The duke and the duchess were so well pleased with the success of their latest jest that they soon formed plans for another; and this time Sancho Panza was to be the chosen hero.
“Sancho Panza,” said the duke one day, “is it true that your master has promised to make you the governor of an island?”
“Aye, so he has,” answered Sancho; “and I am he that deserves it as well as anybody. I have kept my master company many a month; and if he live and I live, there will be no lack of islands for me to govern.”
“Well,” said the duke, “I have a few spare islands of my own lying around, and I will give you one for the sake of my good friend Don Quixote.”
“Down on thy knees, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote, “and kiss the duke’s feet for this favor.”
And Sancho obeyed.
A few days later the duke said to the squire, “Sancho, do you remember the island which I promised you?”
“Most assuredly, sir, I have not forgotten it,” said Sancho.
“Well, you must prepare to take possession of your government tomorrow,” said the duke. “The islanders are longing for you as a farmer longs for rain in summer. They will not be put off any longer.”
Sancho bowed humbly and answered, “Well then, I will do my best. But since I looked down from the sky the other day and saw the earth so very small, I don’t care half so much about being a governor. What does it matter to rule over half-a-dozen men no bigger than hazelnuts?”
“Oh, Sancho,” said the duke, “when once you have had a taste of ruling you will never leave off licking your fingers, you will find it so sweet to command and so pleasant to be obeyed.”
“Indeed it is a dainty thing to command,” said Sancho. “I know it, for I once commanded a flock of sheep.”
“Well, I hope you will be as good a governor as you were a shepherd,” said the duke. “Now get ready to set out for your island tomorrow morning. My servants will furnish you with dress suitable to your high office.”
“Let them dress me as they will, I’ll be Sancho Panza still,” answered the squire.
When Don Quixote heard that Sancho was to leave for his island in the morning he sat down with him and gave him a great deal of good advice. Among a thousand other things, he said:—
“First of all, fear God; for the fear of Him is wisdom.
“Second, make it thy business to know thyself.
“Pride thyself more on being humble and virtuous than proud and vicious.
“Despise not thy poor relations.
“Let the tears of the poor find more compassion than the testimony of the rich.
“Revile not with words him whom thou hast to punish in deed.
“In the trial of a criminal remember the temptations of our depraved nature, and show thyself full of pity and mercy.
“As to the government of thy person, my first command is cleanliness.
“Pare thy nails.
“Keep thy clothes well-fitted about thee.
“Defile not thy breath with onions and garlic.
“Walk softly, speak with deliberation.
“Drink moderately.
“Be careful not to chew on both sides.
“Sleep with moderation.
“As for thy dress, wear long hose, an ample coat, and a cloak a little longer.
“Lastly, do not overlard thy discourse with proverbs, as thou art wont to do.”
Sancho listened quietly to all this advice and promised that he would observe as much of it as he could remember.
“But please let me have it all in black and white,” he said; “for my memory is poor. True, I can neither write nor read, but I will give it to the priest of my island and tell him to hammer it into me as often as I need it.”
“Oh, sinner that I am!” cried Don Quixote. “How scandalous it is that a governor should not be able to read or write! I would have thee at least learn to write thy name.”
“Oh, I can write my name.” answered Sancho. “I used to scrawl a sort of letters, and they told me it was my name. Besides, I can pretend that I’ve hurt my hand, and get somebody else to sign for me. For there is a remedy for all things but death. Let them backbite me to my face, I will bite-back the biters. Let them come for wool and go home shorn. The rich man’s follies pass for wise sayings. What a man has, so much is he worth, said my grandmother.”
“Enough! enough!” said Don Quixote. “We have had enough of your proverbs. They will make your islanders plot against you and pull you down.”
“For pity’s sake, master!” said Sancho, “don’t grudge me the use of my own goods. Proverbs are all my stock. Whether the pitcher hit the stone, or the stone hit the pitcher, it is bad for the pitcher.”
“Well, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “you have a good disposition, and you mean well. So let us go to dinner.”
The very next day Sancho set out for his island. He was dressed in fine clothes, and rode a tall mule in gaudy trappings. Behind him was led his own donkey, adorned like a horse of state.
He kissed the hands of the duke and duchess, and bowed his head to receive his master’s blessing. Then he rode tearfully away with a great train of servants, every one of whom had been told how to behave towards him.
It was not a long journey. Soon they came to a little town which belonged to the duke, and Sancho was told that it was his island. Its name was Barataria.
