This piece of writing is from Grolier Classics, Volume 2.


[Title Page]
Don Quixote
(Part One)
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby
A Condensation
Note: The editor's summaries of various omitted passages appear in brackets throughout the text.

[Preface]
  Don Quixote has become such an important part of our literary heritage that almost everyone knows something about him. From a first childhood encounter, we recall the laughable old codger who thinks he is a knight-errant, who fights windmills and sheep, rescues maidens who don't want to be rescued, stabs bulging wine-skins until the floors run red with "blood," and is himself beaten and belabored mercilessly as he seeks to redress imaginary wrongs. With him is his "squire," the pot-bellied peasant Sancho Panza, who follows his master with protests checked only by his selfish desires. Sancho, for all his trouble, is handled just as roughly throughout the journey.
  This is the well-known comic side of the story. The wit is so varied--ranging from the subtlest satire to the broadest burlesque--that it has been copied in countless other works of humorous literature. How much the later writers of mock-epic--Fielding or Swift--owe to Cervantes!
  Still, there is another tone that cannot escape us. There is something profoundly--even religiously--touching about the mad "hero" of the novel, who has consecrated himself to the ideal of serving humanity. It is not hard to see how some people might think that Don Quixote is one of the saddest books ever written. John Ruskin, a brilliant writer of nineteenth-century England, thought it touched the depths of tragedy.
  This attitude may seem extreme; but still, it is saddening to see how pure dedication to an ideal of virtue (however mad it may be) is mocked and reviled until it is destroyed--until, at the end, the visionary himself, world-weary in body and spirit, renounces his ideals and dies with no further will to live. We may be carried along by a mood of hilarity, but gradually we find ourselves drawn under the spell of the old knight's fanatical dedication and the squire's ultimate trust in him. Then slowly we begin to feel uncomfortable--even incensed--about the indignities that are heaped upon the two adventurers. For the truth is, we have begun to see that in every one of us there is--or was--a precious bit of Don Quixote. Who in his youth did not dream impossible dreams and cherish magical hopes, only to be chastened by "cold facts?" How many illusions of mankind have been mangled by "practical" men who could not imagine things being different from what they are?
{Don Quixote Defeats Cervantes?}
  But let us pause a moment: Cervantes says at the start that he intends "to arouse contempt for all fabulous and absurd stories of knight-erranty." Yet what has his mad old knight done, but led us straight into a wonderful pageant of chivalry? No wonder Ruskin was so distressed by this conflict between the author and the character he had created. "Don Quixote always affected me throughout to tears," said Ruskin. "It was always throughout real chivalry to me; it is precisely because the most touching valor and tenderness were rendered vain by madness . . . and because all the true chivalry is thus by implication accused of madness."
  But this view may be somewhat gloomy, as well as imprecise. In Part One, the mad Don Quixote towers above all the sane people in the book with a grandeur unsurpassed. The more the author heaps indignity and ridicule upon the valiant warrior, the more lustrous he becomes. Yet we must think of him both as a hero and as a fool. His moral code, though misdirected, is still more profound than that of any other character we encounter. And so, we think of Quixote's archaic chivalry as the best guide for conduct.
  Yet Cervantes never lets us forget that Quixote is mad, that he is single-minded. Like Sancho who relies on homely platitudes--the ready-made deceptive wisdom of the ages--Quixote has only a single point of reference by which he must judge all things. Unfortunately for him, "chivalry is dead."
  Later on, Quixote moves slowly toward sanity, just as Sancho becomes a bit more penetrating in his view of the world around him. But although a perception of reality helps Sancho to deal more wisely with his fellow men, this same perception destroys Don Quixote, who has no use for a working knowledge of everyday life. Thus at the end when Quixote realizes that his cause was futile, he renounces chivalry forever, even though he knows that his illusions are nobler than any others he encountered on his travels. After this reunification, he can no longer be a hero--or even a dreamer. And since he can never, like Sancho, live a sane happy life, he dies.
{Don Quixote and Spain}
  How much like Don Quixote was the Spain which produced him! For a long time Spain, with nobility and courage, had upheld the causes of Christianity and chivalry. With courtliness and pomp, she had become the greatest power on earth, dominant in Europe through the Hapsburgs who rules Spain, Italy, Germany and The Netherlands. Across the seas, there was a vast New World. Her army and navy sought to impose her will widely abroad while at home great mystics inflamed minds and the Inquisition tried to preserve the traditional nature of things.
  It was Spain's Golden Age; but she overreached herself. Her pride, her zeal, her consciousness of a mission were exhausting her resources. The modern world was taking its shape, but Spain, grandiose and impractical, could not rouse herself from her medieval dream-world of knight-errantry. And, as Aubrey F. F. Bell puts it, in his excellent book, Cervantes: "The external splendor was crystallizing around emptiness. Spain, like Don Quixote, was paying the penalty for the presumption of a magnificent and in many ways noble but certainly fatal excess." But unlike Quixote, she never died sane; she lingered on, still clinging to her illusions.
  Cervantes himself took part in two historic events. He was gallant in the conquest of the Turks at Lepanto in 1571; and he took humble part in the crushing defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. Since he draws from much of his own experience in Don Quixote, it is interesting to learn something about his life.
