Archive for the ‘Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children’ Category
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 9: The Lost Helmet
Doubtless you have already guessed how the great combat between Don Quixote and the Biscayan ended.
As the knight rushed blindly forward, his enemy’s sword descended for the second time. Had it not turned in his hand the story of Don Quixote would be ended here. Luckily, however, it did no further damage than to destroy the knight’s helmet and shave off half of his left ear.
Before Don Quixote could return the blow the Biscayan’s mule became unmanageable. It leaped suddenly forward and ran with great speed into the open plain. It ran straight for the lady’s coach; but in vaulting over a brook it twisted its body so suddenly as to hurl its master to the ground.
The poor Biscayan was stunned by the fall. He lay helpless and senseless in the mud and mire.
Don Quixote was not far behind. He checked his steed when in full gallop, and slipped nimbly from the saddle. He ran to his fallen foe and set the point of his sword against his breast.
“Now yield thee as a recreant, or thy head shall pay the forfeit!” he cried.
The Biscayan scarcely heard him, but lay speechless at his feet. There is no telling what might have happened had not the lady leaped from the coach and ran to the rescue. With tears she besought Don Quixote to spare the life of her faithful squire.
“Truly, most beautiful lady,” said the victorious knight, “I will grant your request. I will spare his life on one condition.”
“What is the condition?” asked the lady.
“He must give me his word of honor,” answered Don Quixote, “that he will go straightway to Toboso. At Toboso he must present himself, in my name, to the peerless lady Dulcinea. She will dispose of him as she thinks best.”
“I promise it for him,” said the lady. “He will do all that you require of him.”
“Then he may live,” said Don Quixote.
He bowed gallantly to the lady. He remounted his steed. He turned himself about with great dignity, and resumed his journey as though nothing had happened.
Sancho Panza was not long in overtaking his master. He rode up to him and seized his hand.
“If it please you, my good Don Quixote,” he said, “don’t forget to make me governor of the island you have won in this great fight.”
“Brother Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “these are not adventures of islands. These are only little skirmishes along the road. We can expect from them nothing more than broken heads and bleeding ears. But have patience, have patience! Perhaps in the next adventure I shall conquer a kingdom.”
“How nice that would be!” said Sancho. “But does not your ear give you pain?”
“It is only a trifle,” answered Don Quixote. “No true knight ever complains of trifles.”
“But he permits his wounds to be dressed. Come! I have some lint and a little white salve in my wallet.”
They paused beneath a spreading tree, and while Sancho was binding up the bleeding ear, his master kept on talking.
“Friend Sancho,” he asked, “did you ever read in history of any knight who showed more skill, or greater activity than I did in this memorable combat?”
“No, never,” answered Sancho. “I can safely say that I never, in any book of history, read of any knight so active as you. For you must know that I never learned to read nor even to write.”
“Be very gentle, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, wincing under his rough surgery. “The boldest knight has feelings after the battle has been won.”
“Never did I serve a bolder knight than you, good master,” answered Sancho, “and your ear is now very gently dressed.”
Don Quixote put up his hand to touch the injured part, and as he did so he discovered for the first time the loss of his helmet.
“Tell me, Sancho, where is my helmet?” he cried.
“I think you lost it on the field of battle,” answered the squire.
Don Quixote forgot the dignity that belongs to knighthood. He could scarcely be made to believe that his helmet was not still on his head. Then he began to rave. You would have thought him stark, staring mad.
But in a few minutes he became more calm. With his right hand on his sword, he lifted his eyes towards the tree tops and made a solemn vow.
“Never, while I live,” said he, “will I eat bread on a tablecloth till I have taken revenge on the knight who has done me this injury.”
“Dear master,” said Sancho, “think on what you are saying. If the fellow who split your helmet has gone on to Toboso, according to promise, to deliver himself to the lady Dulcinea are you not already even with him?”
“It may be as you say,” answered Don Quixote. “I will, therefore, change the wording of my vow and declare that never, so long as I live, will I eat bread on a tablecloth till I have captured another helmet as good as the one that I have lost.”
“So far, so good,” said Sancho. “But suppose we should not for a long time meet anyone with a helmet on. Think of the sad case we shall be in. There are few who travel this road except wagoners and mule drivers, and they never wear helmets.”
“You are mistaken,” answered Don Quixote. “Before we go much farther we shall see more men at arms than you ever dreamed of.”
Sancho Panza made no reply. He remounted his donkey, and the two rode onward through the pass of Lapice. As they rode they beguiled the time with much talk concerning knighthood and other matters no less lofty and inspiring.
They journeyed slowly through the hill country beyond the pass. At night they rested in a friendly inn, and the next day and for many days they jogged aimlessly along, ready for any new adventures.