At the gates of the town he was met by the chief officers. The bells rang, and the people shouted their joy. Then he was led to the church, and the keys of the town were put in his hands.
“Hail to our noble governor!” shouted young and old; and Sancho began to feel very much elated.
He was so short and fat, and he looked so funny in his fine clothes, that all who did not know that it was one of the duke’s jokes were puzzled to think what kind of man he was. But still they shouted, “Hail to our lord, Don Sancho Panza!”
Sancho turned to his secretary and asked, “Whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?”
“Why, your lordship, yourself,” answered the secretary.
“Well, friend,” said Sancho, “take notice that Don does not belong to me. Plain Sancho Panza is my name. My father and my grandfather and all of us have been plain Panzas without Dons or Donnas added. Now, I guess the Dons are as thick as stones on this island, but if my government lasts four days I’ll clear them out, like so many flies.”
From the church Sancho was taken with much ceremony to the Hall of Justice. There he was set in a great chair, and all who wished to appeal to him for justice came and made their wants known. The first who came were two men, one dressed like a country fellow, the other like a tailor.
“My lord governor,” said the tailor, “this farmer and I have come for you to settle a dispute between us. Yesterday the farmer came into my shop with a piece of cloth. He asked me if there was enough of it to make a cap. I measured the stuff and answered, Yes. Then he asked if there was enough for two caps, and I again said, Yes. At last, I told him there was enough for five caps. This morning he came for his caps. They were finished and I gave them to him. But he would not pay me. He says I must give him his cloth again, or the price of it.”
Sancho turned to the farmer and said, “Is this true, my friend?”
“Yes,” answered the man, “but let him show you the five caps he has made.”
“With all my heart,” said the tailor; and with that he held up his hand, showing four tiny caps on his fingers and one on his thumb.
“There,” said he, “you see the five caps he asked for, and I have not a snip of cloth left.”
Everybody in the room laughed to see the number of caps and their smallness.
Sancho put his hand to his chin and thought for a little while. Then he said, “It is the judgment of this court that the tailor shall lose his making, and the farmer his cloth. The caps shall be given to the prisoners in jail; and that ends the whole matter.”
All who heard this decision were pleased because of its justice.
Two old men next came before the governor. One of them carried a cane, which he used to help him along.
“My lord,” said the other man, “some time ago I lent this good man ten gold crowns. I did it as an act of kindness, and he was to repay me whenever I asked him. I did not demand it for a long time; but since he seemed so careless about it, I at last said to him that I wanted the money. What do you think? He not only refuses to pay me, but he says I never lent him the money, or if I did, he returned it. I have no witnesses, but I beg you to put him on his oath. If he will swear that he has paid me, I will forgive him.”
“Old man of the staff,” said Sancho, “what say you to this?”
“Sir,” answered the old man, “I own that he lent me the money. And if you will hold out your rod of office, I will swear upon it that I have returned it in full.”
Sancho held out the rod. The old man handed his staff to the other man to hold while he took the oath. Then he put his hands on the cross of the governor’s rod, and swore that it was true that the other had lent him the money, but that he had returned the same sum into his hands.
Sancho turned to the other man and asked, “What do you say to that?” “Well,” said the poor man, “my neighbor is a good Christian, and I don’t believe he would swear falsely. Perhaps I have forgotten when and how he repaid me.”
Then the owner of the staff took his stick, and the two men left the court.
Sancho leaned his head over his breast, he put his forefinger on his eyebrows, and sat silent for a time. Then he suddenly said:— “Where is that man with the staff? Bring him back to me instantly.”
Soon both men were again brought before him.
“Good man,” said he to the one with the staff, “let me see your cane. I have use for it.”
“Certainly, sir. Here it is,” answered the man. Sancho took the staff and immediately gave it to the other man.
“There,” he said, “go your way in peace, for now you are paid.”
“How so, my lord?” cried the man. “Is this cane worth ten gold crowns?”
“Well, if it is not, then I am the greatest fool in the world,” said Sancho. “If you will but return the cane to me for a moment, you shall see with your own eyes.”
He took the staff between his hands and broke it in two; and out fell the ten gold crowns.
Everybody in the court was amazed. They began to think that Sancho was a second Solomon, whose wisdom was past finding out. The truth was, however, that Sancho had once heard of the same kind of trick being played in a distant town. It was an old story, but unknown in Barataria.
The end of the matter was that one old man went away very much ashamed, and the other returned home well satisfied.
Thus, one case after another was brought before the “governor,” and he gave such wise judgment that the people wondered how such wisdom could be contained in a little round head like his. And yet, with all the attention that was shown him, Sancho was not happy in his island.
