The sun rose high in the sky, and Don Quixote jogged onward, full of joy and pride. He had overthrown the Knight of the Mirrors, and he was more persuaded than ever that he was the most valiant hero in the world. Neither enchanter nor enchantments could alarm him. He was not afraid of anything whether real or unreal.
“Now, come what will come,” he cried, “here I am, and I challenge the most powerful foes to meet me in combat.”
About the middle of the afternoon, he was surprised to see in the distance a large wagon coming down the road from the opposite direction. As it drew nearer he saw that it was drawn by two mules and that several little flags were fluttering above it.
“See, Sancho! Here is an adventure for us,” he said joyfully.
But Sancho shook his head doubtfully.
“Those are the king’s flags,” he said, “and they are to show that the wagon is carrying something for the king. It is best to be careful.”
The strange vehicle was now close at hand. Only two men were with it: the wagoner who was astride of one of the mules, and a middle-aged man who sat on the top of the wagon.
Don Quixote rode briskly forward to meet them.
“What wagon is this?” he cried. “Who are you? Where are you going? What do those flags mean?”
“The wagon is mine,” answered the man on the mule. “We have two lions in it, which the governor of Oran is sending to the king.”
“Are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote.
“Very large,” answered the man on the wagon. “They are the biggest ever seen in Spain, and I am their keeper. The he-lion is in the foremost cage, and the she-lion is in another cage at the rear of the wagon.”
“That is right,” said Don Quixote. “I see that you know how to manage wild beasts.”
“The lions are hungry now, for they have not been fed today,” said the keeper. “So, my good friend, please ride out of the way; for we are going to stop under this tree and give them their dinner. They are apt to be cross while eating.”
“What!” cried Don Quixote, going up closer. “Shall I ride out of the way for lions? And at this time of day? I’ll show you that I’m not afraid of such puny beasts. Get down, honest fellow, and open their cages. I’ll soon show the creatures who I am. For I am the most valorous of all knights, Don Quixote de la Mancha.”
Sancho had now come up; and when he heard this boastful speech he was frightened almost out of his wits.
“Oh, my good sir!” he cried to the keeper, “for pity’s sake, don’t let my master fall upon those lions. We shall all be eaten up.”
“Why,” said the keeper, “is your master so mad that he will dare to meddle with these beasts?”
“Ah, sir!” answered Sancho, “he is not mad, but rash, very rash!”
By this time the wagon had stopped, and Don Quixote was growing impatient.
“You rascal!” he cried, turning again to the keeper. “Do you hear me? Open your cages at once, or I’ll pin you to the wagon with my lance.”
The wagoner, who had leaped to the ground, was by nature a coward; and he was now almost helpless with fright.
“For mercy’s sake,” he cried, “let me take my mules out first. Let me get them out of the way before you open the cage. They are all that I have in the world.”
“Thou man of little faith,” said Don Quixote, “unhitch the poor things and take them away as quickly as possible. You will soon see that I am fully able to take care of the lions.”
The wagoner hastened to obey. He loosed his mules from the wagon and then drove them with such speed as he could to the top of a hillock a quarter of a mile away. There, feeling himself safe, he paused to see what would happen.
In the meantime, Don Quixote again addressed the keeper.
“Obey me instantly,” he said, “or suffer the punishment you deserve.”
The keeper felt the point of the lance against his breast. He was by no means a brave man, and he turned pale as he realized the danger he was in.
“I will do as you bid me,” he said, “but know all men that I am forced to turn the lions loose against my will.”
Then he went around to the foremost cage and began to unfasten the door. “Shift for yourselves, all of you,” he cried. “The lions know me and won’t hurt me; but I won’t answer for the harm they may do to others.”
Then he again tried to reason with Don Quixote. “Sir, you are tempting Heaven by putting yourself in such danger,” he said.
“You rascal,” answered the knight, “it is for you to obey and not to advise. Open the cage, I say.”
Then Sancho spoke up. “Good master,” he said, “this is no trick of enchantment; it’s the real thing. I’ve just taken a peep at the cage, and I saw the lion’s claw. It’s a tremendous big thing. The beast that owns it must be fully as big as a mountain.”
“Your fears will make it as big as the world,” answered Don Quixote. “Now, friend Sancho, retire to a place of safety and leave this business to me. If I fall in the conflict, you know your duty: carry the news to Dulcinea — I say no more.”
Poor Sancho’s eyes were full of tears, for he felt sure that his master was lost. He put spurs to his donkey and so joined the wagoner on the hillock for safety.
The keeper was now standing with his hand upon the cage door; and Don Quixote paused, uncertain whether he ought to fight on horseback or on foot.