{Cervantes' Childhood}
  He was born more than four hundred years ago, in the small Spanish university town of Alcala de Henares, twenty miles from Madrid. The exact date is not known, but we do know that on October 9, 1547, in the church of Santa Maria la Mayor, he was baptized Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.
  Miguel's father, a traveling apothecary surgeon, belonged to a fine old family that had seen better days; but now, a poor man, he made a precarious living by cupping and blistering. The family seldom stayed long in one place, moving from city to city as the father searched for patients. Traveling so, the son undoubtedly received a liberal and realistic "education," lodging in wayside inns and visiting market places. The boy presumably managed to get some formal schooling somewhere and did a good deal of reading, but we really know very little else of his first twenty-one years.
{Cervantes the Soldier}
  It is almost certain that by 1566, when he was nineteen, he was in Madrid, because two years later he wrote a series of elegies on the death of the queen. After 1569, he traveled in Italy as a valet of Guilio Acquaviva, the brilliant cardinal. We do know that he enlisted in the army in 1570, and in 1571 he took part as a private in the great naval battle at Lepanto, when the European ambitions of the Turks were finally crushed.
  It is at this point that we begin to feel that some jinx ruled over Cervantes' life. What merely brushed other men always hit Cervantes; where others might have been blessed with success, he seems always doomed to failure; and in his profession, the writing he least esteemed turned out to be his greatest work, while he went into agonies over hopeless poems and plays.
  On October 7, 1571, at Lepanto, for instance, we find him ill with a fever, but he refused to let this keep him below decks. To die in the service of God and the King, he declared, was preferable to remaining under cover. Gallantly he went into battle--and promptly received three gunshot wounds, two in the chest and one which shattered his left hand. As a result, his left hand was permanently maimed but, Cervantes insisted, the injury occurred for "the greater glory" of his right hand. The crippled hand did not send him home from the wars, however. All together he campaigned for five years until, in 1575, he was granted leave to return to Spain. From his commander, Don John of Austria, and from the Duke of Sessa, Viceroy of Italy, he carried letters commending him to King Philip of Spain. True to form, these letters did him more harm than good.
{Dungeons and Chains in Algiers}
  Cervantes embarked for Spain across the Mediterranean, but his ship was captured by pirates, and he was taken to Algiers. The letters in his pocket proved a disadvantage, for they gave his captors an exaggerated opinion of his importance, and the ransom for his release
(Image: illustration of Don Quixote on horse with another man from William Sharp
Caption: "Look, your worship, what we see there are not giants but windmills. . . .")
was set at a much higher figure than it would have been otherwise.
  Cervantes was at once confined to a dungeon in chains, but later on his captivity must have been eased from he found time to compose verses and to plot at least four unsuccessful escapes.
  Through the years, Cervantes' family had made every effort to raise the ransom money, but even though they completely exhausted their own resources, they failed. For Months it seemed likely that the young man would be transported to Constantinople, where the Bey was returning, and would die there in slavery. In the nick of time, however, two Christian brothers in Algiers contributed the balance of the ransom, and in 1580 Cervantes returned to Spain. He had been imprisoned five years, and his hair-raising experiences, confirmed from numerous sources, provided the future author of Don Quixote with vivid memories. But curiously enough he felt no bitterness.
{Cervantes the Struggling Writer}
  Cervantes returned to Madrid and the problems of earning a living. He had no craft except soldiering and sonneteering. And so he began to write for the stage. Of the dozens of plays he wrote, the few that have come down to us indicate that Cervantes was singularly unsuited to be a playwright.
  Despite his meager earnings, in 1584, at the age of thirty-seven he married a nineteen-year-old girl. She brought him a small dowry of fine vines, one small orchard, some old furniture, four beehives, forty-five hens and one rooster. The marriage was not an unhappy one, but since Cervantes wandered widely, the two seem to have seen little of each other until the last ten years of their married life. In 1585 the couple set up house in Madrid with the small return he realized from the sale that the same year of his first published work, La Galatea.
  This work was composed in the imaginative, non-realistic style so favored at the time by the gentility--and which Cervantes himself loved. In sentimental verse and flowery prose, he described lovelorn shepherds and heartless shepherdesses living a simple, happy life in fairy tale settings. La Galatea brought Cervantes a measure of fame.
{Cervantes the Government Official}
  It was becomes clear that he could not earn his bread by literature, and in 1587 he went to Seville where he obtained a position as a deputy for a man who was supplying provisions to the Invincible Armada of Philip II. But Cervantes did not forsake literature completely; he wrote an enthusiastic poem cheering the fleet to victory, and a more subdued one lamenting its defeat. Not long after Cervantes started his new job he was temporarily excommunicated for being somewhat too industrious in his wheat collections (he had confiscated stores belonging to the Dean of Seville Cathedral). After the defeat of the Armada he stayed on as a commissary to the galleys. His work kept him constantly on the move over the Andalusian countryside. He sought lodging where he could find it, and acquainted himself thoroughly with the life, speech and customs of the people.
  On May 12, 1590, disgusted with drudgery, and with no hope of advancement, Cervantes petitioned the King for one of four posts then open in the American colonies. His application was refused. In November 1590 he was so poverty-stricken that he had to borrow money to buy himself a suit of clothes. The financial administration of the government was thoroughly demoralized and in 1591 he had still not been paid for in 1588. He seems--understandably--to have lost interest in his work and was thereafter in constant trouble with the authorities.