He was never allowed to eat a good meal; for the doctor always stood by and refused to let him touch anything that would hurt his digestion. He could not even eat roast partridge, although it was set on the table before him, and was of all things the dish which he liked best.
He was wearied, too, with all the tedious ceremonies at court. His fine clothes were irksome. His night’s sleep was broken into by the cares of state. And then, at last, there came a dreadful letter from the duke.
The letter was full of warnings. Some enemies, it said, were marching against the island. Four men had gone to the town for the purpose of killing the governor. The duke therefore advised Sancho to be careful, and not eat anything that was set before him, lest he should be poisoned.
All this was a part of the duke’s great joke, and it frightened Sancho Panza terribly.
Seven days had passed since he came to Barataria. He had had no rest. He was tired and hungry. It was very late when he was at last allowed to go to bed.
He was just dropping off to sleep when he heard a great noise in the street. He was alarmed and jumped up to see what was the matter.
Bells were ringing, drums were beating, men were shouting. Sancho trembled with fear. He put on his slippers, and hurried to the door.
Several men with torches and drawn swords came running up. They shouted:— “Arm, arm, Lord Governor! The enemy have got into the island. Come and lead us against them. We have arms for you!”
“Why, then arm me, and good luck to us all,” said Sancho, trying to be very brave.
They brought two shields and put them over his shirt, one behind and one before. They fastened these shields together with cords drawn as tightly as possible. Then they put a spear in his hand and said, “Lead on, now, Lord Governor!”
“How can I lead on, when I am trussed up like this?” asked Sancho; and indeed he looked much like a turtle between two great shells.
“I cannot so much as bend my legs,” said he. “You must carry me.”
“Nonsense, my Lord Governor,” said one of the men. “It is fear that keeps you from moving. Lead on, for the danger is greater every minute.”
Poor Sancho tried to walk; but he fell to the floor with such a crash that he thought himself broken to pieces. He lay there, helpless and praying for deliverance.
Suddenly all the lights went out. He could hear men fighting all around. Some tripped on him. Some stood on him and shouted. He was never so frightened in his life.
“Oh, that this island were taken,” he moaned, “or that I were dead and out of this trouble.”
Then he heard shouts of “Victory! victory! Where is our lord governor?”
Sancho could only cry in a weak voice, “Here I am. Help me up!”
His shields were taken off, and he was carried into his chamber. There he fell back on his bed in a dead swoon, and those who had been playing this joke upon him became really frightened. By and by, however, he began to come to himself.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It is near daybreak,” they answered.
He spoke not again, but very quietly began to put on his clothes.
When he was dressed he went out slowly and feebly, for he was too much bruised to move fast. He went to the stable and found the stall where his donkey was standing.
He flung his arms around the beast’s neck and kissed him.
“Oh, my dear Dapple!” he said, while tears fell from his eyes. “My faithful companion, my best friend! When all my cares were only to feed thy little body, my hours, my days, my years were happy. But since I clambered up upon the tower of ambition, I have a thousand woes, a thousand toils, and four thousand tribulations.”
While he was talking he bridled and saddled the donkey. Then he slowly got upon him and took hold of the reins.
“Make way, gentlemen!” he cried to those who were standing around. “Let me return to liberty. I was not born to be a governor, or to defend islands. May heaven bless you, my good people! Tell my lord duke that I have neither won nor lost; for I came into this island without a penny, and without a penny I leave it. Clear the way, then, and let me go!”
So saying, he chirruped to his donkey and rode slowly away to rejoin his master, Don Quixote.
Everybody appeared to be astonished when he finally arrived at the duke’s castle. Yet all welcomed him kindly and heartily, and listened to his story of what had happened to him.
“It is now eight days since I began to govern the island that was given me,” he said. “In all that time I never had enough to eat. I had no leisure either to take bribes or to receive what were my just dues. Enemies trampled over my bones. My life was a burden. But man proposes, and God disposes. Heaven knows what is best for us all. Let no man say, I will not drink of this water. I say no more.”
“Never mind, Sancho, never mind,” said Don Quixote. “If a governor returns rich from his government, they say he has robbed. If he returns poor, then they call him a do-little. But if thy conscience is clear, thou hast nothing to fear.”
“Yes,” said Sancho, “but this time they will be likelier to call me an idiot than a robber.”
One evening the duke and the duchess were amusing themselves by listening to Don Quixote’s valorous talk.