And adventures they had in great plenty — perilous adventures, amusing adventures, chivalrous adventures; but of all the persons whom they met, there was not one who wore a helmet. Don Quixote was therefore obliged to ride bareheaded and to eat bread from uncovered tables.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 8: The Adventure with the Monks
Through all that afternoon Don Quixote and his squire jogged slowly along, and neither house nor other friendly shelter did they see. The sun had gone down, and twilight was darkening when they saw near the road a clump of green trees which seemed to offer them a safe resting place.
“Here, Sancho,” said the knight, “let us go no farther. Since there is no castle nor even an inn in this barren country we must lodge here in this grove.”
They dismounted, and while Sancho was caring for the animals Don Quixote strolled around among the trees.
On an old oak he found a withered branch some ten feet long and quite smooth and straight. With much labor he wrenched it from the tree; he carried it back to his lodging place and began with much patience to remove the twigs from it.
“This will serve me instead of the lance which I lost in my encounter with the windmill,” he said. “I have read of knights who used such makeshifts and did wonderful deeds with them.”
Night came on. He sat silently upon the bare ground and looked at the stars. His mind was full of the stories he had read of heroes in forests and in deserts keeping guard through the hours of darkness. And so he sat bravely awake until the morning dawned.
As for Sancho Panza, he did not spend the night in that foolish fashion. He sprawled himself upon a bed of leaves, closed his eyes, and made one nap of it. Had not his master wakened him he would have slept till high noon.
They lost no time in breakfasting. To the valorous Don Quixote the day held so many promises that he was unwilling to waste a moment. They saddled their steeds, they mounted, and were away with the rising of the sun.
After many miles of travel they came at length to a more rugged country; and in the afternoon they entered the pass of Lapice where the road runs through a narrow valley between rocky hills.
“Here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “here is the place where we may have our fill of adventures.”
“Do you think that you will find me that island somewhere near?” asked Sancho Panza.
“Indeed, I cannot say,” answered his master. “But I wish to caution you on a very particular point. It is I that am to do the fighting. You may see me in great danger and beset by many foes; but you must not offer to fight for me unless you know that those foes are only common scoundrels. The laws of chivalry forbid a squire to encounter a knight.”
“I see, I see,” said Sancho, “and I shall do as you say. For I was never any great hand at fighting, and I don’t get into quarrels with anyone if I can help it.”
“For a man in your humble station, that is right,” said Don Quixote.
“Still, if a knight should set upon me first,” said Sancho, “I am not sure but that I would give him a few hard whacks.”
“That would be right and I will not forbid it,” said Don Quixote. “But as for helping me against any knight or knights, I command you not to do it.”
“I’ll obey you. I’ll obey you, master,” said Sancho. “I have no desire to encounter any knight or knights.”
While they were thus talking they saw two monks riding leisurely down the pass towards them. The monks were dressed in black robes and mounted on mules so high and stately as to look like travelers on the backs of camels. They wore masks over their faces to keep off the dust; and each held an umbrella above him as a shield from the sun.
A little way behind the monks there came a four-wheeled coach drawn by two small horses. Following this were four or five mounted men and two mule drivers on foot.
Inside of the coach sat a richly dressed lady who was traveling to the nearest city.
“I think we are about to have a famous adventure,” said Don Quixote.
“Why so?” asked Sancho.
“Well, I am quite sure that those two persons in black are magicians who are carrying away some princesses in that coach. It is my duty to prevent so wicked an act.”
“Ah!” sighed Sancho, “I’m afraid this will be a worse affair than the windmills.”
The next moment Don Quixote gave spur to his steed and galloped forward in the middle of the road to meet the approaching monks.
“Halt there, you lawless magicians!” he cried. “I command you to give those high-born princesses their freedom, or else prepare for instant death.”
The monks stopped their mules and lifted their masks. They wondered what sort of man this was whom they had met; for indeed he made a strange appearance.
“Sir Knight,” they cried, “we are not magicians. We are religious men, going about our own affairs. We know nothing about any princesses.”
“You cannot deceive me,” answered Don Quixote. “I know you well enough, and none of your enchantments will prevail against me.”
Then, without further parley, he couched his lance, set spurs to his steed, and dashed furiously upon the nearest monk.
The monk, taken by surprise, flung himself to the ground on the farther side of his mule. In this way he saved his life; for, had Don Quixote struck him with the rude lance from the oak tree, he would certainly have been killed.
The other monk was badly frightened. He lashed his mule’s flanks and fled out of the pass and over the plain as though racing with the wind.
By this time Sancho Panza had come up. He slipped quickly from his donkey’s back, and ran up to the first monk, who was still on the ground, and began to strip him of his robe.
“Why do you do that, you robber?” cried the two mule drivers, who were, in fact, the servants of the monks.
“I am not a robber,” answered Sancho. “I’m only taking the spoils which my master has lawfully won in battle.”
