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Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 17: With Friends and Neighbors
Chapter 17: With Friends and Neighbors
For nearly a month Don Quixote remained at home, seeing no one at all but his niece and the housekeeper. The curate and the barber came daily to inquire how he was doing; but they kept carefully out of his sight lest they might hinder his recovery.
At length the niece told them that he was well and in his right mind. Would they not come in and see him?
“With much pleasure,” answered the barber; and they were ushered in.
They found the poor gentleman sitting up in his bed. He wore a waistcoat of green baize, and on his head was a red nightcap. His eyes were bright, and his voice was clear; but his face and body were so withered and wasted that he looked like a mummy.
They sat down by his bedside, and talked with him about a great many matters. They tried to say nothing about knight-errantry, but at last the subject came up in spite of them.
Then Don Quixote grew eloquent. He talked about knights and giants and famous heroes, scarcely giving the curate room to put in a word.
His friends saw with sadness that his mind still ran towards the same great passion. They saw that it was his intention, sooner or later, to ride out again to seek new adventures. So when at last they took their departure, the curate again whispered a word of caution to the niece.
“Keep a good watch upon him,” he said. “Let everything be very quiet around him, and don’t let him think about going away from home.”
As Don Quixote improved in strength and became able to walk about the house, other neighbors and friends dropped in to see him. He welcomed each one cheerfully, and never failed to say something in praise of knighthood. But they, having been cautioned by the curate, talked to him only about the weather and the crops, and soon took their leave. And so the poor man gradually grew stronger and seemed to be quite well contented.
One morning, however, who should knock at the door but Sancho Panza.
“I have come to see the valorous Don Quixote,” he said to the niece.
“You shall see nobody!” she answered, holding the door against him. “You shall not enter this house, you vagabond!”
“Go, go!” cried the housekeeper. “It’s all along of you and nobody else, that he has been enticed and carried a-rambling all over the world.”
“No such thing,” answered Sancho. “It’s I that have been enticed and carried a-rambling, and not your master. It was he that took me from the house and home, saying he would give me an island; and I’m still waiting for it.”
“An island! What’s that?” said the niece. “If it’s anything to eat, I hope it’ll choke you.”
“You’re wrong there,” answered Sancho. “Islands are not to eat; they’re to govern.”
“Well, anyhow, you don’t come in here,” said the niece. “Go govern your own house, plow your own field, and don’t trouble yourself about anybody’s islands and dry lands. They’re not for such as you.”
It so happened that the curate and the barber, who were just taking their leave after a short visit, heard the whole of this little quarrel. They were much amused by it, and were about to give their help to the niece when Don Quixote himself came to the door.
“Welcome, my faithful friend,” he said; and giving his niece a sharp rebuke, he led Sancho into the house.
“Now mark me,” whispered the curate, “our neighbor will soon be rambling again in spite of all that we can do.”
Don Quixote led his squire into the bedroom and locked the door. Then the two sat down together and talked of the glories and perils of knighthood.
“What say you, friend Sancho?” said the knight. “Will you return to my service? What does your good wife say?”
“She says that a man must not be his own carver,” answered Sancho. “She says that it is good to be certain; that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; that one hold-fast is better than two may-be-so’s. A woman’s counsel is not worth much, yet he that despises it is no better than he should be.”
“I say so too,” said Don Quixote. “You talk like pearls today. But what shall I understand from all that?”
“Why, sir,” answered Sancho, “I wish you to give me so much a month for my wages. For other rewards come late, and may not come at all. A little in one’s own pocket is better than much in another’s purse. Set a hen upon an egg. Every little makes a mickle.”
“You are wise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and I understand the drift of all your proverbs.”
“Certainly,” answered Sancho, “and I should like to know what I am going to get. If you should sometime give me that island, I would then be willing to knock a proper amount off of the wages.”
“As to the wages,” said Don Quixote, “I would pay them willingly if it were allowed by our order. But in all the books I have ever read, there is no account of a knight paying wages to his squire. The servant was always given an island, or something of that sort, and there was an end of it.”
“But suppose that the island was not forthcoming?” said Sancho.
“I abide by the customs of chivalry,” said Don Quixote, firmly. “If you desire not to take the same risks of fortune as myself, heaven be with you. I can find a squire more obedient and careful than you have ever been, and much less talkative.”
Sancho’s heart sank within him. He had not expected an answer like this. In fact he had thought that Don Quixote could not possibly do without him. He was so taken aback that he did not know what to say or do.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. It was opened, and in came the housekeeper and the niece, and with them a young man of the village whose name was Samson Carrasco.
This young man was just home from the great college at Salamanca, where he had received his bachelor’s degree. He was none of the biggest in body, but a very great man in all sorts of drollery. He was about twenty-four years old; his face was round; his mouth was large; and his eyes sparkled with good humor.
“You are a scholar,” whispered the niece, as they entered the room. “Try to persuade him from riding out again.”
But Samson liked nothing so well as sport, and he was a great actor and mimic. He threw himself at Don Quixote’s feet and delivered a speech that was full of flattery and big words.
“O flower of chivalry,” he cried, “refulgent glory of arms, the pride of Spain! Let all who would prevent thy third going out be lost and disappointed in their perverse wishes.”
Then, turning to the housekeeper, he said, “You must not detain him; for while he stays here idle, the poor are without a helper, orphans are without a friend, the oppressed are without a defender, and the world is deprived of a most valorous knight.”
To this speech the housekeeper could make no reply, and Samson therefore turned again to Don Quixote.
“Go forth then, my graceful, my fearless hero,” he said. “Let your greatness be on the wing. And if anything be needful to your comfort or your service, here I am to supply it. I am ready to do anything. I am ready, yes, ambitious, to attend you as your squire and faithful servant.”