“Rozinante is not used to lions, and he might not behave well,” he said to himself. “I think it will be better to fight on foot.”
He therefore dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. Then he laid aside his lance, and drew his sword.
The keeper advanced and with great caution opened the cage door, while Don Quixote with wondrous courage went forward and stood before it.
“Come out, thou paltry beast!” he cried. “Come out, and I will show thee what the bravest knight in the universe can do.”
The lion turned himself around in the cage. He stretched out one of his paws. He gaped, and thrust out his tongue, which seemed as long as a man’s arm.
The knight stood up very straight and again addressed the beast. “I challenge thee to come out and engage in fair combat with one who has never yet been vanquished, even with the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha.”
The lion, with his two great eyes that were like live coals, gazed steadily at him through the dim light in the cage. It was a sight to strike terror into the heart of any man; but Don Quixote felt no fear.
“I am ready for thee,” he cried.
The generous lion took no notice of his words, but yawned again, and then lay down as if to take a nap.
“Do you see that?” said the keeper. “Surely, you ought to be satisfied. You have challenged the lion. The beast is in such awe of you that he declines the combat.”
“That is true,” answered Don Quixote.
“Well, then, what more can you wish? You have shown your greatness by your courage. No knight is expected to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field.”
“You are right, Sir Keeper. Shut the door, and then write a little note for me, stating what you have seen me do. Shut the door as I bid you, and I will call those back who ran away for safety. They must hear your account of my exploit.”
The keeper gladly obeyed, and Don Quixote waved a handkerchief from the point of his lance.
Sancho was the first to see the signal. “There, there!” he cried to the wagoner. “I’ll be switched, if my master has not overcome those lions.”
They waited a few moments, and then seeing everything quiet about the wagon, they went cautiously back.
“Come on my friend,” said Don Quixote to the wagoner. “Hitch up your mules again, and go your way. And Sancho, open your purse and give to each of these men two gold pieces to pay them for the time they have lost.”
“I’ll do that with all my heart,” answered Sancho. “But where are the lions? Are they dead, or alive?”
Then the keeper gave a glowing account of the combat, and told how the lion, being overawed at the very sight of Don Quixote, was utterly unable to stir from the cage.
“What do you think of that, Sancho?” said the proud knight. “Courage is even greater than enchantment.”
So the two gold pieces were paid to the men; the wagoner hitched his mules to the wagon; the lions were duly fed; and the keeper, well satisfied with the day’s adventure, climbed up to his seat on the front part of the cage.
“Sir, goodbye,” he said, doffing his hat to Don Quixote. “I thank you, and I will tell the king about your wonderful prowess.”
“Do so, my friend,” answered our hero; “and if the king should ask who it was that challenged the beast, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for that is the name by which I wish the world to know me.”
The wagoner cracked his whip and shouted; the mules strained at their traces; the wagon rumbled slowly away, down the long road; and Don Quixote and Sancho Panza resumed their journey.
That night Don Quixote and Sancho Panza sought shelter under some trees by the roadside. Sancho unsaddled his Dapple and turned the beast loose to graze among the shrubs and thistles; then he threw himself down at the foot of a cork tree and was soon fast asleep.
Poor Rozinante was doomed to stand saddled all night; for his master suddenly remembered that it was the custom of knights-errant to take off only the bridles of their steeds when thus resting in the open air.
Don Quixote lay down beneath a spreading oak tree and tried to compose himself to rest. He lay and watched the stars twinkling in the sky above him, and he tried to remember all the noble knights who had likewise reposed at night under the canopy of a tree. Suddenly he was aroused by hearing a noise near him. He sat up and listened.
He heard voices in the road. He heard them approaching the grove of trees.
Soon he was aware that two men on horseback were close at hand. He could see only their shadowy figures in the midsummer darkness as they came slowly toward his resting place. Then he could distinguish what they said.
“Let us alight here, friend,” said one. “Me-thinks this is a pleasant place to rest for the night.”
Don Quixote, watching from the shadows of the oak, saw him slide carelessly from his horse and throw himself down in the tall grass. He heard a rattling like that of armor; he thought he saw the dim outlines of a shield; and all this filled his heart with joy.
“This stranger is a knight like myself,” he thought.
Then, with the greatest caution, he went softly over to the cork tree and woke up his squire.
“Sancho,” he whispered, “wake up! Here is an adventure for us.”
“Well, I hope it is a good one,” said Sancho. “Where is it?”
“Where? Only turn your head, man, and look yonder. There is a knight-errant lying in the grass. I think he is melancholy, for I heard him sigh as he slid from his horse.”
“What of that? How do you make an adventure out of it, even if he did sigh?”