“Do you know of any case of injured innocence?” he asked. “I will avenge it. I will go to the ends of the earth to combat error. I am not afraid of giants nor even of enchanters. I will fight them, one and all, in defense of truth.”
While he was thus boasting of his valor there was a sound of fifes and drums, and twelve elderly women entered, all clad in the dress of nuns. After them came a noble lady, heavily veiled and wearing a gown with a long trail divided into three parts.
The twelve women ranged themselves in two rows, and thus made a lane for the strange lady to march through as she approached the duke and duchess. Then her squire, who followed her, announced that she was the Countess Trifaldin, otherwise known as the Disconsolate Lady, and that she had come from a distant land to make known her misfortunes.
The duke received her graciously. He took her by the hand and placed her in a chair by the side of the duchess. Don Quixote and Sancho stood anxiously near, both wishing very much to see the veiled lady’s face.
After the usual compliments had been passed, the lady suddenly asked, “Is there in this illustrious company a knight called Don Quixote de la Manchissima with his squirissimo Panza?”
“Panza is here,” cried Sancho, before anybody else could speak; “and here is Don Quixotissimo also. So you may tell your tale, fair lady, for we are all ready to be your servitorissimos.”
Then Don Quixote spoke. “I am the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha,” he said. “My profession is to succor the distressed, and I therefore dedicate my service to you. Tell us of your troubles, madam, and if they do not admit of a cure, we can at least sympathize with you.”
The veiled lady, with sighs and sobs and many high-sounding words, at length related her story.
She declared that she had come from the distant kingdom of Candaya, where she had once ranked among the noblest of the land. A giant wizard named Malambruno had bewitched her and placed her under a spell of enchantment. Until that spell could be removed she was doomed to wander over the earth in search of a champion who would restore her to her rightful place and honors.
“Ah, madam!” cried Don Quixote, “behold in me your champion. Point out the way, and I will go to the ends of the earth to serve you.”
Then the lady told him that the kingdom of Candaya was thousands of leagues away, and that to travel thither by any ordinary means would require many years.
“But the wizard Malambruno will send you a steed,” said she; “he will send you a magic steed that will carry you to Candaya quickly and with the greatest ease. For he has heard of your prowess, and he is anxious to test it by meeting you in mortal combat.”
“Pray tell me, of what nature is that steed which he will send for my conveyance?” said Don Quixote.
“It is the steed Clavileño,” answered the lady — “the same wooden horse, in fact, which the wizard Merlin lent to his friend Peter of Provence. It is indeed a wondrous steed. It never eats nor sleeps nor needs shoeing. It has no wings, and yet it goes ambling through the air, so smoothly that you may carry a cup of water in your hand and not spill a drop of it. If you are bold enough to ride this horse, and — “
“Bold enough!” interrupted Don Quixote. “Who questions my boldness? Bring the steed to me, and you shall see that I shrink from nothing.”
“The steed shall be ready for you in the morning,” answered the lady.
Early the next day, therefore, the duke, with his household and guests, went into the garden to see the outcome of this adventure. They were all greatly delighted, for the whole matter had been arranged on purpose for their amusement.
Don Quixote soon arrived. He was clad in his armor, with his sword dangling from his side, and he seemed very impatient of delay. Sancho was close at his heels, but by no means pleased with the undertaking.
About the middle of the forenoon a trumpet sounded and four woodsmen came into the garden. They were dressed in green, with wreaths of ivy about their heads. They carried between them a misshapen, long-legged wooden horse, which they set down upon the ground.
“Here is the famous Clavileño,” cried their leader. “There is none like him upon the earth. Now let the man who is not afraid mount him, and away at once for Candaya. And let his squire, if he has one, mount behind him; for the steed flies best when fully weighted.”
“But I see no bridle,” said Sancho. “How is the noble beast to be guided?”
“Simply by turning this wooden peg which you see in his forehead,” answered the woodsman. “It is very easy to direct him either to the right or to the left. But the knight and his squire must both be blindfolded; otherwise they become giddy in their flight through the upper air and tumble headlong to the earth.”
Don Quixote did not hesitate a moment. He climbed into the saddle. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and asked one of the ladies to hoodwink him with it. Then he noticed that Sancho hung back and seemed afraid.
“What! you rascal!” he cried. “Are you afraid to sit where many better than you have sat? Come, suffer yourself to be blindfolded, and let me not hear a word of complaint from you.”
Soon both knight and squire were astride of the steed and blindfolded. They were ready to begin their perilous flight.
