate, prohibiting any person or persons from presuming to meddle with the affairs of the great Don Quixote, excepting Hamet, his original author; in the same manner as Alexander the Great decreed that no painter but Apelles should draw his portrait.’—‘Any body may draw my portrait,’ said the knight; ‘but let no man maltreat my character; for patience often falls to the ground, when it is overloaded with injuries.’—‘No injury can be done to Don Quixote, but what he can easily revenge,’ answered Don John: ‘unless he chuse rather to ward it off with the buckler of his patience, which, I believe, is both strong and ample.’

In this and other such conversation they spent great part of the night; and although Don John would fain have persuaded Don Quixote to read a little more of the book, that they might hear him descant upon particulars, he could not accomplish his purpose; the knight assuring him he considered it as good as read, and pronounced the whole an heap of absurdities; nor did he chuse that the author, who might perhaps hear it was in his hands, should have the satisfaction of thinking he had perused his performance; for, from objects of obscenity and turpitude, not only the eyes but even the imagination ought to be kept sacred. When they asked, whither his course was at present directed, he told them he was bound for Saragossa, in order to signalize himself in the prize-jousts which are yearly solemnized in that city.

Then Don John gave him to understand that the new history gives an account of the spurious Don Quixote’s having been in that place at a course, the description of which was barren of invention, low in stile, miserably poor in devices, and rich in nothing but folly and impertinence.—‘For that very reason,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will not set foot in Saragossa, and so demonstrate to the wide world, the falshood of this modern historian, and let the nations see I am not the Don Quixote whom he has described.’—‘I applaud your resolution,’ replied Don Geronimo; ‘and there will be a tournament in Barcelona, where Don Quixote will have an opportunity to signalize his valour.’—‘And that I shall surely embrace,’ answered the knight: ‘at present, gentlemen, as it is high time, you will give me leave to retire to bed; and I beg you will esteem and place me among the number of your most sincere friends and humble servants.’—‘And me also,’ said Sancho: ‘peradventure my service may be good for something.’ They accordingly took their leave, and retired to their apartment, leaving Don John and his companion astonished at the medley of sense and madness they had observed in his discourse: they believed, without hesitation, these to be the real Don Quixote and Sancho, and not the persons described by the Arragonian author.

Don Quixote rising early next morning, tapped at the partition, and bade farewel to his entertainers: and Sancho paid his reckoning like a prince; advising the landlord, however, either to furnish his house better, or to brag less of his accommodations.

CHAP. VIII.
OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE IN HIS WAY TO BARCELONA.

The morning was cold, and seemed to promise but little less for the day on which Don Quixote departed from the inn, after having informed himself of the nearest road to Barcelona which he could travel without touching at Saragossa; so eager he was to fix the lye upon the new historian by whom they said he was so scurvily treated.

So it happened that he met with nothing worthy of record within six days; at the end of which, having quitted the high road, he was benighted among a thick cluster of oak or cork-trees; for, in this particular, Cid Hamet has not preserved his usual punctuality. The master and man alighting from their beasts, and accommodating themselves at the roots of two separate trees, Sancho, who had laid in a good afternoon’s luncheon, entered the gates of sleep abruptly, and without hesitation; whereas the knight, who was kept awake more by fancy than by hunger, could not close an eye; but, on the contrary, rambled in his imagination through a thousand different scenes. Sometimes he conceived himself to be in the cave of Montesinos; sometimes he thought he saw Dulcinea skipping and leaping upon her ass, in that dismal state of rustick transformation; and then his ears seemed to tingle with the words of the sage Merlin, who pronounced the conditions and endeavours to be observed and exerted for the disinchantment of his mistress. He was driven almost to desperation, when he reflected on the sloth and uncharitable disposition of his squire Sancho, who, to the best of his belief, had hitherto given himself only five stripes; a number poor and inconsiderable in comparison with the infinite score unpaid: and this consideration overwhelmed him with such anxiety and chagrin, that he thus argued with his own bosom.

‘If Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian knot, on the supposition that cutting would be as effectual as untying it; and notwithstanding this violence, became sole master of all Asia, the same success may now attend my efforts in disinchanting Dulcinea, should I scourge Sancho against his own consent; for if the condition of this remedy be, that Sancho shall receive three thousand three hundred stripes, what signifies it to me whether they are bestowed by his own hand, or that of some other person, seeing the essential point is in his receiving them, from what quarter soever they may come?’