Don Quixote was deeply moved. He took the young man by the hand, and embraced him. “No, my friend,” he said, “it would be unfair that Samson Carrasco, the darling of courts and the glory of the Salamanca schools, should devote his talents to such a purpose. I forbid it. Remain in thy country, the honor of Spain and the delight of thy parents. Although Sancho declines to go with me, there are plenty of others who will be glad to serve as my squire.
At these words Sancho burst into tears and cried out, “Oh, I’ll go! I’ll go with you, sir! I have not a heart of flint; and if I spoke about wages, it was only to please my wife.”
So the two embraced, and were as good friends as before; and with the advice of Samson Carrasco it was agreed that on the third day they would set out on their new trial of adventures.
The niece and the housekeeper made a woeful out-cry. They tore their hair. They scratched their faces. They scolded; they pleaded; they wept bitter tears. But nothing could change the designs of the valorous knight.
The curate and the barber, as well as the women, blamed Samson Carrasco for the whole business. But he understood the case better than they. “It is wiser not to restrain him,” he said. “He will find the cure for his malady not here, but on the road. So let us humor him.”
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 16: The Ox-Cart Journey
Chapter 16: The Ox-Cart Journey
They were still far from their home village, and Don Quixote’s malady grew worse every day. He gave himself up to so many strange fancies that there was really no getting along with him. At length, when he would ride no farther in the right direction, the curate and the barber were forced to find some other plan by which to carry him home.
Luckily, one day, as they were stopping at an inn, a wagoner with his team of oxen came that way, looking for something to do. He was willing to undertake almost anything, and so the curate soon made a bargain with him.
With much labor and care, a sort of wooden cage was made which could be fastened firmly on the ox-driver’s wagon. It was fitted up very comfortably with a stool and a cushion, and it was so high and roomy that a man might sit or lie in it with ease.
Don Quixote knew nothing about the plot which his friends were making against his liberty. While they were busy in the barnyard, he sat in the inn, and talked of knights and knighthood to everyone who would listen.
Late in the evening, as he lay quietly sleeping in his chamber, a number of strangely dressed men made their way softly to his door. They had masks on their faces; they wore long, white robes; and their whole appearance was very frightful indeed. They were the curate and the barber and the other guests of the inn; but they were so disguised that not even Sancho Panza could have guessed who they were.
They opened the chamber door and stole in. Don Quixote awoke with a start. He looked around him in amazement, but not in fear. When he saw the white-robed figures standing by his bedside, he sat up very quietly, and said not a word.
He felt sure that he was now in an enchanted castle, and that these figures were ghosts and hobgoblins which had been called up to frighten him. He knew that it was useless to fight with such creatures; for enchantment could be met only by enchantment. Therefore he quietly gave himself up, and made no resistance.
The hobgoblins lifted him out of bed. They dressed him in his best clothes. Then they carried him out and put him in the wooden cage which stood ready at the door. They shut him safely in, and fastened the bars securely.
The ox cart was waiting in the courtyard of the inn. The men lifted the cage upon it very gently and strapped it fast. Then the wagoner cracked his whip, and the oxen began to move slowly and solemnly towards the great gate.
Don Quixote was not altogether displeased. He spoke to the people, who had come out in the dim moonlight to see him depart.
“In all my books, I never read of a knight-errant being drawn in a slow-moving ox cart,” he said. “They used to be whisked along with marvelous speed on winged steeds and other quick-going beasts. But this traveling in an ox cart is not so bad, and I don’t object.”
Having said this, he became very quiet, and did not speak again for a long time.
It was an odd-looking company that jogged along the road across the great plain the next day. The wagoner led the way with his oxen and his knightly prisoner. On either side of him rode an officer whose acquaintance the curate had made at the inn. Close behind the cart, followed Sancho, riding his dappled donkey and leading Rozinante. Lastly, the curate and the barber, with veiled faces and riding astride of mighty mules, brought up the rear.
Don Quixote sat, most of the time, leaning against the bars of the cage. He was free to move about or to lie down as he chose; but he sat silent and motionless, and seemed more like a lifeless statue than a living man. And thus they journeyed slowly over the long and seldom-traveled road.
As the day wore on, the heart of Sancho Panza was filled with pain because of his master’s grievous plight. He could not bear to think of him thus caged like a wild beast and hauled from place to place against his will. So, while the guards were eating their noonday luncheon, he spent the hour in talking with Don Quixote.
The knight seemed more like himself, and he spoke very cheerfully with his squire.
“Good Sancho,” he said, “have courage. I assure you that we shall soon escape from the power of these wicked enchanters.”
“Well, master,” said Sancho, “I’ll tell you the plain truth about this enchantment. Who would you think now are those two fellows that ride behind with their faces covered?”
“Why, they are the enchanters, of course,” answered Don Quixote.
“Enchanters never!” said Sancho. “They are only the curate of our village, and the barber. They are in a plot against you; for they fear that your brave deeds will make you more famous than they can ever be. There is no enchantment at all in this business. It’s only your senses turned topsy-turvy.”
“Friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “I tell you, it is enchantment; and the idea that those who guard us are my old friends, the curate and the barber, is a wicked delusion. The power of magic is great; and if these enchanters seem to be clothed in bodies like those of my friends, it proves only their skill and their wonderful ingenuity.”
At length, by the curate’s permission, Sancho opened the cage and helped his poor master to step out upon the ground.
“Come, sir,” he said, “I will set you free from this prison. See now whether you can get on your trusty Rozinante’s back. The poor thing jogs on, as drooping and sorrowful as if he too were enchanted.”
“I will do as you say, friend Sancho,” answered his master. “But I give my word of honor to these gentlemen that I will make no effort to escape. I desire only to ride my steed as becomes a true knight — that is, if I find myself strong enough to do so.”
He walked feebly up to Rozinante and lovingly stroked his neck and back.