But the rude fellows cared nothing for his words. They fell upon him and beat him without mercy. They threw him into a ditch by the roadside. They stamped upon him, and left him sprawling in the mud without sense or motion.
The monk, seeing that Don Quixote had ridden onward, now climbed upon his mule as quickly as possible. With whip and spur he urged the poor beast forward and went speeding away after his friend. He neither paused nor looked behind until he was safely out of the pass.
In the meanwhile Don Quixote had halted the coach and dismounted beside it. He looked in at the door and began to address the lady.
“Fair Princess,” he said, “I am the valorous knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha. I have given battle to your captors and I am pleased to say that you are now delivered from their power. I ask no recompense for my valorous deed; but I beg that you go on to Toboso and there tell my Lady Dulcinea of the great service I have rendered to you.”
At that moment one of the lady’s squires came riding up in haste. He seized the stick which Don Quixote called his lance, and wrenched it from his hands.
“Get gone!” he cried in bad Spanish. “Leave the coach or I’ll kill thee as sure as I am a Biscayan.”
“Were you a gentleman, as you are not, I would chastise you as you deserve,” said Don Quixote.
“What!” cried the Biscayan. “Me no gentleman? I’ll show thee that I’m a gentleman — a gentleman by land, a gentleman by sea, a gentleman in spite of everything.”
“Then, if you are a gentleman, I will try titles with you,” said Don Quixote.
With that he remounted with surprising quickness and, sword in hand, dashed furiously upon the Biscayan.
The fellow was so taken by surprise that, had not his unruly mule reared and leaped to one side, he might have fared badly in the encounter. But, quickly recovering himself, he snatched a cushion from the coach to serve as a shield, and with his other hand drew his sword.
The lady screamed. Her coachman, cracking his whip, drove away at a rattling speed. The road was left clear for the desperate combat.
With swords raised in air, Don Quixote and the Biscayan faced about and glared fiercely at each other. The foot servants and mule drivers, who now came running forward, tried in vain to pacify them. Don Quixote would not so much as look at them.
“O Dulcinea, thou flower of beauty,” he cried, “lend help to me, thy champion in this most dangerous encounter.”
At the next moment, the Biscayan’s sword fell with a mighty blow upon his back. Had not his armor been of such rare good metal, his body would have been cleft in halves. Luckily, however, no harm was done, save to the edge of the Biscayan’s weapon.
Don Quixote steadied himself, recovering from the blow. He gripped his sword with a firmer grasp; he raised it high in the air; he gathered all his strength for the final stroke.
The servants and mule drivers who saw him were terrified by his rage. The lady in the coach, who was now looking back from a safe distance, clasped her hands and vowed to the saints to do all sorts of good deeds, if only her squire might escape from his deadly peril.
But why should I prolong this chapter to describe the result of that ever memorable conflict? Here you may see the Biscayan struggling with his unruly mule, covering himself with his cushion, and swinging his battered sword in the air. And here you may behold the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, with uplifted blade, urging his steed to the conflict, and —
But let us draw the curtain and end the chapter without another word.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 7: The Adventure with the Windmills
Very early the next morning, the knight and his squire set out on their travels. They stole silently away from the village without bidding goodbye to anyone; and they made such haste that at sunrise they felt themselves quite safe from pursuit.
Don Quixote, riding in full armor astride of gaunt Rozinante, felt that he was indeed the most valorous knight in the world; and no doubt he was a formidable sight. As for Sancho Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with his knapsack on one side of him and a leather bottle on the other, his feet almost dragging on the ground. His mind was full of thoughts about that island of which he hoped to be the governor.
The sun rose high above the hills. The two travelers jogged onward across the plains of Montiel. Both were silent, for both had high purposes in view.
At length Sancho Panza spoke: “I beseech you, Sir Knight-errant, be sure to remember the island you promised me. I dare say I shall make out to govern it, let it be ever so big.”
Don Quixote answered with becoming dignity: “Friend Sancho, you must know that it has always been the custom of knights-errant to conquer islands and put their squires over them as governors. Now it is my intention to keep up that good custom.”
“You are indeed a rare master,” said Sancho Panza.
“Well, I am thinking I might even improve upon that good custom,” said Don Quixote. “What if I should conquer three or four islands and set you up as master of them all?”
“You could do nothing that would please me better,” answered Sancho.
While they were thus riding and talking, they came to a place where there were a great many windmills. There seemed to be thirty or forty of them scattered here and there upon the plain; and when the wind blew, their long white arms seemed to wave and beckon in a droll and most threatening manner.
Don Quixote drew rein and paused in the middle of the road.
“There! there!” he cried. “Fortune is with us. Look yonder, Sancho! I see at least thirty huge giants, and I intend to fight all of them. When I have overcome and slain them we will enrich ourselves with their spoils.”
“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.
“Why, those who are standing in the fields just before us,” answered the knight. “See their long arms! I have read that some of their race had arms which reached more than two miles.”