“I’m not sure it is an adventure,” answered Don Quixote; “but it looks that way. Hark! He is sitting up now, and tuning his guitar. He is going to sing.”
They sat and listened. Soon the voice of the strange knight was heard mingling with the sweet thrumming tones of the guitar.
“What! what!” whispered Don Quixote. “He is singing of the cruelty of his lady love. Didn’t I tell you he was melancholy?”
When the knight had finished his song he began to sigh most dolefully. He arose, and leaning against a tree, cried out in a mournful voice, “Oh, thou fair Casildea de Vandalia, thou fairest of the fair! Is it not enough to be known as the fairest lady in the world? For all the brave knights of Castile and Leon and La Mancha declare that thou hast no equal in beauty and queenly love.”
“It is not so,” said Don Quixote, speaking softly to Sancho. “I am the only knight of La Mancha, and I have never said, nor shall I ever say that any lady is as beautiful as my own Dulcinea. It is plain that this knight is out of his senses. But let us listen. We shall hear more.”
“Yes, I think we shall hear enough,” answered Sancho; “for he seems likely to keep on grumbling for a month.”
He spoke so loudly that the strange knight heard him. “Who’s there?” he called, coming out from the shadows.
“Friends,” answered Sancho.
“Are you of the happy, or of the miserable?” asked the knight.
“The miserable! the miserable!” answered Don Quixote.
“Then I welcome you,” said the stranger. “Come over here and sit with me.”
Don Quixote went over. The knight shook hands with him and seemed very glad.
“I am a knight,” said Don Quixote.
“And so am I,” answered the other.
Then they sat down in the grass and talked together very peaceably and lovingly, and not at all like two men who were going to break each other’s heads.
In the meanwhile Sancho went across the road to the spot where the strange knight’s squire was resting by the side of his steed.
“Hello, stranger!” he said.
“Hello to you, my friend,” said the other. “Sit down here, and let us chat freely to ourselves, just as squires always do.”
“With all my heart,” answered Sancho. “I’ll talk with you, and tell you who I am and what I am. Then you will know whether I’m fit to be a squire or not.”
So the two sat down by the trunk of a tree and for some time talked as foolishly as their masters were talking wisely.
The hours wore pleasantly on under the starry sky. The two squires soon dropped asleep, and lay snoring side by side on the warm earth. But the two knights were so full of talk that they never thought of slumber; and many were the tales of valor which each related to the other.
The strange knight was a great boaster. There was no war in which he had not fought; there was no trial of arms in which he had not been the victor. “I reckon that I have vanquished every wandering knight in the universe,” he said. “I once jousted with the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha and overcame him in fair combat.”
“Hold!” cried Don Quixote in wonder and anger. “Don’t say that! You may have vanquished all the knights in Spain, save one; but you have never encountered Don Quixote.”
“But I say that I have,” answered the stranger.
“Perhaps you have fought with someone who looks like him,” said Don Quixote; “but had you met the man himself, you would not now be boasting of your encounter.”
“What do you mean?” cried the stranger, rising to his feet. “I tell you that it was Don Quixote himself whom I vanquished. There is no one who looks like him. He is a tall, slim-faced, leather-jawed fellow. His hair is grizzled. He is hawk-nosed. He has a long, lank mustache. The name of his squire is Sancho Panza; and the name of his lady is Dulcinea del Toboso. Now, if you don’t believe me, let me say that I wear a sword and I will make you believe.”
“Not so fast, Sir Knight,” answered Don Quixote. “I am acquainted with this same valorous knight of La Mancha. In fact he is the best friend I have in the world, and I love him as well as I love myself. You have described him well; but you have never fought with him. The enchanters, who are his enemies, have probably made some other knight look like him.”
The stranger shook his head.
“It is even so,” continued Don Quixote. “Indeed, it was not many days ago that they transformed the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso into the ugly image of a coarse country girl. But if you still insist that you really overcame Don Quixote, let me tell you something: Here is that renowned knight himself, ready to make good his words either on foot or on horseback or in any other way you choose!”
As he said this, he jumped up and laid his hand on his sword. But the strange knight sat still on the ground.
“Sir,” he said quietly, “if I could vanquish Don Quixote when transformed why shall I fear him in his true shape? But knights do not fight in the dark. Let us wait till morning, so that the sun may behold our valor.”
“You speak well,” answered Don Quixote; “I am willing to wait.”
Having come to an agreement, the two knights, went across the road to look for their squires. They found them stretched on the ground and snoring. They roused them and bade them get their steeds ready; for with the rising of the sun the combat was to begin.