“Ah, thou flower and glory of horseflesh,” he said, “I trust that we shall soon be ourselves again.”
But his strength had all left him. Even when he was lifted into the saddle, he was too feeble to sit there. A dizziness came over him, and he remembered with longing his quiet home and his loving neighbors and friends.
“Help me once more into the enchanted car, friend Sancho,” he said, “for I am not in a condition to press the back of Rozinante.”
“With all my heart,” said Sancho. “And let me advise you to go willingly back to our village with these gentlemen. At home we may plan some other journey that will be more profitable and perhaps more pleasant than this has been.”
“Your advice is good,” answered the knight. “But until this enchantment has been removed, I shall be inactive.”
The wagoner threw some new-mown hay into the cage; then they lifted the knight gently and laid him upon this fragrant couch. They fastened no bars, but left the place open, so that he would not feel like a prisoner.
Then the wagoner cracked his whip, and the procession moved on as before. And thus they journeyed slowly along the seldom-traveled road across the hills and the plain.
It was about noon of the sixth day when they at length reached their home village. It was Sunday, and nearly all the people were on the street.
When the ox cart was seen, trundling along with a cage upon it, it was at once surrounded by a crowd of men and boys. All wanted to know what kind of show beast it was that was being thus hauled through the village.
What was their surprise, however, when they saw no beast at all, but only their honored neighbor and friend — the man whom they knew only by the name of Mr. Quixana!
He was lying on the hay and taking but little notice of anything around him. The village seemed strange to him, and the faces of his friends were unknown and unrecognized.
While the villagers were gaping and wondering, a little boy suddenly left the crowd and ran by the shortest way to Don Quixote’s dwelling. He rushed into the house and cried out to the niece and housekeeper that their uncle and master was coming home and was almost at the door.
“And oh, he is so lean and pale!” piped the boy, all out of breath. “And he’s on a bundle of hay in a big wagon, and the wagon is an ox cart. And you can soon see him for yourselves!”
The two women listened, and then it was piteous to hear their weeping.
“It’s all on account of his reading those books,” sobbed the niece.
“We ought to have made way with them long before,” sighed the housekeeper.
The ox cart, with its honored passenger and faithful guards, moved slowly down the street, while the awed villagers followed silently and with much wonder. Suddenly a woman rushed from one of the cottages and ran out to meet the procession. It was Juana, the wife of Sancho Panza.
“Welcome, Sancho!” she cried. “How is the dear donkey?”
“The donkey has come back in better health than his master,” answered the squire.
“How thankful I am for that!” said Juana. “But what have you brought home? Have you brought me a new petticoat, or the children some shoes?”
“In truth, sweet wife,” said Sancho, “I have brought none of those things. But the next time we ride out, I shall return right soon, and you will find me the governor of an island.”
“I hope so, with all my heart,” answered the good wife; “for surely we need it. But what do you mean by that word island? I never heard it before. I don’t understand what sort of thing it is.”
“All in good time, Juana,” said Sancho. “Honey is not made for a donkey’s mouth; but you shall see what sort of thing it is. And let me tell you, there is nothing so good for an honest man as to be the squire to a knight that is hunting adventures.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so!” she said.
“Oh, I not only think, but I know it,” said Sancho. “It’s rare sport to climb mountains, to scramble over rocks, to beat through the woods, to visit great castles, and to put up at inns without a penny to pay.”
By this time the ox cart, with its company of guards and villagers, had reached the door of Don Quixote’s dwelling. The curate and the barber lifted the poor knight from his couch of hay, and carried him tenderly into his own chamber.
He was as helpless as a child, and neither spoke nor attempted to move. The housekeeper and the niece undressed him and put him in his ancient bed. He lay there, looking at them curiously and wondering who they were. Their faces seemed altogether strange to him. He could not imagine where he was.
The curate charged the niece to be very careful and tender of her uncle. “And by all means,” he said, “be watchful lest he should try to ride out a third time in quest of adventures.”
One by one, the good man’s neighbors and friends returned to their homes. Sancho Panza, with his donkey, sought his own dwelling. And Don Quixote once more reposed quietly beneath his own roof.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 15: Sancho Panza on the Road
Chapter 15: Sancho Panza on the Road
The next day as Sancho Panza was plodding slowly along the highway, he came to a little inn. He knew the place quite well, for he and his master had lodged there not a month before.
It was dinner time, and the odors of the kitchen filled the air. Sancho’s mouth watered at the thought of a bit of hot roast beef; for he had tasted nothing but cold victuals for many days.
He rode up to the gate and stopped. He had had some trouble with the servants on his former visit to this inn, and therefore he had some misgivings about the reception that might now be given him. So he sat still, outside the gate, and enjoyed the savory smells which came to him through the open windows.
Presently, two men came out, and when they saw him at the gate, they paused. Then one said to the other, — “Look there, master doctor, isn’t that Sancho Panza?”
“Most surely it is,” said the other; “and more than that, he rides Don Quixote’s horse.”
Now these two men were the curate and the barber of Don Quixote’s own village. They were the men who had passed sentence on his books, and they knew more than anyone else about the poor man’s malady.
They were now going through the country in search of him; for they wished to persuade him to return to the care of his family and friends.
They spoke to Sancho, and he was not a little surprised to meet them in that out-of-the-way place.
“Where is your master, Sancho? Where is Don Quixote?” they asked.
“My master is engaged with some important business of his own,” answered Sancho, quite stiffly.
“But where is he?” said the curate.
“That I dare not tell you,” said Sancho.
“Now, Sancho Panza!” cried the barber, “don’t try to put us off with any flimflam story. If you don’t tell us where he is, we shall believe you have murdered him and stolen his horse. So, out with it. Tell us the truth, or we’ll have you laid by the heels and punished as you deserve.”