“Look at them better, master,” said Sancho. “Those are not giants; they are windmills. The things which you call arms are sails, and they flap around when the wind blows.”
“Friend Sancho,” said the knight, very sternly, “it is plain that you are not used to adventures. I tell you those things are giants. If you are afraid, go and hide yourself and say your prayers. I shall attack them at once.”
Without another word he spurred Rozinante into a sturdy trot and was soon right in the midst of the windmills.
“Stand, cowards!” he cried. “Stand your ground! Do not fly from a single knight who dares you all to meet him in fair fight.”
At that moment the wind began to blow briskly and all the mill sails were set moving. They seemed to be answering his challenge.
He paused a moment. “O my Dulcinea, fairest of ladies,” he cried, “help me in this perilous adventure!”
Then he couched his lance; he covered himself with his shield; he rushed with Rozinante’s utmost speed upon the nearest windmill.
The long lance struck into one of the whirling sails and was carried upward with such swiftness that it was torn from the knight’s firm grasp. It was whirled into the air and broken into shivers. At the same moment the knight and his steed were hurled forward and thrown rolling upon the ground.
Sancho Panza hurried to the place as quickly as his dappled donkey could carry him. His master was lying helpless by the roadside. The helmet had fallen from his head, and the shield had been hurled to the farther side of the hedge.
“Mercy on me, master!” cried the squire. “Didn’t I tell you they were windmills?”
“Peace, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, rubbing the dust from his eyes. “There is nothing so uncertain as war. That wicked enchanter, Freston, who stole my books has done all this. They were giants, as I told you; but he changed them into windmills so that I should not have the honor of victory. But mind you, Sancho, I will get even with him in the end.”
“So be it, say I!” cried Sancho, as he dismounted from his donkey.
He lifted the fallen knight from the ground. He brought his shield and adjusted the helmet. Then he led his unlucky steed to his side and helped him to remount.
The sun was now sloping towards the west, and the knight and squire rode thoughtfully onward across the plain of Montiel.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 6: The Choosing of a Squire
For fifteen days the good old gentleman stayed at home. He moved quietly about the house, and seemed happy and contented. The loss of his library did not disturb him.
“A true knight will bear the disappointments of life with becoming fortitude,” he said.
The niece and the housekeeper, and indeed everyone else, began to hope that he would forget his strange delusion. They spoke to him cheerfully and tried to keep his mind on other things.
The curate called to see him every day, and they had many pleasant talks on many pleasant subjects. But always towards the end, Don Quixote would ramble back to the thoughts which still seemed uppermost in his memory.
“I tell you what, my dear friend,” he would say, “the world would be better off if there were more knights in it. What we need most is knights, knights, plenty of knights.”
Then he would go on for an hour or more talking upon his favorite subject. The good curate would nod his head and smile. He knew that it was better to humor his poor friend and let him have his own way.
As the days passed by, Don Quixote became more and more uneasy. The house was too quiet for him. He longed to be riding forth in quest of new adventures. He could not think or talk of anything else.
“But there is one thing lacking,” said he to the curate. “I must find me a squire. All the knights that I ever read about had faithful squires who followed them on their journeys and looked on while they were fighting.”
The curate smiled and said nothing.
Now there lived in the village a poor man whose name was Sancho Panza. He was a common laborer who had often done odd jobs about Don Quixote’s farm. He was honest but poor — poor in purse and poor in brains.
To this man Don Quixote had taken a strange fancy. Almost every day he walked down the street to talk with him. He was just the kind of fellow he wished for his squire.
At last he mentioned the matter. “Sancho Panza,” he said, “I am a knight and I shall soon ride out on a knightly errand. You cannot do better than to go with me as my squire. I promise that you shall earn great renown, second only to myself.”
“Renown, good master?” queried Sancho; “and what sort of a thing is that?”
“Why, your name will be in everybody’s mouth,” answered Don Quixote. “All the great ladies and gentlemen will be talking about your achievements.”
“How very fine that will be!” said Sancho.
“And it may happen that in one of my adventures I shall conquer an island,” continued Don Quixote. “Indeed, it is very likely that I shall conquer an island. Then, if you are with me, I will give it to you to be its governor.”
“Well, I don’t know much about islands,” said Sancho, “but I’m sure I should like to govern one. So, if you’ll promise me the first island you get, I’ll be your man. I’ll go with you and do as you say.”
“I promise,” said Don Quixote. “You shall be my squire; and since you will share my labors, you shall also share my rewards.”
Then followed busy days for Don Quixote. He provided himself with money by selling a part of his farm. He mended his broken armor. He borrowed a lance of a friendly neighbor. He patched up his old helmet as best he could.
At last everything was in readiness, and the knight went down the street to talk with Sancho Panza. He wished to advise him of the hour he expected to start.
“I will be ready, sir,” said Sancho.