Sancho Panza was astounded at this news; but he said not a word. He went at once with the strange squire to look for the horses.
“Well, friend,” said the other, “since our masters are going to fight, I guess that you and I must also have a brush. That is the way they do in Andalusia where I came from. Servants never stand idle while their masters are fighting.”
“They may follow that custom in Andalusia,” answered Sancho, “but I’m sure I won’t follow it. I’m no hand at fighting. I never had a sword in my life.”
“Oh, never mind the swords,” said the strange squire. “I have a couple of bags here. You take one, and I’ll take one, and we’ll let drive at each other.”
“That’s good,” cried Sancho. “We’ll dust each other’s jackets and not get hurt.” “Hardly so good as that,” said the stranger. “We’ll put half a dozen stones in each bag, so that we may fight the better.”
“Then I say again that I don’t feel like fighting,” said Sancho. “Let us live and be merry while we may. I’m not angry with you, and I can’t fight in cold blood.”
“Oh, if that’s all,” said the other, “I can soon warm your blood. For, you see, I’ll walk up to you quite gently and give you three or four slaps on the head and knock you down. Your blood will begin to boil then, won’t it?”
“Boil or no boil, I’ll meet you at that trick,” answered Sancho. “I’ll break your head with a stick. Every man for himself. Many come for wool and go home shorn. A baited cat may prove as fierce as a lion. Nobody knows what I may do when I’m stirred up.”
By this time they had found the horses and were grooming them for the combat.
“Well, well! May the sun hasten to rise,” said the strange squire. “I can hardly wait to begin the fight.”
And in fact it was not long until the day began to break. Through the gray light of the dawn Sancho looked at his companion. His heart leaped with surprise, and he began to tremble. For he saw that the nose of the stranger was the most wonderful and fearful that could be imagined.
It was so big that it overshadowed the rest of his face. It was crooked in the middle and as red as a tomato.
“I would rather be kicked two hundred times than fight with that nose,” said Sancho.
It was quite different with Don Quixote. He stood up boldly and gazed at the knight with whom he was about to fight. But the stranger’s helmet was closed and he could not see his face.
His armor, however, was of the best fashion, and over it he wore a coat of cloth of gold. This was covered with numbers of tiny mirrors shaped like half moons.
The plume in his helmet was of yellow, green, and white feathers. His lance was very thick and long. The knight himself was slender, but shapely and quick of motion.
“Sir Knight of the Mirrors,” said Don Quixote, “be pleased to lift up your helmet a little, so that I may see your face.”
“Nay,” answered the knight, “I cannot satisfy your curiosity now. After the combat you will have plenty of time to look at my face. But see, it is broad daylight. Let us begin.”
“I am ready,” answered Don Quixote. “But while we are getting on horseback, please tell me if I look like that Don Quixote whom you say you overthrew in fair fight.”
“Certainly,” said the Knight of the Mirrors, “You are as like him as one egg is like another.” “Then let us begin the business,” said Don Quixote. “I’ll soon show you that I’m not the Quixote whom you think.”
So, without further words, they mounted. They rode some distance apart, and then wheeled about with their horses and made ready to charge.
At that moment, however, Don Quixote chanced to see the big nose of the strange squire. He paused in wonder, while the Knight of the Mirrors waited impatiently for him to begin the onset. Sancho Panza, seeing his master’s surprise, ran up and caught hold of his stirrup.
“Please, dear master,” he said, “before you run upon your enemy, help me up into this cork tree. I wish to sit where I can see your brave battle.”
“I rather think you wish to be perched out of danger,” said Don Quixote.
“To tell you the truth, master, I am a little afraid of that nose,” said Sancho.
“I blame you not,” answered Don Quixote. “It is indeed a sight to strike terror into any heart less brave than my own. So, put your foot in this stirrup, and then swing lightly up among the branches.”
In the meanwhile the Knight of the Mirrors had again wheeled his horse about, and losing all patience, he now charged at full speed down upon his unready foe.
His steed, however, was old and shabby, in fact more so than Rozinante, and even with much spurring and urging, his swiftest speed was only a slow trot. Down the road he came, lumbering awkwardly and stumbling at every step; but at the middle of the course, his rider pulled suddenly upon the reins and he stopped short.
At this moment Don Quixote looked up. Seeing his enemy so near, he put spurs to Rozinante so sharply that the poor beast sprang wildly forward and, for the first time in his life, really galloped.
Before the Knight of the Mirrors could get his horse to moving again, Don Quixote dashed furiously upon him. The knight’s lance was hurled from his grasp, and he himself was knocked out of his saddle and thrown sprawling in the dust. He was so stunned by the fall that he lay for some time without showing any signs of life.