“Oh, come now, neighbors!” said Sancho. “Why should you threaten me? I don’t know where my master is at this particular moment; but I left him in yonder mountain, knocking his head against the trees, tearing up rocks, and doing a thousand queer things which I need not mention.”
Then he told the whole story as I have told it to you, adding to it a great many fanciful touches of his own.
“And now,” he said, “I am on my humble way to Toboso, where I mean to give my master’s letter into the hands of the Lady Dulcinea.”
“Let us see the letter,” said the barber.
Sancho put his hand into his pocket to get the notebook. He fumbled a great while without finding it. He searched first in one pocket, then in another. He searched in his sleeve, in his bosom, in his hat. But had he searched until now, he would not have found it. It had slipped through a hole in his pocket and was lost in the dust of the highway.
He turned pale, and his hands trembled. Then he began to rave, and to stamp like a madman. He tore his beard. He beat himself with his fists.
“Why need you be so angry, Sancho?” asked the curate, kindly. “What is the matter?”
“Matter enough,” he answered. “I deserve the worst beating in the world, for I have lost three donkeys which were as good as three castles.”
“How so?” asked the barber. “Were the donkeys in your pocket?”
“Not exactly,” answered Sancho; “but I have lost the notebook which contained not only the letter to Dulcinea, but an order on Don Quixote’s niece for three of his five donkeys.”
Then with tears and sobs, the poor man told them how he had recently lost his own Dapple, the joy of his household, the hope of his life.
“Cheer up, Sancho,” said the curate. “We are going to find your master, and I will see that he gives you another order written in due form on paper.”
“Will you indeed?” said Sancho, brightening up. “Well then, the loss is not so bad after all. As for Dulcinea’s letter, I don’t care a straw about that. I know it all by heart, and will carry it to her by word of mouth. In other words, I will repeat it to her, just as it was written; and I will repeat it to you, if you wish.”
“You speak like a wise man,” said the curate. “But what concerns us now is to find your master and persuade him to give up his mad pranks and projects. So, come into the inn with us, and we’ll talk it over while we eat dinner.”
“You two may go in,” answered Sancho; “but as for me, I feel best out here in the open air. However, you may send me a dish of hot victuals, if you like; and I will eat while I’m waiting. And you may tell the stable boy to bring Rozinante an armful of fodder.”
So Sancho sat at the gate while the curate and the barber went inside. Presently a dish of hot meat was sent out to him, and he feasted as he had not feasted for many a day.
The hearty meal put him in fine, good humor; and as he thought over the words of the curate and the barber he made up his mind to return with them into the mountains. He was anxious to receive from Don Quixote a second order for the three donkeys.
He had scarcely finished his meal when the curate and the barber came riding out from the inn-yard, ready to begin the journey. No further time was wasted, and late that very afternoon they reached the place where Sancho had strewn the green branches in the road.
“It was right about here that I left him,” he said.
And sure enough, they soon discovered the knight sitting quietly upon a rock and gazing at the sky. He was pale and almost starved, and Sancho could hear him sighing dolefully and muttering the name of the Lady Dulcinea.
I need not stop here to tell of the manner in which Don Quixote received his friends, who were so disguised that he did not know them; nor shall I describe the ingenious trick by which they induced him to put on his armor again and ride out of the forest.
At first, all went well; for he was persuaded that he was going to the aid of a fair princess whom a tyrant had driven from her kingdom.
“Come on,” he cried, as he mounted Rozinante; “let us all go together and avenge the wrongs of this unfortunate lady.”
They set out, the curate and the barber being disguised and unknown to their poor friend. Sancho was obliged to travel on foot again, while the rest rode gallantly along the highway on horseback. But his heart was light and free, and he kept thinking of the three donkeys and the glorious time when Don Quixote would make him the governor of an island.
The next day, when the party were well out of the mountains, they suddenly saw at a turn in the road, a stranger riding slowly along at a little distance ahead. He was dressed like a gypsy, and was mounted upon a small donkey which he could not by any means urge out of a snail’s pace.
Sancho Panza’s eyes opened very wide. For at the first glance he knew that the gypsy was none other than the thief, Gines de Passamonte, and that the donkey was his own long-lost Dapple.
The next moment he was running to overtake the pair; and although Gines tried hard to whip the donkey into a trot, Sancho was soon beside them.
“Ah, thou thief!” he shouted. “Get off from the back of my dear beast. Away from my Dapple! Away from my comfort! Take to thy heels and begone.”
He had no need to use so many words. For Gines, seeing several men so close upon him, dismounted quickly and took to his heels. No doubt he thought that the king’s officers were after him; for he bounded into the woods, and was soon out of sight.
And now Sancho’s joy was too great to be described. He stroked the donkey with his hands; he kissed it again and again; he called it by every endearing name.
“My treasure, my darling, my dear Dapple! Is it possible that I have thee again? How hast thou been since I saw thee last?” he cried.
As for the donkey, it was as silent as any donkey could be. It said not one word in answer to Sancho’s questions, but allowed him to kiss its nose as often as he pleased.
The rest of the company rejoiced at the squire’s good fortune; and Don Quixote said: “I am glad that you have found your beast, Sancho. But it shall make no difference with the order which you have on my niece. She is to give you the three donkeys, just the same.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Sancho. “You were always a kind master.”
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 14: The Message to Dulcinea
Chapter 14: The Message to Dulcinea
One day as Don Quixote with his squire was strolling aimlessly through the roughest and wildest part of the mountains, he became suddenly very silent. “Friend Sancho,” he said, “as you value your life, I bid you not to speak a word to me until I give you leave.”
His mind was filled with queer, unreasoning fancies, and he seemed to be pondering upon some new and weighty subject.
So, all the day, they toiled wearily and slowly along, and neither spoke to the other.