“And be sure you have with you whatever it is necessary to carry,” said Don Quixote. “Above all things, bring your wallet.”
“Indeed I will, master,” said Sancho; “and I will also bring my dappled donkey along. For I am not much used to foot travel.”
Don Quixote was puzzled. He could not remember of reading about any knight whose squire rode on a donkey. Yet he feared to offend Sancho, lest he should lose his services, which now seemed indispensable to him.
“Your dappled donkey? Oh, certainly!” he said. “You may ride him until good fortune shall present you with a horse. And I promise that the first discourteous knight who meets us shall give up his steed to you.”
“I thank you, master,” said Sancho Panza; “but being used to the donkey, I shall be more at home on his back than on the back of any prancing steed you might give me.”
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 5: The Library
Early the next morning the curate and the barber came again. Don Quixote was still sleeping. Indeed, he did not awake until the day was more than half gone.
“We have come to remove the cause of his illness,” said the curate; and he asked the niece to give him the key to the room where her uncle kept his books.
“Here it is,” she said; “and I hope you will make clean work of it.”
They unlocked the door and went in, the housekeeper following them. There, ranged neatly on shelves, they saw a hundred large volumes and a goodly number of smaller ones. The curate began to read the titles.
“Wait! wait!” cried the housekeeper. She ran out and soon came back with a sprinkling can full of water.
“Here, doctor,” she said, “take this and sprinkle every nook and cranny in the room. Some unseen sorcerer may be lurking among the books, and the water will drive him out.”
The curate smiled and did as she desired. Then he asked the barber to hand him the books one by one, while he opened them and examined the title-pages.
“They are not all equally bad,” he said. “Perhaps there are some that do not deserve to be burned.”
“Oh, no!” cried the niece. “Do not spare any of them. Everyone is bad. Everyone has helped to undo my uncle.”
“Throw them out of the window into the garden,” said the housekeeper. “Then we will carry them around into the back yard and burn them where the smoke will not annoy anybody.”
They worked all the morning. Often the curate would find a volume over which he would linger for some time. He would turn the leaves lovingly and look slyly at the pictures.
“It is a great pity to burn that,” he would whisper; and then he would lay the book aside for his own reading.
The most of the volumes, however, were romances of knighthood and of really no value. The quick eye of the curate easily detected such trash as these, and they were cast out and doomed to destruction.
Towards noon everyone began to tire of the business. “It’s no use to examine any more of these volumes,” said the curate. “They’re all bad. Cast them out! Cast them out!”
The housekeeper was delighted. A bonfire was kindled in the back yard, and, while the curate and the barber were resting themselves, she threw into it not only the books which had been condemned but also the pleasant volumes which the good curate had decided to spare for his own edification.
Thus the good sometimes perish with the bad.
In the afternoon Don Quixote awoke from his long sleep. He was so bruised and so lame, however, that he could not rise. He could only lie in bed and feebly mutter the names of the housekeeper and his niece.
They brought him some food, and when he had eaten it he fell asleep again.
“It is best to let him rest,” whispered the curate; and they left him alone.
For two whole days the knight did not go out of his room. But he was well cared for, and though he suffered not a little, he was never heard to complain.
While he thus lay helpless in his bed, the curate and the barber paid frequent visits to the house. They spent much time in stopping up the door of the little room where the knight’s library had been. This they did so cunningly that the housekeeper herself could not tell exactly where the door had been.
“If he cannot find the room, he will soon forget about the books,” said the curate.
On the fourth day, Don Quixote was able to walk about a little; but he did not seem to feel sure of himself or of any object about him.
The first thing he did was to look for his library.
He went feebly up and down the long hallway, trying to find the door. He felt of the wall. He groped here and there, and stared confusedly around him. At length he gave up the search; but he said not a word to anyone.
The next day he spoke to the housekeeper, “I do believe that I have lost the way to the study.”
“What study?” asked the woman. “There is no study in this house.”
“I feel quite sure that I once had a study with many books in it,” said Don Quixote.
“Oh, that was long ago,” answered the housekeeper. “But during your sickness one of those wicked enchanters, about whom you have read, ran away with it. He took not only the room but all the books that were in it.”
Don Quixote groaned.
“Yes, uncle,” said the niece, “an enchanter did it. He came one night, riding on a dragon. He alighted and went into your study. In a little while, he flew out through the chimney. He left the house so full of smoke that we could not see our own eyes. We looked everywhere for your library, but could find neither room nor books.”
“I think I know who it was,” said Don Quixote. “It was that famous enchanter, Freston. He has a spite against me and is my worst enemy.”
“You are right, uncle,” said the niece. “It was either Freston or Friston. At any rate his name ended with t-o-n.”
“He is a bad fellow,” answered the knight. “No doubt he will try to do me some other mischief. He knows where I live and will come often. But I am not afraid of him. Some day I will meet him in fair fight and vanquish him.”