Sancho had watched the short affray from his perch in the tree. He now slid down as quickly as he could, and ran to the help of his master.
As for Don Quixote, he checked his steed, threw himself from his saddle, and hurried to the side of his fallen foe. He unlaced the knight’s helmet, to give him air, and gently lifted it from his head.
Who can relate his surprise when he saw the face of the unlucky Knight of the Mirrors? For there he beheld the very visage, the very aspect, the very features of his friend and neighbor, Samson Carrasco of La Mancha!
“See here, Sancho!” he cried. “See what those enchanters have been doing again.”
Sancho looked and turned pale with fear.
“Master, take my advice,” he whispered. “This is one of those enchanters who are all the time making trouble for you. He has now taken the form of our friend Samson Carrasco in order to injure both him and you. Run your sword down his throat, and so rid the world of at least one of the vile crew.”
“That’s a good thought, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote. “I’ll do as you say, and then we’ll have fewer enemies.”
With that, he drew his sword and was about to strike, when a voice at his elbow cried out, “Hold, Don Quixote!”
He looked around. There stood the strange squire, but his terrible nose had vanished.
“Have a care, Don Quixote,” he said. “This fallen knight is your friend, Samson Carrasco, and I am his squire.”
“Where is your nose?” asked Sancho. “In my pocket,” answered the squire; and he pulled out a great nose of varnished pasteboard.
“Why! why! why! Bless me!” cried Sancho. “Who is this? My old friend and neighbor, Thomas Cecial! Is it you, Tom?”
“The very same, friend Sancho,” was the answer. “We have followed you all the way from La Mancha; and this is a trick we had planned to frighten Don Quixote and so persuade him to go back home.”
“And you’re not an enchanter?”
“I am only Thomas Cecial, your friend and neighbor. Look at me.”
By this time the Knight of the Mirrors had come to himself. He groaned and looked around; then he sat up on the ground.
Don Quixote set the point of his sword against his face, and cried out, “Now confess that Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful lady in the world. Confess it, or die.”
“I do confess it,” answered the knight. “The lady Dulcinea’s old shoe is more beautiful than my Casildea.”
“Will you go to the city of Toboso and confess it to my Dulcinea herself?”
“I will do anything that you command.”
“Do you also confess that you never vanquished Don Quixote in fight, but only somebody else who looked like him?”
“All this I do confess, believe, and feel,” said the fallen knight.
Then Don Quixote helped him to rise. He grasped his hand and shook it heartily.
“You look like my friend Samson Carrasco,” he said, “but I know you are not he. You are some other man whom the enchanters have made to wear his countenance in order to deceive me. But I understand their tricks. They do not fool me.”
Samson Carrasco was much put out. His carefully planned scheme to persuade his old neighbor to return home had failed at the very start. Don Quixote would not listen to him, nor believe that he was aught but some stranger in the service of the enchanters, or some poor knight who had been duped by them.
So, at length, with battered body and a sore heart, Samson remounted his sorry steed. Then, with his squire beside him, he rode painfully away toward the nearest town, where he hoped to find plasters and ointments for his bruises.
“I half believe it is really our friend Samson,” said Sancho.
“Be not deceived by appearances, Sancho,” answered his master.
Then they mounted their steeds and renewed their journey.
A few days afterward as Don Quixote was riding onward and still grieving because of his ill luck, he suddenly met a large cart full of strange people.
The driver, who was walking by his horses, was dressed very oddly. His coat and trousers were of scarlet, he had horns on his head, and he wore a long pointed tail.
“He looks like some wicked hobgoblin,” whispered Sancho to his master.
Seated in the cart there was a hideous figure of Death. On one side of this figure, an angel was standing with its great white wings folded. On the other side sat an emperor with a golden crown on his head.
Behind these there was a Cupid with bow and arrows, as Cupids always are. And near him was a knight in white armor who wore a soft hat instead of a helmet.
Following the cart on foot, there came a clown with cap and bells; and with him were three or four other persons dressed in strange and brightly colored clothing.
Neither knight nor squire had ever seen so strange a company of travelers, and Don Quixote paused in surprise at meeting them in that lonely place. As for Sancho, he was frightened beyond measure; for he thought that these were the enchanters, of whom his master was always talking, and no mistake.
Soon, however, Don Quixote’s face grew brighter, for a brave thought had come to him. He spurred Rozinante forward, saying to Sancho, “Perhaps this will be the rarest of all our adventures.”
He planted himself in the middle of the road before the approaching company. Then he shouted, “You carter, coachman, or whatever you be, halt! Halt there, and answer my questions. Who are you? Where have you come from? Whither are you going? What is your business?”