Sancho Panza was very tired. He was almost ready to burst for want of a little chat. Still, with the saddle on his shoulders, he trudged silently at the heels of Rozinante, and kept his thoughts to himself.
At length, however, he could bear it no longer. He quickened his pace till he came alongside of his master. Then he laid his hand on Don Quixote’s knee, and spoke:—
“Good sir, give me your blessing and let me go home to my wife and children. There I may talk till I am weary, and nobody can hinder me. I tell you, this tramping over hills and dales, by night and by day, without opening my lips, is killing me. I cannot endure it.”
“Friend Sancho, I understand thee,” answered Don Quixote, “and I give thee leave to use thy tongue freely so long as we are alone together on this mountain road.”
“Then let us make hay while the sun shines,” cried Sancho. “I will talk while I can, for who knows what I may do afterward. Every man for himself, and God for us all, say I. Little said is soonest mended. There is no padlocking of men’s mouths; for a closed mouth catches no flies.”
“Pray have done with your proverbs,” said Don Quixote, sternly. “Listen to me, and I will unfold a plan which I have formed for my future course and for yours also, dear Sancho.”
Then he explained to the squire that it was his intention to send him forthwith to Toboso to carry a letter to the Lady Dulcinea.
“I desire that you shall start within three days,” he said, “and as you are very poor at walking, you may have the use of Rozinante, who will carry you with great safety and speed.”
“Very well, master,” said Sancho; “but what will you do while I am gone?”
“Do? Do you ask what I will do?” answered the knight. “Why, I have a mind to imitate that famous knight, Orlando, I mean to go mad, just as he did. I will throw away my armor, tear my clothes, pull up trees by the roots, knock my head against rocks, and do a thousand other things of that kind. You must wait and see me in some of my performances, Sancho, and then you must tell the Lady Dulcinea what you have beheld with your own eyes.”
“Oh, you need not go to any trouble about it,” said Sancho; “for I will tell the lady just the same. I will tell her of your thousand mad tricks, and bring you back her answer all full of sweet words.”
“As for those tricks, as you call them,” said Don Quixote, “I mean to perform them seriously and solemnly, for a knight must tell no lies. But I will write the letter immediately, and you shall set out on your journey tomorrow at sunrise.”
“And please, sir,” said Sancho, “do not forget to write that order to your niece for those three donkeys which you promised me.”
They stopped in the midst of a green thicket of underwoods, and there, after much ado, the letter was written and also the order for the donkeys. These were scrawled with a bit of charcoal in a little notebook which Don Quixote happened to find in his pocket.
“They are not very plainly written, Sancho,” he said; “but, in the first village to which you come, it will be easy to have the schoolmaster copy them neatly for you.”
Sancho took the notebook and put it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. “Now I am even wild to be gone,” he said. “I will mount Rozinante, and be off at once; for a bearer of messages should never delay his starting. Give me your blessing, dear master, and I will not wait to see any of your tricks.”
“Nay,” said Don Quixote. “Wait a little while, for you should see me practice twenty or thirty mad gambols, such as knocking my head against rocks, and the like. I can finish them in half an hour.”
“Say not so,” answered Sancho. “It would grieve me to the heart to see you playing the madman. I would cry my eyes out; and I have already blubbered too much since I lost my poor donkey. But I will tell the Lady Dulcinea about your tricks, just the same as though I had seen you do them.”
“Then I will give thee my blessing and let thee go,” said Don Quixote.
“But tell me, good master,” said Sancho, “what will you do for food when I am gone? Will you rob travelers on the highway, and steal your dinner from the shepherds hereabout?”
“Don’t worry about that, Sancho,” said his master. “I shall feed on the herbs and fruits of the forest, and want nothing more; for it is the duty of a mad knight to half starve himself. But you shall find me in good condition when you return.”
“But now comes another thing comes into my head,” said Sancho. “How shall I know this out-of-the-way place when I come back? How shall I find you again in this wilderness?”
“Strew a few green branches in the path, Sancho. Strew them as you ride along till you reach the main highway. They will serve as a clew to show you the way hither, if by chance you should forget the turning place.”
“I will go about it at once,” said Sancho.
So he went among the trees and cut a bundle of green boughs. Then he came and asked his master’s blessing; and after both had wept many tears, he mounted Rozinante.
“Be good to the noble steed, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Remember to be as kind to him as you have been to his master.”
“Indeed, I will not forget,” said Sancho; and he rode away, strewing the boughs as he went.
Don Quixote watched him until a turn of the road hid him from sight. Then he wandered into the wildest part of the woods, and was really as mad as the maddest knight he had ever read about.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 13: In the Black Mountains
Chapter 13: In the Black Mountains
The darkness of night found our two travelers in the midst of the mountains and far from any friendly inn. The sky was clear, however, and above the tree tops the round, full moon was shining brightly. Both knight and squire were weary from long traveling, and sore from the beating which they had received from the ungrateful thieves.
“Here we are!” at length cried Sancho, pulling up his donkey by the side of a huge rock. “Here we are, master. This is a pleasant, sheltered place. Let us tarry here till morning.”
“Truly, I am willing,” said Don Quixote.
Both men were so tired that they were loth to get down from their steeds. They sat quietly in their saddles, thinking, thinking; and soon both were fast asleep.
Don Quixote sat upright, bracing himself with the remnant of his oaken lance which he had rescued from the thicket. Sancho doubled himself over upon the pommel of his saddle, and snored as peacefully as though he were on a feather bed. As for Rozinante and patient Dapple, they were no less weary than their masters. They stood motionless in their places, and nothing short of a goad could have caused them to stir.
It chanced about midnight that the thief, Gines de Passamonte, came to this very spot, seeking the best way to escape from the forest. As he was passing by the great rock, he was astonished to see the two beasts and their riders resting quietly in its shadow. He crept up to them very gently, not wishing to disturb their slumbers.