  In August 1592, his accounts were found to be irregular. He was thrown into prison for a short time, and then restored to his job, for there seems to be no question whatsoever about honesty. Later he "deposited" public funds with a Portuguese banker in Seville. The banker failed and fled; Cervantes, unable to make good the money, was suspended. At this point his financial situation became so desperate that he could not afford the fare to attend the hearings to which he was summoned, and again he was imprisoned. Ultimately, the money was recovered, but Cervantes was not restored to his post. We know almost nothing of the next few years. He may have been in prison once more in 1602, again on the charge of indebtedness to the  state. And in 1605, shortly after Part One of Don Quixote was published, he and his family of four women were arrested and held on suspicion when a distinguished man was found murdered on their doorstep. They were soon released.
{Dib Quixote is Born}
  During all these miseries Cervantes persevered in his writing. In 1592 he signed a contract to write six plays, but nothing seems to have come of it. In 1595 he won first prize--three silver spoons--for a poem in honor of St. Hyavinth. All his life he was possessed with the longing to be a poet--a gift, he said, Heaven had denied him.
  Don Quixote seems to have been born when Cervantes was in the depths of poverty. We know that certain elements of his life had prepared him for this creation. He had a great familiarity with the chivalric romances and a natural love for them; he had led a life of honorable but unrewarded service in war, government and literature; and he had an intimate knowledge of peasants, students, monks, vagabonds, beggars, pilgrims--all the motley world which wandered up and down the open roads of Spain Cervantes had met the highest Spanish society, as well as travelers from far places. All these experiences fed his great talent for vividly recreating the language, characters and scenes of everyday life. It is even possible that on his "official" journeys into the back-country, he may have run across some impoverished old gentleman blissfully lost in a book of chivalry as his bony nag plodded along.
  At any rate, from such vast experiences as these and from a wide range of reading came Cervantes' original purpose: to parody the exaggerated romances of chivalry and contrast their absurdities with  the rough-and-tumble existence most people actually live. And so, Don Quixote was born.
  It has been thought that the book was begun during on of Cervantes' imprisonments, for in the "Author's Preface" he says it is "just what might be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its dwelling." Modern scholars, however, tend to regard this as merely a figure of speech.
{Success at Last--And Poverty Always}
  Early in 1605, within a few weeks of the publication of Part One of The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote de la Macha at Madrid, three pirated editions appeared in Portugal. It seems that Cervantes' publisher had so little faith in the novel that at first he did not bother to copyright it outside of Castile! Five Spanish editions were printed with a year and, except for one other work, no Spanish book of this period was so successful. The first English translation was completed in 1608 and published in 1612.
  But Cervantes remained poor. Evidently he did not have much business sense and so the book brought him very little money. The author clearly did not like publishers. At one point Don Quixote is discussing the subject with a writer, who says: "What! Would your worship, then have me give my book to a bookseller who will give me three farthings for the copyright and think he is doing me a favor in giving me that?"
{Cervantes' Last Years}
  Practically nothing is known of Cervantes' life between 1605 and 1608. We know that he spent the last eight years of his life in Madrid. Far from resigning himself to embittered old age, this heroic man then wrote more furiously than ever, with the eagerness of youth, surrounded by a circle of friends and admirers. Why his two patrons, the Count of Lemos and the Archbishop of Toledo, permitted him to remain in such a wretched poverty is a mystery.
  At the end of Part One of Don Quixote, Cervantes made vague promises that a second part would follow. The years went by, and he kept putting it off. But in 1614 he was working on the fifty-ninth chapter of the sequel--when suddenly a spurious Part Two appeared. Cervantes was infuriated. Not only was it shallow but it contained a nasty preface filled with insolent remarks about Cervantes' mutilated hand his morals, his imprisonments and his age.
  Outraged by this unknown pretender, Cervantes swung into action and quickly completed Part Two, which was published in 1615 when he was 68 years old. Although the last fourteen chapters are somewhat marred by intemperate remarks about the author of the spurious edition, it is on the whole a more mature and artistically better book than Part One.
  It would be pleasant to write that Cervantes at last gained some sort of reward from his long-delayed masterpiece, but this did not happen. Though famous all over Europe, he died in poverty in Madrid on April 23, 1616. Only a few stray loiterers watched the funeral procession and his grave was quickly forgotten.
{Cervantes as a Psychologist}
  No Monument to Cervantes could possibly equal the one which he himself constructed. According to the Spanish philosopher Madariaga, Don Quixote is greater today than ever before. Through three and a half centuries of human adventuring the book has continued to grow in stature.
  Today we are more than ever impressed by Cervantes' extraordinary skill in the drawing of his characters. the central characters have become universal psychological types. And of the hundreds of other characters who wander in and out of the book, we remember many as genuine personalities.
  The author is clearly aware of subtle psychological states--"the hidden thoughts of the soul"--and of the complexity of the human
(Image: illustration of Don Quixote and another man horseback sword-fighting from William Sharp
Caption: ". . . drawn swords uplifted . . . would have split and cleft them . . . open like a pomegranate. . . .")
mind. Some critics go as far as to assert that Cervantes meant his book to be a study of delusion and madness. Naturally we are astonished by Cervantes' feeling for the way minds and personalities react to one another. Part Two is especially notable in this respect, for Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, who are directly opposite types, come more and more like each other; that is, Quixote becomes gradually more sane as Sancho becomes more idealistic.