The driver brought the cart to a standstill, and looked up with surprise at the strangely clad horseman who had thus challenged him.
“Sir,” he said, “we are a party of players. We have just come from the town on the other side of the mountain, where we have been playing a tragedy called the Dance of Death. This afternoon we are to play it again in the next town. We are traveling in our acting clothes, so as to save the trouble of dressing and undressing ourselves.”
“You speak like an honest man,” said Don Quixote, “although you look like something quite different.”
“Well, I play the part of the devil,” answered the driver, “and you know that is the best part of all. The young man in the wagon takes the part of Death, and the person by his side is an angel. Then there is the emperor, and there is the soldier, and behind the wagon you can see all the rest of the company.”
“I wish you well, good people,” said Don Quixote, moving aside. “Drive on now, and act your play. If I can be of any help to you, I shall be much pleased; for even in my childhood, I loved the player’s art.”
At this moment the clown came frisking to the front of the wagon to see what was going on. A number of tinkling bells were fastened to his coat; and he had a long stick with three bladders on it, which he flourished back and forth in the air.
His first act was to bounce the bladders right under poor Rozinante’s nose. This so startled the old horse that he sprang forward, and quickly had the better of his rider. He took the bit in his mouth, and ran, with all the speed of a plow horse, across the open field.
Sancho was in great fear lest Don Quixote should be thrown and hurt. Therefore, he leaped from his donkey and gave chase, hoping to overtake the fleeing steed, or at the worst, to ease his master’s fall. But before he had gone a hundred yards, Rozinante stumbled, and horse and rider fell rolling into the dust.
Now the clown, when he saw Sancho dismount, ran hastily to the dappled donkey and leaped upon its back. He rattled the bladders over the poor creature’s ears, and so frightened it that it went flying down the road towards the town where the play was to be.
Sancho, seeing this, was uncertain what to do. Should he help his master, or should he run after Dapple and the clown? He turned this way, he turned that; he leaped over the fence, he leaped back; and at last he hurried to the knight and helped him to rise. “Oh, sir!” he cried, “the evil one has run away with my dear Dapple.”
“What evil one?” asked Don Quixote.
“Why, the one with the bladders,” answered Sancho.
“Well, don’t grieve about that,” said Don Quixote, “I’ll force him to give the animal up. Follow me, Sancho.”
“Oh, master, I’d rather not,” said Sancho. “Anyhow, we needn’t be in a hurry; for I see that he has left the donkey and gone his way.”
What he said was true, for the donkey had fallen in the road and thrown its rider. The clown picked himself up, unhurt, and walked on towards the town. The donkey also arose, and after looking around, came slowly back towards its master.
“All this is lucky for you,” said Don Quixote, “but it won’t hinder me from teaching these people a lesson.”
Then, in spite of all that Sancho could do or say, he galloped after the cart, crying, “Hold, hold! Stop there, my pretty sparks. I’ll teach you to be a little more civil to strangers when you meet them on the road.”
The players stopped. They leaped out of the wagon, and ranged themselves by the side of the road. Each had a stone in his hand ready, in case of need, to let fly at the knight and his squire.
Don Quixote checked his flying steed. He paused for a moment to think of the best way to attack this fearless company. He raised his lance and was just going to charge upon his foes, when Sancho overtook him.
“For goodness’ sake, sir,” he cried, “are you mad? Leave those fellows alone. They are only players, and there’s not a single knight among them.”
“There, there!” answered Don Quixote. “You have touched me upon the only point that can move me. For indeed it would never do for me to engage in combat with any but true knights. You are the man, Sancho, to fight with players. It is your business. So, get at them! I will stay here and help you with good advice.”
“No, thank you, sir,” said Sancho. “I forgive those people. I like nothing so well as peace and quiet. And, in fact, the donkey has not been hurt at all. So why should we make a fuss about it?”
“Oh, well,” answered his master, “if that’s the way you feel about it, friend Sancho, we had better leave them alone. Come! Mount your donkey, and let us ride onward in search of more worthy adventures.”
So saying he wheeled his steed about, and resumed his journey. And Sancho, well pleased and very meek, mounted Dapple and followed him.
Towards evening on the appointed day, the start was made. Don Quixote mounted his Rozinante, and Sancho threw himself astride of his faithful Dapple. The knight carried a new lance and wore a new helmet of brass which his friend Samson had given him; and the squire carried a wallet well filled with provisions, and a purse stuffed with money to defray expenses.
The niece and the housekeeper, having become reconciled to the journey, stood at the door, waving their goodbyes; and Sancho’s wife, watching from her window, wept her farewells as they passed. Samson Carrasco walked with them to the edge of the village, and there bade them Godspeed on their journey.