Then he arose and with his feeble hands took down the sword which had been hanging over the mantelpiece ever since his sad return. He felt of its edge, and murmured, “Ah, Freston, Freston! Thou shalt yet learn of the prowess of the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha!”
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 4: The Adventure with the Merchants
Don Quixote had not ridden more than two miles when, at a turn in the road, he saw several horsemen approaching him.
They were merchants of Toledo, and they were going to some distant town to buy silks. There were six of them, and each carried an umbrella over his head to shield him from the sun.
Following behind these horsemen there were four servants and three mule drivers, all on foot.
Don Quixote’s heart beat fast when he saw this company.
“Here is an adventure worthy of my courage!” he cried.
He fixed himself in his stirrups, he couched his lance, he covered his breast with his shield. Then he posted himself in the middle of the road at the top of a gentle hill.
As soon as the merchants were within hearing, he cried out, “Halt there! Let all mankind stand still. No person shall pass here unless he is ready to declare that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful lady in the universe.”
The merchants stopped in wonder at the strange being who thus barred their way. They were not long in guessing the truth.
“It is some poor gentleman who has lost his senses,” they said to one another.
Then their leader rode forward a few paces and saluted the knight.
“Sir Knight,” he said, “we do not know the fair lady whom you name. If you will let us see her, and if she proves to be as beautiful as you think, we will agree to all that you require of us.”
“Let you see her!” cried Don Quixote. “I might do that if I chose. But the importance of the thing is in making you confess and declare her beauty without seeing her.
Come now, raise your right hands and say what I demand of you.
The merchants sat quietly in their saddles and made no answer.
“What!” cried Don Quixote. “Are you silent? Then know that I am your enemy, and I challenge you to combat right here and now.”
He braced himself in his saddle and shook his lance; but still the merchants made no reply.
“Are you afraid, you cowards?” shouted the knight. “Come one by one; or come all together, as you please. I am ready for the combat.”
Then he spurred his horse and rode furiously down the hill towards the astonished merchants.
There is no telling what might have happened had Rozinante behaved himself. But that gallant steed had gone scarcely twenty yards when he stumbled and fell in the middle of the road.
Don Quixote was pitched headlong into the dust. His long lance went flying into the weeds on one side of the highway; his shield was thrown among the bushes on the other. The knight himself made a funny appearance as he rolled and tumbled on the ground. The weight of his rusty armor held him down.
But even while he lay helpless in the dust, he was a hero with his tongue. “Stay, you cowards!” he shouted. “Do not run away. It is my horse’s fault that I have been thus dismounted.”
The merchants laughed. His sorry plight amused them no less than his wonderful pluck. They spread their umbrellas above their heads and rode onward over the hill.
But one of the mule drivers, who was an ill-natured fellow, could not bear to hear his master called a coward. He picked up the fallen lance and broke it in pieces. Then with one of the longer parts he belabored Don Quixote’s sides until it was splintered into a dozen fragments. Nor did he stop until he was quite tired out.
Still Don Quixote was not conquered. Through all this storm of blows he lay kicking on the ground and daring his enemies to do their worst. “Slay me if you will,” he cried, “but, still I affirm that the Lady Dulcinea is without her equal on earth.”
At last the mule driver left him and ran onward to overtake his mules and his master.
When Don Quixote found himself alone he tried once more to get on his feet. But if he was unable to do this at first, how was he to do it now, all bruised and battered as he was?
As he lay helpless on his back it so happened that a plowman came that way. This plowman, who lived in Don Quixote’s village, had been to the mill and was returning with a bag of meal on his donkey’s back.
When he saw the knight sprawling in the dust he stopped, while the donkey began to make acquaintance with poor Rozinante who was picking grass by the roadside.
“Hello, my good friend!” cried the plowman. “What has happened to you?”
Don Quixote made no answer. He looked up at the sky and began to repeat a long speech he had read in one of his books.
“The fellow has lost his senses,” said the plowman to himself.
Then he stooped and lifted the knight’s helmet from his face. It was the helmet that had been patched with pasteboard and tied on with green ribbons; but the mule driver had broken it with kicks and blows, and the ribbons were torn into shreds.
As soon as the plowman saw the knight’s face he knew him.
“Oh, my good neighbor Quixana,” he said, “how came you here, and what is the matter?”
The poor gentleman paid no attention to his friend, but kept on repeating passages from his books. In fact, he was very badly hurt.
The plowman, with a good deal of trouble, lifted him up and set him astride of his donkey. He placed him so that he could lean over and rest upon the bag of meal. Then he got all the knight’s armor together, and even the splinters of the lance, and tied them on the back of Rozinante.