The duke and the duchess and all their household came around and bade them goodbye. Then Don Quixote leaned forward and began to turn the pin in the horse’s head. He fancied that he was rising in the air, and that he was sailing right up to the sky.
“Speed you well, brave knight!” cried all the people in the garden. “May Heaven be your guide, bold squire!”
Then they clapped their hands, and shouted: “How high you are! How like a blazing star you shoot through the sky. Hold fast, Sancho! Don’t loosen your hold and fall from that giddy height.”
“Sir,” said Sancho, clinging close to his master “how does it happen that we can hear them so plainly although we are soaring so high above them? One would think that they were standing close beside us.”
“It is all very natural,” answered Don Quixote; “for in these grand aerial flights you can see and hear things plainly which are a thousand leagues away. But don’t hold me so hard; you will make me tumble off.”
“I wish only to steady you,” said Sancho.
“Well, I wonder what makes you tremble so,” said Don Quixote. “As for myself, I never rode easier in my life. The horse goes as if he were not moving at all.”
After a few minutes, he said, “I think that we must now be somewhere in the second region of the air, where hail and snow are produced. If we keep on at this rate we shall soon reach the third region, from which the lightnings and the thunderbolts are hurled upon the earth. I hope that we shall not go too near the sun, for in that case we shall surely be scorched.”
At that moment one of the duke’s men set fire to some flax at the end of a pole and swished it near their faces.
“Well! well!” cried Sancho. “We are in the region of fire already; for the half of my beard is singed off. I have a great mind to peep out under the blindfold and see what sort of country we are coming to.”
“Don’t do it, for — your life,” said Don Quixote. “The whole issue of this adventure depends upon obedience. Be brave, be patient; for we only mount high in order that we may come straight down upon the kingdom of Candaya.”
“Shall we be there soon, master?” asked Sancho.
“I know not,” was the answer; “but we have certainly already traversed a vast distance.”
“Well, I should like it better if I had a softer saddle,” said Sancho.
The duke and duchess were mightily pleased at the success of their joke. The question now was how they could put a fitting end to the well-contrived adventure.
One of the servants ran up and set fire to Clavileño’s tail. The horse, being filled with fireworks, burst open with a tremendous noise. Don Quixote and his squire were, of course, thrown to the ground. They were scorched a little, but not otherwise hurt.
They scrambled to their feet and pulled the bandages from their eyes. They looked around, and were surprised to find themselves still in the duke’s garden, where they had begun their flight. As they recovered from their confusion, they saw a lance sticking in the ground near by, and on the lance was a scroll of white parchment bound around with two green ribbons.
Don Quixote looked at the scroll, and seeing his name upon it, picked it off to read what was written. The inscription was in golden characters, and read as follows:—
“The renowned knight, Don Quixote, has achieved this adventure by honestly trying to perform it. Malambruno is fully satisfied. The enchantment is removed from all who have suffered by it. This is ordered by “MERLIN, Prince of enchanters.”
“What wonderful fortune is ours!” cried Don Quixote, after reading it. “Let us have courage, for the adventure is finished, and we have accomplished everything without damage to anybody.”
And now the duke came forward and greeted him as the bravest knight the world had ever seen. The duchess, her face wreathed with smiles, shook hands with both knight and squire.
“How did you fare on your long and perilous journey?” she asked.
“Very pleasantly, madam,” answered Sancho. “I never had so wonderful a view of creation in my life. For, as we were flying through the region of fire, I shoved my handkerchief over a little and peeped down. Ah! it was a sight to gladden the eyes. I spied the earth, far, far below us, and it looked no bigger than a mustard seed.”
“Indeed, it must have been very wonderful,” said the duchess.
“It was nothing short of wonderful,” said Sancho. “Why, I could see the men walking about on the earth, and I declare they looked no bigger than hazelnuts.”
The duchess laughed. “Men the size of hazelnuts walking on an earth the size of a mustard seed!” she said. “It must have been very, very, wonderful.”
“Truly it was,” answered Sancho. “And at one time when I looked between my eyelashes, I saw myself so near to heaven that I could almost reach out and touch it. Then we passed the place where the seven stars are, and I saw seven frisky goats in a great pasture. What did I do but slip off of Clavileño without telling a soul? And there I played and leaped with the goats for fully three quarters of an hour.”
“And what became of your master and the horse while you were playing?” asked the duchess.
Sancho scratched his head and was at a loss for an answer.
“Well, madam, I— I—” he stammered. “Well, I—”
“Speak out,” said the duke. “Say that the noble steed stirred not a foot, but waited patiently about till the game was over.”