  Without this interplay, the book would have been a shallow affair, a string of droll reminders that one causes more mischief than good if he recklessly undertakes things he is not equipped to handle. Consider Don Quixote's first adventure after he is knighted by the innkeeper. The Knight of the Rueful Countenance goes to the rescue of the unfortunate youth ANdres who is being whipped by his cruel master. When the astonished farmer sees before him--straight out of the Middle Ages--a knight in full armor brandishing a lance, he naturally sets Andres free at once.
  So Don Quixote, pleased with such an auspicious beginning, rides off with a feeling of satisfaction. His anger at the youth's situation is admirable, and he has acted quite logically; but unfortunately life is not so logical. Andres reappears in a later chapter and we find that as soon as the gallant knight's back was turned, Andres' master ied him again and this tim flogged him nearly to death ". . . for all of which your lordship is to blame; for if you had gone your own way and not come where there was no call for you, nor meddled in other people's affairs, my master would have been content with giving my one or two dozen lashes, and would have then loosed me and paid me what he owed me. If you ever meet me again, though you may see them cutting me to pieces, give me no aid or succor, but leave me to my misfortune, which will not be so great but that a greater will come to me by being helped by your worship . . ."
  This anecdote is a good illustration of what we now call "quixotic"--that is, idealistic but impractical. But Cervantes seems to have seen the need for a counterbalancing type and so he introduced the all-too-practical Sanch Panza in Chapter Seven. From that point he works weithin a wider range with the Knight and the Squire bringing out in each other the imagination, the wisdom and the stupidities of mankind.
{The Artistry of Cervantes}
  Throughout the book, Cervantes offers us a magnificent variety of thoughts, episodes, characters and events down to the most detailed. His style is almost like painting in words. Although he is not exactly a "landscape painter," still he does give us a vivid sense of place. In some way he reminds us of those painters who show the ordinary life of the people. Cervantes gives us a wonderful pageant from which we can glean such minute details as the current prices and weights--or image the rustle of dresses, the clatter of carriages and the sound of the morning bells.
{The Language of the Book}
  Traduttore, traditore: "Translator, traitor"--as the Italians say. Spanish people asy that it is virtually impossible to render the real flavor of Cervantes' language into any other; the nuances of thought or the regional and personal differences of speech cannot be caught. Still, the entire world has perceived the greatness of the work, despite the language barrier. Our translation by John Ormsby is one of the best, for the translator ignored the spurious baroque elegance which came into vogue at a time when the book was regarded mainly as a gigantic work of tomfoolery.
  This translation is rich in its varieties of language, and we enjoy, for example, the Knight's changes from everyday talk to chivalric talk. When he sets out for his first adventure he thinks of a future historian writing of his prowess, "The sage who writes it will do it after this fashion: 'Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair . . .'" and "'. . . the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her fealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon . . .'" Quixote was saying in a poetic way, simply, "it is morning."
  Don Quixote has been called "The Bible of Humanity." The reader will find its lessons and its riches inexhaustible.

[Main Text]
{Chapter 1}
  In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a grave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the billhook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty, he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion amond the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quixana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.
  You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardor and aviditu that almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillage-land to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get.
  Many an argument did he have wiht the curate of his village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knights of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valor he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy gew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it.
  In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honor as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armor and on horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger fromwhich, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into exection.
  The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fir to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a wekk to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.
  He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which with more quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that though it was only skin and bones, surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that is should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.
  Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight gays more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself Don Quixote, whence, as has been already said, the author of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as other sould have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honor to it in taking his surname from it.
  So then, his armor being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, "If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have someone I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Macnha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Frace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure?' " Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of someone to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso--she being of El Toboso--a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.
{Chapter 2}
  These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armor, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning with his grand purpose.
  Thus setting out, our new-ledged adventurer paced along, talking to himself and saying, "Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her fealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel'"; which in fact he was actually traversing. "Happy the age, happy the time," he continued, "in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be molded in brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial forever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings."
  So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language as well as he could; and all the whilehe rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervor that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he traveled without anything remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to encounter someone at once upon whom to try the might of his strong arm.
  He was on th eroad all day, and towards nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd's shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived nor far out of his road an inn, which was welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imagined seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he had read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance form it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give ntoice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the catle gate.
  At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blsat of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrivall; and so with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armor and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry, dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to high-born maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be." The girls were looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, "Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve you."
  The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier only increased the ladies' laughter, and that increased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armor that did not match any more than hissaddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, "Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, baiting the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else here." Don Quixote, observing the respectufl bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, "Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice for
(Centered Quote:
"My armor is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.")
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a "worthy of Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the Strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Casus and as full of tricks as a student or a page. "In that case, said he,"
(Centered Quote:
"Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your Sleep to watch alway")
and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single night." So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then charegd the host to take great care of his horse as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over, but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good, and putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom now relieving of his armor. They had taken off his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or remove his makeshift helmet, for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armor, taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
(Centered Quote:
"Oh, never, surely, was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he, Don Quoxite hight,
When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself,
Princesses on his hack--)
--or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honor had made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you."