Having seen that everything was secure, he took the steed by the bridle and the donkey by the halter, and, walking before them, he made his way slowly toward the village. He trudged thoughtfully along, often looking back and speaking kindly to the wounded man; but Don Quixote, resting on the bag of meal, answered only with sighs and groans. He complained most dolefully, but would not tell how he had fallen into misfortune.
“My dear Quixana,” at length said the plowman, “I fear you do not know me.”
“That is no matter,” said Don Quixote. “I know very well who I am. What’s more, I am perhaps not only myself but a dozen other brave knights all joined in one.”
It was about sunset when they reached the village. The plowman did not wish his neighbors to see the poor knight in his battered and bruised condition, for he knew that much depended upon keeping him as quiet as possible. So he tarried in a grove outside of the village until daylight had faded into dusk.
Then he led the poor man to his own house.
As he went up cautiously to the door he heard voices within.
The curate of the village and his friend the barber were there. These men were neighbors of Don Quixote, and it had been their habit to come in often and spend a pleasant evening with him.
The plowman stopped at the door and listened.
“What do you think?” cried the housekeeper. “My master has not been seen for two whole days. His horse, his shield, his lance, and the old armor that was his grandfather’s have also disappeared.”
“Indeed! And where can he have gone?” inquired the curate.
“Where? Where but riding over the world and making believe that he is a knight!” answered the woman. “It’s all because of those vile books which he was forever poring over.”
The niece then spoke. “Certainly it’s the books,” she said. “The books made him foolish. Why, I have known him to read forty-eight hours without stopping. Then he would fling the book from him and make believe draw his sword, slashing it about him in a most fearful manner.”
“I have known him to do even wilder things than that,” said the housekeeper. “Once, in broad daylight, he ran around this very room shouting that he had killed four giants as tall as church steeples. It was the books. They made him mad.”
“Indeed, that’s true,” declared the niece. “It was the books — and they ought to be burned — every one of them.”
“You are right,” said the curate. “Those books have unsettled his mind. Before the setting of another sun they shall be brought to trial and condemned to the flames.”
During all this discourse the plowman and Don Quixote were just outside of the door, unseen, in the darkening twilight. Now, without more ado, the plowman cried out, “Hello there, house! Open the gates, for here are a dozen valorous knights who bring a prisoner with them.”
The housekeeper shrieked and dropped her broom on the floor. The curate and the barber rushed to the door, and the niece followed them with the lighted candle in her hand. When they saw Don Quixote astride of the donkey they all ran to embrace him.
“Have a care,” he groaned. “Be gentle, for I am sorely hurt. It was all on account of my steed failing me. Carry me to bed, and send for the enchantress, Urganda, to heal my wounds.”
“There! Didn’t I say so?” whispered the housekeeper to the curate. “His head is full of those wicked books.”
“Where are you wounded, uncle?” asked the niece.
“Wounded! I’m not wounded, only bruised. I had a bad fall from Rozinante while I was fighting ten giants. You never saw such giants. They were the wickedest fellows that ever roamed the earth; but I was a match for them.”
“Hear him!” whispered the curate to the housekeeper. “He talks of giants. It is as we feared. Those vile books must be condemned and burned without further delay.”
They lifted the knight from the donkey’s back. They helped him into the house and put him in his favorite chair.
Then the women asked him a thousand questions; but his only answer was that they should give him something to eat and let him alone.
This they did.
When he had eaten a hearty supper he crept off to bed without so much as saying good-night.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 3: The Adventure with the Farmer
At the earliest break of day, Don Quixote made ready to ride out in quest of adventures. He buckled on his armor. He took his lance and his shield in his hands. His gallant steed, Rozinante, stood saddled and bridled at the door of the inn.
He again embraced the innkeeper. “Farewell, thou greatest of my benefactors,” he cried. “May heaven bless thee for having made me a knight.”
Then, with the help of a groom, he mounted and rode forth into the world.
Right gayly did he ride. For he felt that he was now in truth a knight, and his mind was filled with lofty thoughts.
Right gayly also did Rozinante canter along the highway, and proudly did he hold his head. For did he not know that he was carrying the bravest of brave men?
They had gone but a little way when Don Quixote suddenly remembered the innkeeper’s command to provide himself with money, clean shirts, and some salve.
“The command must be obeyed,” he said. “I must go home to get those necessary things.”
So he turned his horse’s head and took the first byroad that led towards his village. And now Rozinante seemed to have new life put into his lean body. He sniffed the air and trotted so fast that his heels seemed scarcely to touch the ground.
“This is after the manner of heroes,” said Don Quixote. “Yet I still lack one thing. I need a faithful squire to ride with me and serve me. All the knights I have ever read about had squires who followed in their footsteps and looked on while they were fighting. I think, therefore, that while I am providing myself with money and shirts, I will also get me a squire.”
Presently, as they were passing through a lonely place, the knight fancied that he heard distressing cries. They seemed to come from the midst of a woody thicket near the roadside.