And so, knight and squire rode forth with solemn faces and high resolves, ready to encounter whatever fate was in store for them.
“Friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “our first duty is plain. Before undertaking any feat of arms we must repair to the city of Toboso and there perform those acts of homage which are due to the peerless Lady Dulcinea.”
“It is even as you command, Sir Knight,” answered Sancho.
Therefore, to Toboso they made their way.
It was late in the afternoon of the second day when they came in sight of that notable and most important place. Since Don Quixote did not know the house in which Dulcinea lived, he thought it best to tarry outside until after nightfall. They therefore spent the evening under some oaks a little way from the road, and did not enter Toboso until about midnight.
As they rode along the grass-grown street, the whole world seemed silent. There was no one stirring in the city. The people were all asleep; there was no light save that of the moon. The heart of Don Quixote was filled with forebodings.
“My dear Sancho,” he whispered hoarsely, “show me the way to her palace.”
“Palace!” Sancho said. “What palace do you mean? When I saw her, she was living in a small cottage.”
Now, in truth, he had never seen her at all; but he wished to make believe that he had done so when his master had sent him with the letter.
They rode slowly along the street until they approached a large building, which loomed tall and dark in the dim moonlight.
“Here it is,” said Don Quixote. “Here is my Dulcinea’s palace, and it is well worthy of the peerless lady.”
But when he rode up closer, he discovered that it was no palace at all, but only the great church of the town.
“We have made a mistake, Sancho,” he said. “This is not her dwelling place, and we shall have to look farther.”
They rode onward to the end of the street. Then they came back and looked through every by-path and alley, but they could not find anything that looked like a palace.
Presently the night began to wear away. A faint light appeared in the east; it grew larger and brighter; it overspread the sky. The swallows that were nesting under the eaves began to twitter. Morning was nigh at hand.
Here and there a door was heard to open. The sound of voices broke the stillness of the town. The people were beginning to stir.
As knight and squire paused in the street, uncertain what to do, a young countryman came along, driving a pair of mules and singing the song of Roland. “Good morning, honest friend,” said Don Quixote. “Pray tell me, where is the palace of the peerless princess, the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso?”
“I’ve just lately come to Toboso, and I don’t know of any palaces. But the curate of the town lives in this next house. Ask him. He knows all about princesses and palaces.”
Having said this, he switched his mules and drove on, singing louder than before. Don Quixote, sitting quietly on the back of Rozinante, gazed at the curate’s house, uncertain what to do. Curates were not always favorable to chivalry, and this curate might not sympathize with a wandering knight, however valorous he might be.
It was now broad daylight. The sun was almost above the trees. There would soon be other passers-by in the street. Sancho Panza began to feel uneasy.
“I think, sir,” said he, “that it will not be very handsome for us to sit here and be stared at by everybody in the town. We had better slip out to some grove not far away. Then while you lie there hidden, I will come back and search every hole and corner for the Lady Dulcinea. When I find her, I’ll talk to her and tell her that you are close by, waiting for her orders. This, of course, will make her all the more ready to receive you.”
“Dear Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “you, were always wise. You have said a thousand sentences in a few words, and I will do exactly as you say.”
Without further loss of time, therefore, they turned their steeds about and rode out of town to a grove some two miles away. There Don Quixote concealed himself among the trees bidding Sancho Panza return and make haste to discover the whereabouts of the Lady Dulcinea.
“Cheer up, master!” Sancho replied at leaving. “I’ll be back here in a trice. The hare leaps out of the bush where we least expect her. Faint heart never won fair lady.”
“Sancho,” said the knight, “you have a rare talent for quoting proverbs.” But the squire was already riding briskly away towards the town.
He did not ride far, however. At the foot of a little hill he paused and looked back. Seeing that he was out of his master’s sight, he stopped under a tree by the roadside, and began to talk with himself.
“Friend Sancho, where are you going? Are you hunting for a mule?”
“No; not for any mule.”
“What, then, are you doing?”
“I am looking for a princess who is the sum of all beauty.”
“Where do you think you will find her?”
“Where? Why, in the great city of Toboso. But it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Why do you undertake such a thing?”
“Why? To please my master, of course. But if he is mad enough to mistake windmills for giants, it will not be hard to make him believe that any country girl is the Lady Dulcinea.”
“Certainly, it will not.”
“Well, that is just what I’ll do. It will be the easiest way out of this troublesome business.”
So he alighted and sat down under the tree, and he remembered the provisions which he had in his wallet. When he had eaten a hearty breakfast, he lay down and slept until it was far past midday.