  The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing to say in reply: they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of something," said Don Quixote, "for I feel it would come very seasonably." They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and moldy as his own armor; but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless someone else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his helmet. But still it distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could not lawfully  engage in any adventure without receiving the order of knighthood.
{Chapter 3}
  Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse supper, and having finsihed it called the landlord, and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying, "From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound ot your praise and the benefit of the human race." The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no less, my lord, from your High Magnificence," replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub me knight tomorrow morning, and that tonight I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam half of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambittion is directed to such deeds."
  The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had already some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humor. So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as distunguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armor, as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, because in the author's opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed therefor e that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in case of emergency, and likewise carrie dhsirts and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received.
  Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was arranged forthwith that he should watch his armor in a large yard at one side of the inn; so, collecting it al ltogether, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall.
  Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit so water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armor as it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice, "O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness." The carrier gave no heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armor some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exlclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let not thy favor and protection fail me in this first jeopardy"; and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the ground so stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a sergeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armor and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.
  Shortly, after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armor in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier's head into pieces, amde more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, "O Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself so inspirited that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a distanec to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his armor unportected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he killed them all. But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he apolgoized for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people, who however, had been well punished for their audacity.
  The castellan forthwith brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade himkneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth as if he were saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what they had already seen of the novice knight's prowess kept their laughter within bounds.
  Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convery an idea of it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the reckoning, let him go with a Godspeed.
{Chapter 4}
  Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself dubbed a knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide himself with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm laborer, a neighbor of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this object he turned his horse's head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.
  He had not gone far when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to come feeble cries as of someone in distress, and the instant he heard them he exclaimed, "Thanks be to Heaven for the favor it accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fufilling the obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and protection"; and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to porceed. He had gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!" while the youth made answer, "I won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I won't do it again, and I'll take more care of the flock another time."
  Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice, "Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance" (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), "and I will make you know that you are behaving as a coward." The farmer, seeing before him this figure in full armor brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, "Sir Knight, this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery he says I do it out of [racial slur]dliness, to escape paying him the wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies."
  "Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun that shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly."
  The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.
  He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.
  The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.
  "All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and the blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the blows you have given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."
  "The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real."
  "I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! no, senor, not for the world; for once alone with me, he would flay me like a Saint Bartholomew."
  "He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have only to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the payment."
  "Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."
  "That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be Haldudos knights; moreover, every one is the son of his works."
  "That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine--of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my seat and labor?"
  "I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer; "be good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed."
  "For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it ot him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you may be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have been already declared to you."
  So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had clared the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and said, "Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has commanded me." Seizing him by the arm, he tied him up to the oak again, where he gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.
  "Now, Master Andres, said the farmer, "call on the undoer of wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that I have quite done with you, for I have good mind to flay you alive as you feared." But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.
  Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice, "Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to they lot to hold subject and submissive to they full will and pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath today righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice conceived and curelty perpetrated: who hath today plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that tender child."
{Chapter 5}
  [On the highway Don Quixote meets six merchants from Toledo and their servants. When they refuse to agree that Dulcinea is the fairest maiden in the world, he charges them. Rocinante stumbles and falls. Weighed down by his armor, the Knight is an easy prey for on of the servants who seizes his lance and beats him until it shatters. Later a peasant comes along and, recognizing Don Quixote, loads him across his donkey. They head back to their village, the Don wildly describing his mishaps in terms of the ballads of knight-errantry.]
{Chapter 6}
  To this the peasant answered, "Senor--sinner that I am!--cannot your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbor, and that your worhsip is neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor Quizada?"
  "I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know that I may be not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have done all together and each of them on his own account."
  With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a little later that the belabored gentleman might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house, which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village was saying to them in a loud voice, "Senor licentiate Pero Perez," for so the curate was called, "what does your worship think can have befallen my master? Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his reason."
  The niece said the same, and, indeed, more: "You must know, Master Nicholas"--for that was the name of the barber--"it was often my uncle's way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books of misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like for towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quict, saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve to be burned like heretics."
  "So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith tomorrow shall not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read them to behave as my good friend seems to have behaved."
  All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was the matter with his neighbor, so he began calling aloud, "Open, your worships, to Senior Baldwin and to Senior the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and to Senior Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive."
  At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognized their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because he could not, they ran to embrace him.
  "Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault; carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and see to my wounds."
  "See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did not my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To
bed with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here without fetching that Urganda. A curse I say once more, and a hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a pass."
  They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.
  "So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By the sign of the Cross J will burn them tomorrow before the day is over."
  They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him all, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote's house.
{Chapter 7}
  [The next day the curate and the barber examine Don Quixote’s library of romances of chivalry and books of poetry. A few books they save, but the majority are lugged off to the courtyard where the housekeeper is delighted to burn them.]
  One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up and plaster the room where the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them (possibly the cause being removed, the effect might cease), and they might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he did was to go and look for his books, and not finding the room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it with his hands, and turned and twisted his eves in every direction without saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper whereabouts was the room that held his books.
  The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was to answer, said, "What room or what nothing is it that your worship is looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house now, for the devil himself has carried all away."
  "It was not the devil," said the niece, "but a magician who came on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and what he did there I know not, but after a little while he made off, flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he had done we saw neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the owner of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house that would be discovered by and by: he said too that his name was the Sage Mujiaton."