“Ha!” he whispered to himself, “how soundly they sleep! These two foolish fellows ride safely along the public road, and are afraid of nothing. But I, with all my smartness, am obliged to skulk through the woods and tire myself to death with much walking. I wish I had one of these steeds.”
He walked around Rozinante and gently felt his ribs and stroked his long head. “He is only a frame of bones,” he said, “and there’s no telling how soon he may fall to pieces. I might manage to ride him, but at the end of the road I could neither sell him nor give him away.”
Then he went softly up to the dappled donkey and examined him from his nose to his hoofs.
“This beast could carry me, I know; and I could sell him for a dollar or two anywhere. But how shall I get him?”
He leaned against the rock and thought the matter over, while Sancho Panza made the woods resound with his snoring.
“It would be easy enough to tumble him off and take his steed by main force,” said Gines, still talking to himself. “But the poor fellow did me a good turn today, and I don’t like to disturb his slumbers.”
Presently he took his jackknife from his pocket and went stealthily into a grove of small trees by the roadside. There, having found some slender saplings, he cut four strong poles as large as his wrist and as long as his body.
With these in hands he returned to the donkey and slyly unbuckled the girths of the saddle. Sancho Panza, with his feet firmly in the stirrups and his short body doubled snugly upon the pommel, was not at all disturbed. He snored so loudly that no other sound could possibly be heard.
The cunning Gines smiled at his own ingenuity. He placed one end of each of his four poles under a corner of the saddle, the other end resting firmly upon the ground. Then he carefully and very gradually moved the bottom ends closer and closer to the donkey’s feet. This, of course, raised the saddle some inches above the animal’s back, while Sancho still slept the sleep of the weary.
Gines tried each pole to see that it stood like a brace, strong and secure. Then he led the donkey out from under, leaving the saddle and Sancho high up in the air.
It was a funny sight, there in the still light of the moon; and Gines de Passamonte looked back and laughed. He then threw himself upon the donkey’s bare back and rode joyfully away.
Sancho Panza slept and snored, and stirred not an inch. The hours of the night passed silently by, and the moon and stars journeyed slowly down the western sky. At length the day dawned, and the sunlight began to peep through the trees.
Sancho was at most times an early riser. With the coming of the morning he stopped snoring. Then he slowly opened his eyes, raised his arms, and yawned. The motion of his body caused the supporting poles to twist around and give way; the saddle suddenly turned beneath him, and he fell sprawling to the ground.
The sudden noise awoke Don Quixote.
“Where is thy donkey, friend Sancho?” he asked, looking around quickly.
“You may well ask where is my donkey,” answered the squire, rising from the ground and rubbing his eyes. “My donkey’s gone. Some thief has led him away in the night, and left me nothing but four sticks and the saddle which I got in exchange from the barber.”
“Thief, indeed!” said Don Quixote. “It was no thief. Those same wicked enchanters have done it. They have changed the poor beast into four sticks; and now you will have to walk until we learn how to remove the enchantment and change the sticks back to a donkey.”
Sancho Panza was sorely distressed. He looked at the saddle and at the sticks, and then at the tracks which the donkey had left in the dust of the road. Tears came to his eyes, and he broke out into the saddest and most pitiful lamentation that ever was heard.
“Oh, my Dapple, my donkey! Oh, dear one, born and bred under my own roof! Thou wert the playfellow of my children, the comfort of my wife, the envy of my neighbors. Thou wert the easer of my burdens, the staff and stay of my life. And now, thou art gone, thou art gone. Oh, my Dapple, my donkey! How can I live without thee?”
Don Quixote’s kind heart was touched. “Never mind, dear Sancho,” he said. “Dry thy tears. I have five donkeys at home, and I will give thee an order on my niece for three of them. I will write it with the first pen and ink we encounter.”
This generous offer turned Sancho’s grief into joy. It dried his tears; it hushed his cries; it changed his moans to smiles and thanks.
“You were always a good master,” he said; “and I would rather meet with that pen and ink than with any number of knights.”
Then knight and squire sat down together on the ground and munched some bits of dry bread merely to say they had breakfasted. And after Rozinante had eaten his fill of the sweet grass by the roadside, they resumed their journey through the mountains. Don Quixote rode in advance, and Sancho followed slowly with the donkey’s saddle astride of his shoulders.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 12: The Adventure with the Prisoners
Chapter 12: The Adventure with the Prisoners
Day after day, the two travelers jogged slowly along, rambling hither and thither wherever their fancy chose to wander. At length they came into the rugged highway which leads through the Black Mountains, or, as they are called in Spain, the Sierra Morena.
“Now we shall have our fill of adventures,” said Don Quixote.
It was to be even so; for at the top of the first hill they saw twelve strange men trudging along the highway and slowly approaching them. The men were all in a row, one behind another, like beads on a string; for they were linked to a long chain by means of iron collars around their necks.
In front of this procession rode two horsemen with guns; and the rear was brought up by two foot guards with swords and clubs.
“See there, master,” said Sancho. “See those poor fellows who are being taken away to serve the king in the galleys.”
“Why are they being treated in that ugly fashion?” asked Don Quixote, reining in his steed.
“Well, they are rogues,” was the answer. “They have broken the law and been caught at it. They are now on their way to the king’s galleys to be punished.”
“If that is the case,” said Don Quixote, “they shall have my help. For I am sworn to hinder violence and oppression.”
“But these wicked wretches are not oppressed,” said Sancho. “They are only getting what they deserve.”
Don Quixote was not satisfied. “At any rate, they are in trouble,” he answered.
Soon the chain of prisoners had come up.
“Pray, sir,” said Don Quixote to one of the mounted men who was captain of the guards, “why are these people led along in that manner?”