At last he awoke feeling rested and contented. “This is better than riding through Toboso, hunting for Dulcinea’s palace,” he said.
He had just remounted his donkey when, looking down the road, he saw three country girls coming up from the town. They were awkward and red-faced, and were riding slowly along on donkeys.
Sancho did not wait a moment, but turned his steed quickly about and made all haste back to his master.
“Well, my good Sancho, what news?” asked the knight, eagerly. “Are we to mark this day with a white stone or with a black?”
“Mark it with red ocher, sir,” answered Sancho. “The Lady Dulcinea with her two maids is coming out to meet you. She is close at hand even now. So, mount Rozinante quickly, and get into the road where you can see her for yourself and greet her in a becoming manner.”
“I can hardly believe such news, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Do not add to my grief by deceiving me.”
“Deceive you, sir? Why should I wish to play a trick on you? Come, ride out with me quickly, and you will see the princess coming. She and her damsels are all one sparkle of gold — all pearls, all diamonds, all rubies. There was never so much beauty seen in Spain.”
“Let us hasten then, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, climbing upon Rozinante with uncommon speed. “And I promise to reward you for your good news. You shall have the best spoils of our next adventure; and if that is not enough, I will give you the three colts I have at home.”
“I shall be very glad to get the colts, master, and I thank you,” said Sancho; “but as for spoils, they are so small that I’m not particular.”
They rode hastily out of the grove and were soon on the highroad at the crest of the hill. Looking down towards the town, they could see no one but the three country lasses approaching slowly on their donkeys.
Don Quixote’s face showed his deep disappointment. He paused and looked backward and forward, this way and that.
“I don’t see her, Sancho,” he said. “Are you sure that she has left the city?”
“Why, where are your eyes, master?” answered the squire. “Don’t you see her right here with her two lovely maidens?”
“I see nothing but three country girls on three very scrawny donkeys.”
“Well! well! Is it possible that you mistake the princess for an awkward country girl? Can’t you distinguish a beautiful palfrey from a miserable donkey?”
“To tell you the truth, Sancho, I see nothing but three donkeys carrying as many red-faced country girls. They are coming towards us, and I see them quite plainly. But where is the princess?”
“Oh, master, master! How blind you are! There is no country girl in sight. It is the princess whom you see, and she is drawing nearer every moment. Let us hasten and speak to her.”
So saying, Sancho spurred his donkey onward, and hurried down the hill to meet the girls. He leaped to the ground in the middle of the road before them. He placed himself in front of the tallest and most ungainly of the three. He lifted his hat and fell upon his knees.
“Queen and princess of beauty, listen to my prayer,” he began. “If it please your highness and haughtiness, grant to take into your liking yonder knight who is your humble captive. I am Sancho Panza, his famous squire, and he is the wandering, weather-beaten Don Quixote de la Mancha.”
By this time Don Quixote had also dismounted and was kneeling in the middle of the road. It was hard for him to believe that this homely damsel was his queen, the Lady Dulcinea; for she was flat-nosed and blubber-cheeked and coarse in form and manners. Yet he tried to imagine that some enchanter had changed her into this form. “Get out of our way!” screamed the angry girls. “We’re in a hurry to get home.”
But Sancho knelt unmoved in the very pathway of their mules. “Oh, universal lady,” he said, “does not your heart melt in pity? See there, how the post and pillar of knight-errantry is offering his homage to you.”
“Heyday!” cried one of the girls. “Listen to his gibberish!”
“Get out of the way,” shouted the tall one.
“Yes, get out of the way, and let us get along!” screamed the third.
With that, they kicked their donkeys in the ribs and crowded past. The next moment they were speeding away in a cloud of dust and were soon at the top of the hill.
Don Quixote rose from the ground and looked after them. He watched them with sorrowing eyes until a turn in the road hid them from sight. Then he turned to the squire, and said:—
“Sancho, what do you think of this business? Aren’t those enchanters the most evil-minded creatures you ever saw? They were not content with turning my Dulcinea into the likeness of a coarse country girl; they went so far as to take from her the sweet perfume of flowers. For didn’t you notice that strong whiff of raw onions as she passed us? It almost took my breath away.”
“Oh, those enchanters!” cried Sancho. “They don’t stop at any kind of wickedness. I wish I could see them all strung on a thread and hung up to dry, like a lot of herrings.”
“Ah, well, well!” sighed Don Quixote. “I have said it before, and now I say it a thousand times: I am the most unlucky man in the universe.”
Then he remounted Rozinante, and rode on, very sad and silent. He rode on through the town and down the long, dusty highway on the other side, not caring whither he went. And Sancho Panza followed him.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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