“Truly, he did that very thing,” said Sancho.
The duke and his servants laughed heartily, but they were not quite sure whether Sancho was in earnest or otherwise. What if, after all, he had seen through their cunning little play, and was now slyly making game of them?
Don Quixote said but little; and yet he looked and acted as though he were very proud and well satisfied with the result of his achievement.
And so ended the famous adventure with the wooden-peg horse.
One fine day, just before sunset, our travelers came suddenly into a broad, green meadow which was bordered on three sides by a wood. In this meadow they saw a company of men and women whom Don Quixote guessed to be fine people out for a hunt. Nor was he at all mistaken.
He stopped and watched them from a distance. The chief person in the company was a lady, dressed in green attire so rich that nothing could be richer. She was riding on a white horse appareled with a silver saddle and trappings of green. On her left wrist sat a hawk; and by this sign Don Quixote knew her to be the mistress of the company.
Presently, he called softly to his squire. “Friend Sancho,” he said, “go quickly and tell that lady on the white palfrey that I, the Knight of the Lions, humbly salute her great beauty. But be careful what you say, and don’t make a show of yourself by quoting proverbs.”
“Your command shall be obeyed,” said Sancho; and he at once set forward as fast as his donkey would carry him. As he drew near to the fair huntress he alighted and fell on his knees before her.
“Fair lady,” he said, “yonder knight is called the Knight of the Lions, and he is my master. I am his squire, and my name is Sancho Panza. He has sent me to tell you that he has no mind but to serve your hawking beauty and—and—”
“Pray rise, good squire,” said the lady. “I have heard of this Knight of the Lions, and it is not at all fitting that his squire should remain on his knees. Rise, sir, rise.”
Sancho got up. He was surprised at the lady’s beauty. He was also surprised to learn that she had heard of his master. He stood before her with wide-open mouth, waiting for her further commands.
“Tell me,” she said, “is not your master the ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha?”
“The very same, may it please your worship,” answered Sancho; “and that squire of his is Sancho Panza by name, my own self.”
“I am very glad to hear all this,” said the lady.
“And I, too,” said Sancho.
“Now, go, friend Panza,” said the lady, “and tell your master that I am glad to welcome him to my estates. Nothing could give me more happiness.”
Sancho was overjoyed. He hastened back to his master and repeated every word that had been said to him.
Don Quixote listened quietly. Then he fixed himself in his saddle, and arranged his armor. He roused up Rozinante, and set off at a good round pace to kiss the hand of the fair huntress.
By this time, the lady, who was indeed a duchess, had been joined by her husband, the duke, and both stood waiting for his coming; for they had heard of his many exploits, and they wished to become acquainted with him. As Don Quixote rode up and was about to alight, Sancho hastened to be ready to hold his stirrup. But as he was sliding from the donkey’s back his foot was caught in the pack saddle, and there he hung by the heel with head on the ground.
It was a funny sight, but everybody was looking at Don Quixote, and Sancho was left to struggle as he might.
Don Quixote, who was used to having his stirrup held, now made bold to alight without his squire’s help. He came suddenly down into the stirrup with all his weight; and Rozinante’s saddle girth turning, he tumbled upon the ground between the poor horse’s feet.
The duke’s men ran to help Don Quixote to his feet. He was not hurt much. He brushed the dust from his hands and went limping toward the spot where the duke and duchess were waiting.
The duke met him and embraced him. “I am sorry,” he said, “that such a mischance should happen to you here on my territories.”
“Valorous prince,” said Don Quixote, “I count it no mischance when I may have the happiness of seeing your grace. My squire is much more apt to let his tongue loose than to tighten my saddle girth. But, whether I be down or up, on horseback or on foot, I am always at your command.”
Then he went on to salute the duchess and to pay many a pretty compliment to her beauty and her wisdom.
The end of the whole matter was that the duke invited him to stay for a while at his castle, which was not far away.
“I entreat you, most valorous Knight of the Lions,” he said, “to favor us with your company. You shall have such entertainment as is due to a person so justly famous.”
Don Quixote thereupon mounted his Rozinante again, the duke got upon his own stately steed, and the duchess riding between them, they moved toward the castle, which was situated among the hills not far away.
The duchess was delighted with Sancho. He was always so ready with an excuse or a proverb that he amused her beyond measure.
“Why not let your squire ride with us?” she presently asked.
Sancho needed no further invitation. He crowded in between the duke and the duchess, and thus made a fourth rider in the notable procession that was ambling toward the duke’s castle.