“I thank Heaven for this lucky moment,” he said to himself. “I shall now have an adventure. No doubt I shall rescue someone who is in peril, or I shall correct some grievous wrong.”
He put spurs to Rozinante and rode as fast as he could to the spot from which the cries seemed to issue.
At the edge of the woody thicket he saw a horse tied to a small oak tree. Not far away, a lad of about fifteen years was tied to another oak. The lad’s shoulders and back were bare, and it was he who was making the doleful outcry. For a stout country fellow was standing over him and beating him unmercifully with a horsewhip.
“Hold! hold!” cried Don Quixote, rushing up. “It is an unmanly act to strike a person who cannot strike back.”
The farmer was frightened at the sudden appearance of a knight on horseback. He dropped his whip. He stood with open mouth and trembling hands, not knowing what to expect.
“Come, sir,” said Don Quixote, sternly. “Take your lance, mount your horse, and we will settle this matter by a trial of arms.”
The farmer answered him very humbly. “Sir Knight,” he said, “this boy is my servant, and his business is to watch my sheep. But he is lazy and careless, and I have lost half of my flock through his neglect.”
“What of that?” said Don Quixote. “You have no right to beat him, when you know he cannot beat you.”
“I beat him only to make a better boy of him,” answered the farmer. “He will tell you that I do it to cheat him out of his wages: but he tells lies even while I am correcting him.”
“What! what!” cried Don Quixote. “Do you give him the lie right here before my face? I have a good mind to run you through the body with my lance. Untie the boy and pay him his money. Obey me this instant, and let me not hear one word of excuse from you.”
The farmer, pale with fear, loosed the boy from the cords which bound him to the tree.
“Now, my young man,” said Don Quixote, “how much does this fellow owe you?”
“He owes me nine months’ wages at seven dollars a month,” was the answer.
“Nine times seven are sixty-three,” said the knight. “Sir, you owe this lad sixty-three dollars. If you wish to save your life pay it at once.”
The farmer was now more alarmed than before. He fell upon his knees. He lifted his hands, imploring mercy. He sobbed with fright.
“Noble sir,” he cried, “it is too much; for I have bought him three pairs of shoes at a dollar a pair; and twice when he was sick, I paid the doctor a dollar.”
“That may be,” answered Don Quixote, “but we will set those dollars against the beating you have given him without cause. Come, pay him the whole amount.”
“I would gladly do so,” said the farmer, “but I have not a penny in my pocket. If you will let the lad go home with me, I will pay him every dollar.”
“Go home with him!” cried the lad. “Not I. Why, he would beat me to death and not pay at all.”
“He won’t dare to do it,” answered Don Quixote. “I have commanded him and he must obey. His money is at his house. I give him leave to go and get it. His honor as a knight will make him pay his debt to you.”
“A knight!” said the lad. “He is no knight. He is only John Haldudo, the farmer.”
“What of that?” said Don Quixote. “Why may not the Haldudos have a knight in the family?”
“Well, he is not much of a knight. A knight would pay his debts,” said the lad.
“And he will pay you, for I have commanded him,” said Don Quixote.
Then turning to the farmer, he said, “Go, and make sure that you obey me. I will come this way again soon, and if you have failed, I will punish you. I will find you out, even though you hide yourself as close as a lizard.”
The farmer arose from his knees and was about to speak, but the knight would not listen.
“I will have no words from you,” he said. “You have naught to do but to obey. And if you would ask who it is that commands you, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter of wrongs and the friend of the downtrodden. So, goodbye!”
Having said this, he gave spurs to Rozinante and galloped away.
The farmer watched him until he was quite out of sight. Then he turned and called to the boy.
“Come, Andrew,” he said. “Come to me now, and I will pay thee what I owe thee. I will obey this friend of the downtrodden.”
“You will do well to obey him,” said the boy. “He is a knight, and if you fail to pay me, he will come back and make things hot for you.”
“Yes, I know,” answered the farmer. “I will pay you well and show you how much I love you.”
Then, without another word, he caught hold of the boy and again tied him to the tree. The boy yelled lustily, but Don Quixote was too far away to hear his cries. The farmer fell upon him and beat him with fists and sticks until he was almost dead. Finally he loosed him and let him go.
“Now, Andrew, go find your friend of the downtrodden,” he said. “Tell him how well I have paid you.”
Poor Andrew said nothing. He hobbled slowly away, while the farmer mounted his horse and rode grimly homeward.
In the meanwhile, Don Quixote was speeding toward his own village. He was very much pleased with himself and with his first adventure as a knight.
“O Dulcinea, most beautiful of beauties,” he cried, “well mayest thyself be happy. For thy knight has done a noble deed this day.”
And thus he rode gallantly onward, his lance clanging against his coat of mail at every motion of his steed.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 2: The Adventure at the Inn
Chapter 2: The Adventure at the Inn
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