  "He must have said Friston," said Don Quixote.
  "I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton," said the housekeeper, "I only know that his name ended with ‘ton.’ "
  "So it does," said Don Quixote, ‘and he is a sage magician, a great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by his arts and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single combat with a knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will be unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavors to do me all the il turns that he can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven."
  In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quictly without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and during this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight-crrantry. ‘he curate sometimes contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.
  Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm laborer, a neighbor of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an cye and Ieave him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the laborer was called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his neighbor. Don Quixote next sct about getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honorable mount when a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts and such other things as he could, according to the advice the host had given him; all which being settled and done, without taking leave, Sancho Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one night, and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them.
  Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch with his alforjas and bota, and longing to sce himself soon governor of the island his master had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and road he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, which he traveled with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for, as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.
  And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will take care, Senior Knight-crrant, not to forget about the island you have promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it."
  To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom. If thou livest and I live, it may well be that before six days urc over, ] may have won some kingdom that has others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful, for tings and chances fall to the lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even more than I promise thee."
  "In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king by one of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes."
  "Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.
  "I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, sefior, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit her better, and that only with God’s help."
  "Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for He will give her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come to be content with anything less than being governor of a province."
  "I will not, senior," answered Sancho, "especially as I have a man of such quality for a master in your worship, who will be able to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear."
{Chapter 8}
  At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."
  "What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
  "Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long."
  "Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that, turned by the wind, make the millstone go."
  "It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat."
  So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the
cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly
they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, how-
ever, was sO positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries
of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made
at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for it is a single
knight that attacks you."
  A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more arms than the giint Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."
  So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dokinea, imploring her Co support him in such a peril, with lance in mst and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante’s fullest salop and fell upon the fiest mill that stood in front of him, but as he drow: his Linee-point into the sail the wind whitled it round with such force Chatat shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, ina sorry condition, Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
  "God bless me!" said Sancho, "did Tnot tell your worship to mind what vou were about, fer they were only windmills? and no one could have made anv mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in his head."
  "Hush, friend Sancho." replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of war more than anv other are lable to frequent tluctuations; and morcove I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off mv study and books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword."
  "God order it as He may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to nse sot him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice. for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare,
  Sanche bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that Ae might eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliberately, and trom time to time taking a pullat the bota with a relish chat the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied: and while he went on in this way, eulping down draught after draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made him. nor did he rate iCas hardship but rather as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and tixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had power to waken him. They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here, brother Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he saw it, "we may plunge our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defense, unless, indeed, thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight." "Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall be fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no fricnd to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the defense of my own person I shall not give much heed to those Jaws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever."
  "That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding me against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity."
  "I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and I will keep this precept as carefully as Sunday."
{Chapter 9}
  [Continuing along the highway, Don Quixote first frightens a couple of priests off the road and then gets into a serious fight with the lackey of a lady he attempts to "rescue" from a stagecoach. By chance her man is unhorsed and the victorious knight escapes with only the loss of part of one ear.]
{Chapter 10}
  So: therefore, that the struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, Sancho approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, "May it please your worship, Sefor Don Quixote, to give me the government of that island which has been won in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient force to be able to govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has ever governed islands."
  To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must take notice, brother Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands, but of crossroads, in which nothing is got except a broken head or an ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present themselves from which I may make you, not only a governor, but something more."
  Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his ass’s best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reaching him said, "It seems to me, senior, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it will be no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we come out of jail we shall have to sweat for it."
  "Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice, however many homicides he may have committed?"
  "I know nothing about omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in my life have had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I do not meddle."
  "Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou hyest, hast thou seen amore valiant Knight than I in all the known world; hast drow read in history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, More spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in overthrowing?"
  "The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is that a more daring master than your worship I have never served in all the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound, for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas."
  "All that might be well dispensed with," said Don Quixote, "if I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and medicine are saved by one single drop."
  "What vial and what balsam is that?" said Sancho Panza.
  "It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which I nave in my memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread dying of any wound: and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to de when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through the middle of the body--as is wont to happen frequently--but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsamt I have mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple."
  "If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the government of the promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my many and faithful services than that your worship give me the receipt of this supreme hunger, for I am persuaded it will be worth more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease and honor; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make it."
  "With less than three reals six quarts of it may be made," said Don Quixote.
  "Sinner that I am!" said Sancho, "then why does your worship put off making it and teaching it to me?"
  "Peace, friend." answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I mean to teach thee and greater favors to bestow upon thee; and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I could wish."
  "Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us success, and that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me die."
  "I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to give thyself any uneasiness on that score. But let us leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle where we may lodge tonight and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain."
  "I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread," said Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like your worship."
  "How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; "I would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to go without eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been clear to thee hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very many, among them all 1 have found no mention made of knights-errant eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain they could not do without eating and performing all the other natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as they did the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou dost now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or pervert knight-errantry."
  "Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry and other things more substantial."
  "I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is imperative in knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and I know too."
  "A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs, for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge into practice."
  And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the night, they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass the night there.
{Chapter 11}
  They were cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire; and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready to be transferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty good will invited them both to share what they had. Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said to him, "That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road to be speedily honored and esteemed by the world, I desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the company of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who am thy master and natural lord, and that thou eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for the same may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all."