They were yet some little distance from the gates when the duke gave spurs to his steed and galloped on ahead. He hastened homeward to put things in readiness for his guests and to direct his people how to behave themselves toward the valorous knight, Don Quixote.
When at length the party arrived at the gate of the castle, they were met by two of the duke’s servants. These servants were dressed in long vests of crimson satin, cut and shaped like nightgowns.
They went directly to Don Quixote. They took him in their arms, and lifted him from the saddle to the ground.
Then they said to him, “Go, great and mighty sir, and help our Lady Duchess down.”
Don Quixote hastened to obey, but the lady objected. Many pretty compliments were passed back and forth while the fair duchess sat upon her palfrey.
“I will not alight,” she said, “except in my husband’s arms.”
So the duke came and took her down; and Don Quixote bowed his apologies and walked by her side through the broad gateway. As they entered the courtyard they were met by two beautiful girls who threw a mantle of fine scarlet over Don Quixote’s shoulders. Then all the servants of the duke, both men and women, shouted, “Welcome, welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!”
All these things pleased Don Quixote amazingly. For this was the first time he had felt that he was really and truly a knight. He now found himself treated just like the famous heroes he had read about, and it did his heart good.
They led him up a stately staircase and into a noble hall, all hung with rich gold brocade. There his armor was taken off by six young ladies, who served him instead of pages.
“This is, indeed, like the glorious days of chivalry,” he said to himself.
But what a poor piece of humanity he was when unarmed! Raw-boned and meager, tall and lank, lantern-jawed and toothless, he was indeed an odd-looking figure. The young ladies who waited on him had much ado to stifle their laughter.
With much dignity, however, he retired to his own room, where he dressed himself for dinner. He put on his belt and sword, threw a scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and set a jaunty cap of green velvet upon his head. When he came back into the hall you would not have known him.
Twelve pages at once came forward to lead him to the dinner table. Some walked before, some followed behind, and all waited upon him with the greatest show of respect.
The table was set for four persons only, and there Don Quixote was received by the duke and the duchess and a priest who was with them. Courtly compliments were passed on all sides, and then they seated themselves, one at each of the four sides of the table.
Now the reason for all the kindness shown to Don Quixote was this: The duke and duchess had nothing to do but to pass away the time, and they had found this to be the very hardest kind of work. They had become tired of hunting, tired of playing chess, tired of watching the servants at work, tired of music, tired of everything.
“Oh, life is so dull and wearisome!” they said to each other. “Can’t something be done to make it more enjoyable?”
So, when Don Quixote and his squire happened to come to them, they were overjoyed. “We shall have great sport with this rare couple,” said the duke. “We shall have something to laugh at for the rest of our lives.”
The duchess agreed to all his plans, and Don Quixote was therefore invited to make his home in the castle. He would give them more amusement than any fool at the king’s court. And every day of his stay with them, the duke and the duchess studied how they might invent some new and pleasant joke upon the knight or his squire. Everything was done kindly so as to hurt no one’s feelings; and so many tricks were played that it would take more pages than there are in this book to tell about them all.
Fair and softly, and step by step, did Don Quixote and his squire wend their way through field and wood and village and farmland. Many and strange were their adventures — so many and strange, indeed, that I shall not try to relate the half of them.
At length, on a sunny day, they came to the banks of the river Ebro. As the knight sat on Rozinante’s back and gazed at the flowing water and at the grass and trees which bordered the banks with living green, he felt very happy. His squire, however, was in no pleasant humor; for the last few days had been days of weary toil.
Presently Don Quixote observed a little boat which was lying in the water near by, being moored by a rope to the trunk of a small tree. It had neither oars nor sail, and for that reason it seemed all the more inviting.
The knight dismounted from his steed, calling at the same time to his squire to do the same.
“Alight, Sancho,” he said. “Let us tie our beasts to the branches of this willow.”
Sancho obeyed, asking, “Why do we alight here, master?”
“You are to know,” answered Don Quixote, “that this boat lies here for us. It invites me to embark in it and hasten to the relief of some knight, or other person of high degree, who is in distress.”
“I wonder if that is so,” said Sancho.
“Certainly,” answered his master. “In all the books that I have read, enchanters are forever doing such things. If a knight happens to be in danger, there is sometimes only one other knight that can rescue him. So a boat is provided for that other knight, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he is whisked away to the scene of trouble, even though it be two or three thousand leagues.”
“That is wonderful,” said Sancho.