“They are criminals,” answered the captain. “They have been condemned to serve the king in his galleys. I have no more to say to you.”
“Well, I should like to know what each one has done,” said Don Quixote.
“I can’t talk with you,” said the captain. “But while they rest here at the top of the hill, you may ask the rogues themselves, if you wish. They are so honest and truthful that they will not be ashamed to tell you.”
Don Quixote was much pleased. He rode up to the chain and began to question the men.
“Why were you condemned to the galleys, my good fellow?” he asked of the leader.
“Oh, only for being in love,” was the careless answer.
“Indeed!” cried Don Quixote. “If all who are in love must be sent to the galleys, what will become of us?”
“True enough!” said the prisoner. “But my love was not of the common kind. I was so in love with a basket of clothes that I took it in my arms and carried it home. I was accused of stealing it, and here I am.”
Don Quixote then turned to another. “And what have you done, my honest man?” he asked. “Why are you in this sad case?”
“I will tell you,” answered the man. “I am here for the lack of two gold pieces to pay an honest debt.”
“Well, well, that is too bad,” said the knight. “I will give you four gold pieces and set you free.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the prisoner. “But you might as well give money to a starving man at sea where there is nothing to buy. If I had had the gold pieces before my trial, I might now be in a different place.”
Thus Don Quixote went from one prisoner to another, asking each to tell his history.
The last man in the chain was a clever, well-built fellow about thirty years old. He squinted with one eye, and had a wickeder look than any of the others.
Don Quixote noticed that this man was strangely loaded with irons. He had two collars around his neck, and his wrists were so fastened to an iron bar that he could not lift his hands to his mouth.
The knight turned to one of the foot guards. “Why is this man so hampered with irons?” he asked.
“Because he is the worst of the lot,” was the answer. “He is so bold and cunning that no jail nor fetters will hold him. You see how heavily ironed he is, and yet we are never sure that we have him.”
“But what has he done?” asked Don Quixote.
“Done!” said the guard. “What has he not done? Why, sir, he is the famous thief and robber, Gines de Passamonte.”
Then the prisoner himself spoke up quickly. “Sir, if you have anything to give us, give it quickly and ride on. I won’t answer any of your questions.”
“My friend,” said Don Quixote, “you appear to be a man of consequence, and I should like to know your history.”
“It is all written down in black and white,” answered Gines. “You may buy it and read it.”
“He tells you the truth,” said the guard. “He has written his whole history in a book.”
“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote. “I must have it.”
“It is called the Life of Gines de Passamonte, and every word of it is true,” answered the prisoner. “There is no fanciful tale that compares with it for tricks and adventures.”
“You are an extraordinary man,” said Don Quixote.
By this time the guards had given the command and the human chain was again toiling slowly along over the hill. But Don Quixote was not yet satisfied. He followed, making a long speech first to the prisoners and then to the guards. At length he raised himself in his stirrups, and cried out:—”Gentlemen of the guard, I am the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha. I command you to release these poor men. If you refuse, then know that this lance, this sword, and this invincible arm will force you to yield.”
“That’s a good joke,” said the captain of the guard. “Now set your basin right on top of your empty head, and go about your business. Don’t meddle any more with us, for those who play with cats are likely to be scratched.”
This made Don Quixote very angry. “You’re a cat and a rat, and a coward to boot!” he cried. And he charged upon him so suddenly and furiously that the captain had no time to defend himself, but was tumbled headlong and helpless into the mud.
The other guards hurried to the rescue. They attacked Don Quixote with their swords and clubs, and he, wheeling Rozinante around, defended himself with his heavy lance. He would have fared very badly had not the prisoners made a great hurly-burly and begun to break their chain.
Seeing the confusion and wishing to give aid to his master, Sancho leaped from his donkey, and, running up to Gines de Passamonte, began to unfasten his irons. The conflict which now followed was dreadful. The guards had enough to do to defend themselves from the wild thrusts of Don Quixote’s lance. They seemed to lose their senses, so great was the uproar.
The prisoners soon freed themselves from their irons and were masters of the field. The guards were routed. They fled with all speed down the highway, followed by a shower of stones from the prisoners. It was a mile to the nearest village, and thither they hastened for help.
Sancho Panza remounted his donkey and drew up to his master’s side. “Hearken,” he whispered. “The king’s officers will soon be after us. Let us hurry into the forest and hide ourselves.”
“Hush,” said Don Quixote, impatiently. “I know what I have to do.”
Then he called the prisoners around him and made a little speech:— “Gentlemen, you understand what a great service I have rendered you. For this I desire no recompense. But I shall require each one of you to go straightway to the city of Toboso and present himself before that fairest of all ladies, the matchless Lady Dulcinea. Give her an exact account of this famous achievement, and receive her permission to seek your various fortunes in such ways and places as you most desire.”
The prisoners grinned insolently, and Gines de Passamonte made answer:— “Most noble deliverers, that which you require of us is impossible. We must part right quickly. Some of us must skulk one way, some another. We must lie hidden in holes and among the rocks. The man hounds will soon be on our tracks, and we dare not show ourselves. As to going to Toboso to see that Lady Dulcinea, it’s all nonsense.”
These words put Don Quixote into a great rage. He shook his lance at the robber, and cried out:— “Now you, Sir Gines, or whatever be your name may be, hear me! You, yourself, shall go alone to Toboso, like a dog with a scalded tail. You shall go with the whole chain wrapped around your shoulders, and shall deliver the message as I have commanded.”
Gines smiled at this bold threat, and made no answer. But his companions with one accord fell upon the knight, dragged him from his steed, and threw him upon the ground.
They stripped him of his coat and even robbed him of his long black stockings. One of them snatched the basin from his head and knocked it against a rock until it was dented and scarred most shamefully. And one broke his long lance in two and threw it into a thicket of thorns.