  "Great thanks," said Sancho, "but I may tell your worship that provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much more relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I want, or do other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude."
  "For all that." said Don Quixote, "thou must seat thyself, because him who humbleth himself God exalteth"; and seizing him by the arm he forced him to sit down beside himself.
  The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at their guests, who, with great elegance and appetite, were stowing away pieces as big as one’s fist. The course of meat finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full. now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite, he took up a handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered himself some what in this fashion:
  "Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it knew not the two words mune and thine! In that blessed age all things were in common; to win the daily food, no labor was required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and running brooks yielded their savory limpid waters in noble abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own courtesy. shed the broad light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace. all friendship, all concord, us vet the dull share of the crooked plow had not dared to rend and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that without compulsion yielded from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that then possessed her. Then was i that the innocent and fair young shepherdesses roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments like those in use today, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to commend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favor and of interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there was no cause to judge, and no one to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, without fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were undone it was of their own will and pleasure. But now, in this hateful age of ours, not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defense of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased, the order of knights-errant was instituted, to defend maidens, to protect widows, and to succor the orphans and the needy. To this order I belong, brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by natural Jaw all living are bound to show favor to knights-errant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good will in my power I should thank you for yours."
  All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.
{Chapters 12, 13 and 14}
  [These three chapters form an interlude in which Don Quixote and Sancho as guests of the goatherds listen to the story of Chrysostom, a young shepherd who died of unrequired love for the beautiful shepherdess Marcela. They attend his funeral and there hear Marcela defend herself against the amorous men who plague her.]
{Chapter 15}
  As soon as Don Quixote took leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial of Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her, they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and even compelled them to pass there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and without any ceremony very peacefully and sociably master and man made their repast on what they found in them. Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from incontinence, that off the mares in the Cordova pastures would not Jead him into an unpropricty. Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, 50 ordained it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it is to take their midday rest with their teams in places and spots where grass and water abound, and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited the Yanguesans’ purpose very well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and abandoning his usual gait and demeanor as he scented them, he, without asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened to make known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred their pasture to him, and received him with their heels and teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths and left him naked without a saddle to cover him; but what must have been worse to him was that the carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came running up armed with stakes, and so belabored him that they brought him sorely battered to the ground.
  By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing of Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote to Sancho, "So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but base folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid me in taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante before our eyes."
  "What the devil vengeance can we take," amswered Sancho, "if they are more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps, not more than one and a half?"
  "I count for a hundred," replied Don Quixote, and without more words he drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans, and incited and impelled by the example of his master, Sancho did the same; and to begin with, Don Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and driving the two into the middle they began to lay on with great zeal and energy; in fact, at the second blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote fared the same way, all his skill and high mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet risen; whereby it may seem how furiously stakes can pound in angry boorish hands. Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the haste they could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving the two adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.
  Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to his master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, "Senor Don Quixote, ah, Senior Don Quixote!"
  "What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?" answered Don Quixote in the same feeble suffering tone as Sancho.
  "I would like, if it were possible," answered Sancho Panza, "your worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery Blas, if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will serve for broken bones as well as for wounds."
  "If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?" said Don Quixote; "but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless fortune orders otherwise, I mean to have it in my possession, or my hand will have lost its cunning."
  "But in how many days does your worship think we shall have the use of our feet?" answered Sancho Panza,
  "For myself I must say I cannot guess how many," said the battered knight Don Quixote; "but I take all the blame upon myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword against men who were not dubbed knights like myself, and so I believe that in punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted this chastisement to be administered to me; for which reason, brother Sancho, it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much importance to the welfare of both of us. It is that when thou shalt see rabble of this sort offering us insult thou art not to wait till I draw sword against them, for I shall not do so at all; but do thou draw sword and chastise them to thy heart's content, and if any knights come to their aid and defense I will take care to defend thee and assail them with all my might, and thou hast already seen by a thousand signs and proofs what the might of this strong arm of mine is equal to"--so uplifted had the poor gentleman become through the victory over the stout Biscayan.
  But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master’s admonition as to let it pass without saying in reply, "Senor, I am a man of peace, meek and quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw sword either against clown or against knight, and that here before God I forgive all the insults that have been offered me or may be offered me, whether they have been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor, noble or commoner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever."
  "Know, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that the life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and neither more nor less is it within immediate possibility for knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as experience has shown in the case of many different knights with whose histories I am thoroughly acquainted; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would let me, of some who simply by might of arm have risen wy the high stations I have mentioned: and those same, both before and after, experienced divers misfortunes and miseries. For I would have thee know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments which happen by chance to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in the law of the duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler strikes another with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece of wood it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he struck with it has been cudegeled. I say this best thou shouldst imaging that because we love been drubbed in this affray we have therefore suffered any indignity, for the arms those men carried, with which they pounded us, were nothing more than ther stakes, and not one of them, so as far as I re member, carried rapier, sword, or dagger."
  "They gave me no time to see that much," answered Sancho, "for hardly had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my shoulders with their sticks in such style that they took the sight out of my eyes and the strength out of my feet, stretching me where I now lie, and where thinking of whether all those stake-strokes were an indignity or not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my shoulders."