“Most assuredly,” answered Don Quixote; “and it is for just such a purpose that this enchanted bark lies here. Therefore let us leave our steeds here in the shade and embark in it.”
“Well, well,” said Sancho, “since you are the master, I must obey. But I tell you this is no enchanted bark. It is some fisherman’s boat.”
“They are usually fishermen’s boats,” said Don Quixote. “So, let us begin our voyage without delay.”
He leaped into the little vessel. Sancho followed, and untied the rope. The boat drifted slowly out into the stream.
When Sancho saw that they were out of reach of the shore and had no means of pushing back, he began to quake with fear.
“We shall never see our noble steeds again,” he cried. “Hear how the poor donkey brays and moans because we are leaving him. See how Rozinante tugs at his bridle. Oh, my poor, dear friends, goodbye!”
Then he began such a moaning and howling that Don Quixote lost all patience with him.
“Coward!” he cried. “What are you afraid of? Who is after you? Who hurts you? Why, we have already floated some seven or eight hundred leagues. If I’m not mistaken, we shall soon pass the equinoctial line which divides the earth into two parts.”
“And when we come to that line, how far have we gone then?” asked Sancho.
“A mighty way,” answered the knight.
They were now floating down the river with some speed. Below them were two great water mills near the middle of the stream.
“Look! look, my Sancho!” cried Don Quixote. “Do you see yon city or castle? That is where some knight lies in prison, or some princess is detained against her will.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sancho. “Don’t you see that those are no castles? They are only water mills for grinding corn.”
“Peace, Sancho! I know they look like water mills, but that is a trick of the enchanters. Why, those vile fellows can change and overturn everything from its natural form. You know how they transformed my Dulcinea.”
The boat was now moving quite rapidly with the current. The people in the mills saw it and came out with long poles to keep it clear of the great water wheels. They were powdered with flour dust, as millers commonly are, and therefore looked quite uncanny.
“Hello, there!” they cried. “Are you mad, in that boat? Push off, or you’ll be cut to pieces by the mill wheels.”
“Didn’t I tell you, Sancho, that this is the place where I must show my strength?” said Don Quixote. “See how those hobgoblins come out against us! But I’ll show them what sort of person I am.”
Then he stood up in the boat and began to call the millers all sorts of bad names.
“You paltry cowards!” he cried. “Release at once the captive whom you are detaining within your castle. For I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Knight of the Lions, whom heaven has sent to set your prisoner free.” He drew his sword and began to thrust the air with it, as though fighting with an invisible enemy. But the millers gave little heed to his actions, and stood ready with their poles to stop the boat.
Sancho threw himself on his knees in the bottom of the boat and began to pray for deliverance. And, indeed, it seemed as though their time had come, for they were drifting straight into the wheel. Quickly the millers bestirred themselves, and thrusting out their poles, they overturned the boat.
Don Quixote and Sancho were, of course, spilled out into the stream. It was lucky that both could swim. The weight of the knight’s armor dragged him twice to the bottom and both he and his squire would have been drowned had not two of the millers jumped in and pulled them out by main force.
Hardly had our exhausted heroes recovered their senses when the fisherman who owned the boat came running down to the shore. When he saw that the little craft had been broken to pieces in the mill wheel, he fell upon Sancho and began to beat him unmercifully.
“You shall pay me for that boat,” he cried.
“I am ready to pay for it,” said Don Quixote, “provided these people will fairly and immediately surrender the prisoners whom they have unjustly detained in their castle.”
“What castle do you mean? and what prisoners?” asked the millers. “Explain yourself, sir. We don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I might as well talk to a stump as try to persuade you to do a good act,” answered Don Quixote. “Now, I see that two rival enchanters have clashed in this adventure. One sent me a boat, the other overwhelmed it in the river. It is very plain that I can do nothing where there is such plotting and counter-plotting.”
Then he turned his face toward the mill and raised his eyes to the window above the wheel.
“My friends!” he cried at the top of his voice; “my friends, whoever you are who lie immured in that prison, hear me! Pardon my ill luck, for I cannot set you free. You must needs wait for some other knight to perform that adventure.”
Having said this, he ordered Sancho to pay the fisherman fifty reals for the boat.
Sancho obeyed sullenly, for he was very unwilling to part with the money.
“Two voyages like that will sink all our stock,” he muttered.
The fisherman and the millers stood with their mouths open, wondering what sort of men these were who had come so strangely into their midst. Then, concluding that they were madmen, they left them, the millers going to their mill, and the fisherman to his hut.
As for Don Quixote and Sancho, they trudged sorrowfully back to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.
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.
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