As for Sancho, he fared but little better. They took his coat, but left him his vest. They would have taken his shoes had they been worth the trouble.
Having thus amused themselves for a few hasty minutes, the rascals departed. They scattered in different directions, each one to shift for himself. They were much more anxious to escape the officers of the law than to present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.
Thus the dappled donkey, Rozinante, Sancho Panza, and Don Quixote were left the sole masters of the field. But they were sorry masters, every one of them.
“Friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, rising from the muddy road, “there is a proverb which I desire thee to remember. It is this: One might as well throw water into the sea as do a kindness to clowns.”
He sought in the thicket for his broken lance, and, having recovered the half of it, he made shift to climb upon Rozinante’s back. The day was far gone, and he rode silently and thoughtfully onward into the heart of the Black Mountains. And Sancho Panza, on his dappled donkey, followed him.
Stories of Don Quixote Written Anew for Children Chapter 11: The Adventure with the Barber
Chapter 11: The Adventure with the Barber
Days passed, and still Don Quixote rode bare-headed: for as yet he had found no means whereby to win for himself a new helmet. Every day, however, had its adventures, and every turn of the road seemed to lead the knight and his squire into new fields of action.
One morning as they were riding along a highway from a small village to a larger one, they saw a horseman coming slowly towards them.
“See there!” cried Don Quixote. “Now I shall have an adventure that will redound to my glory.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Sancho.
“Do you not see that horseman?” answered Don Quixote. “He wears something on his head that glitters like gold. If I mistake not, he is a knight, and it is Mambrino’s helmet that he wears.”
“Mambrino’s helmet, master!” said Sancho. “What about Mambrino’s helmet?”
“Thou knowest my vow, Sancho,” was the answer. “Tomorrow I shall eat bread on a tablecloth. For that knight who is riding toward us on his prancing steed has a helmet of gold on his head.”
“I don’t see any knight,” said Sancho. “I see only a common man riding a gray donkey much like my own. There is something bright on the top of his head; but all is not gold that glitters.”
“I tell thee, it is Mambrino’s helmet, and it is gold!” cried Don Quixote, growing angry.
Now the truth of the matter is this: The smaller of the two villages I have mentioned had no barber. The people, therefore, were obliged to depend on the barber of the larger village, who rode over whenever he was wanted.
Sometimes he was called upon to trim the men’s beards, sometimes to dress the ladies’ hair; but he was oftenest required to bleed some person who was not feeling well. For in those times it was the custom, when anyone was sick, to open one of his veins and let the “bad” blood run. This was thought to be the best medicine and a cure for all sorts of ailments.
To do this bloodletting was, indeed, the main business of a barber. His sign was a pole with red stripes running spirally around it. These red stripes represented the bloody bandage which was used to bind up the wound. The same sign is used by barbers even now; but good barbers never bleed their customers.
In those olden times, the barber always had a brass basin in which to catch the blood as it flowed from the patient’s arm. This basin was kept very bright and clean; for it was a necessary thing in every barber’s shop, and often used.
And now let us go back to our story. The “knight on his prancing steed” was nobody but the barber of the bigger village, riding on his gray donkey to visit his patients in the smaller village.
The morning was cloudy, and rain might begin to fall at any minute. The barber had a new hat which the rain would spoil. To guard against this misfortune, he clapped his brass basin, upside down, upon his head. It covered hat and all, and was proof against the rain.
Don Quixote, as we know, wanted a helmet. He had read so much about Mambrino’s helmet that he could think of nothing else. His mind, having dwelt so long upon this subject, could turn anything he chose into a golden helmet. Some people in our own times can do as much.
As the barber came nearer, the knight raised his lance, which you will remember was only the branch of a tree. He braced himself in his stirrups and made ready for a charge.
Then he shouted, “Wretch, defend thyself, or at once surrender that which is justly mine.” And without further parley, he rushed upon the barber as fast as Rozinante, with his blundering feet, could carry him.
The barber saw him coming, and had just time enough to throw himself from his donkey and take to his heels. He leaped the hedge at the side of the road and ran across the fields with the swiftness of a deer. But the brass basin, having slipped from his head, was left lying in the dust.
Don Quixote checked his steed. “Here, Sancho!” he cried. “Here is my helmet. Come and pick it up.”
“Upon my word, that is a fine basin,” said Sancho, as he stooped and handed it to his master.
Don Quixote, with great delight, clapped it on his head. He turned it this way and that, and tilted it backward and forward.
“It is pretty large,” he said. “The head for which it was made must have been a big one. The worst is, that it has no visor, and half of one side is lacking.”
Sancho could not help smiling.
“What is the fool grinning at now?” cried his master, angrily.
“Oh, nothing,” answered Sancho. “I was only thinking what a big jolthead it must have been to wear a helmet so much like a barber’s basin.”
“Well, it does look like a barber’s basin,” said Don Quixote. “But that is because some enchanter has changed its form. When we come to a town where there is an armorer, I will have it made over into its proper shape; for there is no doubt that it is really the helmet of the famous Mambrino.”
He turned it about on his head, and pulled it well down over his ears.
“I’ll wear it as it is,” he said. “It is better than nothing.”
“There is that knight’s dappled steed,” said Sancho, pointing to the barber’s gray donkey which was nibbling grass by the roadside. “I have a good mind to exchange my own faithful beast for him.”
“Well, exchange is no robbery,” answered Don Quixote. “We do not plunder those whom we meet, for that would be unbecoming to a knight. The dappled steed is no doubt very dear to its master and therefore should be spared to him; but I give thee leave, Sancho, to exchange saddles.”
“You are a wise master,” said Sancho; and without another word he made his own poor donkey look three times better by dressing him in the barber’s saddle.
Then, well satisfied with themselves and their plunder, the knight and the squire renewed their journey.
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