  "For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza," said Don Quixote, "that there is no recollection which time does not put an end to, and no pain which death does not remove. Pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I mean to do, and let us see how Rocinante is, for it seems to me that net the least share of this mishap has fallen to the lot of the poor beast."
  "There is nothing wonderful in that," replied Sancho, "since he is a knight-errant too: what I wonder at is that my beast should have come off soot-free where we come out scotched."
  "Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring relief to it." said Don Quixote; "I say so because this little beast may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me hence to some castle where I may be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it any dishonor to be so mounted, for I remember having read how the good old Silenus went very contentedly mounted on a handsome ass."
  "It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says," answered Sancho, "but there is a great difference between going mounted and going slung like a sack of manure."
  To which Don Quixote replied, "Wounds received in battle confer honor instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more, but, as I told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on top of thy beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere night come on and surprise us in these wilds."
  To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded more or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road might be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from good to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in sight, and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle.
{Chapter 16}
  The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of her calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for the sufferings of her neighbors, so she at once set about tending Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant, an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to be sure, made up for all her defects, she did not measure seven palms from head to foot, and her shoulders, which over-weighted her somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little beyond our Don Quixote’s, and, though only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don Quixote’s consisted simply of four rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets, which, were they not seen through the rents to be wool, would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone that chose might have counted without Missing one in the, reckoning.
  On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to toe, while Maritornes--for that was the name of the Asturian--held the light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how full of welts Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this had more the look of blows than of a fall.
  It was not blows. Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and projections, and that cach of them had left its mark. "Pray, senora," he added, "manage to save some tow, as there will be no want of someone to use it, for my loins too are rather sore.
  "Then you must have fallen too," said the hostess.
  "I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but from the shock I got at seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had a thousand thwacks."
  "That may well be." said the young girl, ‘for it has many a time happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself as weak and shaken us if I had really fallen."
  "There is the point, senora," replied Sancho Panza, "that I without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find myself with scarcely less welts than my master, Don Quixote."
  "How is the gentleman called?" asked Maritornes the Asturian.
  "Don Quixote of La Mancha," answered Sancho Panza. "and he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been seen in the world this long time past."
  "What is a knight-adventurer?" said the lass.
  "Are you so new in the world as not to know?" answered Sancho Panza. "Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventure is a thing that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is today the most miserable and needy being in the world, and tomorrow will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire."
  "Then how is it," said the hostess, "that, belonging to so good a master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as a county?"
  "It is too soon yet," answered Sancho, "for we have only been a month going in quest of adventures. and so far we have met with nothing that can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing is looked for another thing is found; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would not change my hopes for the best title an Spain."
  To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively, and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by the hand he said to hers "Believe me, fair lady, you may call yourself fortunate in having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which is such that if I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is commonly said, that self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform you who I am."
  The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes listened in bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant, for they understood about as much of them as if he had been talking Greek, though they could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man of a different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him in pot-house phrase for his civility they left him, while the Asturian gave her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his master.
{Chapter 17}
  [When day comes, Don Quixote mixes the Balsam of Fierabras (a foul concoction of vinegar, salt, oil, and spices) and takes a dose. After vomiting and sweating profuselt, he sleeps and awakes much refreshed. Sancho, eager to heal his aches and pains, swallows a larger portion and becomes very ill.]
  Sancho sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of which he left, not like his master, but so weak and exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in it who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was likewise oberving him, and he too never took his eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the night before thought so.
  As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, "Many and great are the favors, Senior Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you for them all the days of my life; if I can repay them in avenging you of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is no other than to aid the weak, and to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything of this kind you need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the order of knighthood which I have received to procure you satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire."
  The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir Knight, I do not want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any is done me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is that you pay me the score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well for the straw and barlcy for your two beasts, as for supper and beds."
  "Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.
  "And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.
  "I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don Quixote, "for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be done now is that you should excuse the payment, for I can not contravene the rule of knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I have read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything clse in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that might be offered them is their duty by law and right in return for the insufferable toil they endure in sceking adventures by night and by day, summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth."
  "I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me what you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care about is to get to my money."
  "You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of the inn before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some distance without looking to see if his squire was following him.
  The innkeeper, when he saw him go without paying him, ran to get payment of Sancho, who said that as his masater would not pay neither would he, because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not paying anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry his master had received he would not pay a rap, though it cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage of knights-errant was not going to be violated by him, nor should the squires of such as were yet to come into the world ever complain of him or reporach him with breaking so just a law.
  The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among, the company in the inn there were four wool-carders from Segovia, three needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse, made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them went in for the blanket of the host's bed, but on flinging him into it they looked up. and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than what they requited for their work, they decided upon going out into the yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the middle of the blanket, they began to make sport with him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide. The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they reached the ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively, was persuaded that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon as he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he discovered the game that was being played with his squire. He saw him rising and falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that, had his rage allowed him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He tried to climb from his horse onto the top of the wall, but he was so bruised and battered that he could not even dismount; and so from the back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be impossible to write down accurately: they, however, did not stay their laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreatics, but all to little purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left off. They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put his jacket round him, and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that it might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of his master exclaiming, "Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not, my son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and he held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou will certainly be restored."
  At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder voice said, "Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have left after last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and leave me to myself!"
{Chapter 18}
  Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, "I have now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could it even dismount from Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to climb up or dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart thieves would have remembered