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The Five-Foot Shelf of Books 


The First Part of 

the Delightful History of the 

Most Ingenious Knight 

Don Quixote of the Mancha 

By Miguel de Cervantes 


W//A Introductions and Notes 
Vo/ume 14 

P. F. Collier & Son Corporation 


Copyright, 1909 
By p. F. Collier & Son 

manufactusbd in u. s. a. 



Sonnets ii 


Chapter I 17 

Chapter II 23 

Chapter III 29 

Chapter IV 36 

Chapter V 43 

Chapter VI 48 

Chapter VII 55 

Chapter VIII 60 


Chapter I 68 

Chapter II 73 

Chapter III 78 

Chapter IV 85 

Chapter V 91 

Chapter VI loi 


Chapter I no 

Chapter II 117 

Chapter III 125 

Chapter IV 134 

Chapter V i^^ 

Chapter VI 152 

Chapter VII 165 

Chapter VIII 176 

Chapter IX 187 

Chapter X ip9 




Chapter XI 209 

Chapter XII 226 

Chapter XIII 234 


Chapter I 252 

Chapter II 267 

Chapter III 279 

Chapter IV 290 

Chapter V 300 

Chapter VI 307 

Chapter VII 327 

Chapter VIII 347 

Chapter IX 356 

Chapter X 366 

Chapter XI 377 

Chapter XII 382 

Chapter XIII 391 

Chapter XIV 404 

Chapter XV 424 

Chapter XVI 431 

Chapter XVII 441 

Chapter XVIII 450 

Chapter XIX 458 

Chapter XX 467 

Chapter XXI 477 

Chapter XXII 485 

Chapter XXIII 492 

Chapter XXIV 499 

Chapter XXV 505 

Epitaphs and Eulogies 513 

Glossary 517 


Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was born at Alcala de Henares in 
Spain in 1547, of a noble Castilian family. Nothing is certainly known 
of his education, but by the age of twenty-three we find him serving in 
the army as a private soldier. He was maimed for life at the batde of 
Lepanto, shared in a number of other engagements, and was taken caj> 
tive by the Moors on his way home in 1575. After five years of slavery 
he was ransomed; and two or three years later he returned to Spain, and 
betook himself to the profession of letters. From youth he had practised 
the writing of verse, and now he turned to the production of plays; but, 
failing of financial success, he obtained an employment in the Govern- 
ment offices, which he held till 1597, when he was imprisoned for a 
shortage in his accounts due to the dishonesty of an associate. The 
imprisonment on this occasion lasted only till the end of the year, and, 
after a period of obscurity, he issued, in 1605, his masterpiece, "Don 
Quixote." Its success was great and immediate, and its reputation soon 
spread beyond Spain. Translations of parts into French appeared; and 
in 161 1 Thomas Shelton, an Englishman otherwise unknown, put forth 
the present version, in style and vitality, if not in accuracy, acknowledged 
the most fortunate of English renderings. 

The present volume contains the whole of the first part of the novel, 
which is complete in itself. The second part, issued in 1615, the year 
before his death, is of the nature of a sequel, and is generally regarded 
as inferior. 

In writing his great novel, Cervantes set out to parody the romances 
of chivalry, the chief of which will be found in the description of Don 
Quixote's library in the sixth chapter of the first book. But, as in the 
somewhat parallel case of Fielding and "Joseph Andrews," the hero got 
the better of his creator's purpose, and the work passed far beyond the 
limits of a mere burlesque. Yet the original purpose was accomplished. 
The literature of Knight Errantry, which Church and State had sought 
without success to check, was crushed by Cervantes with this single blow. 

But the importance of this greatest of novels is not merely, or mainly, 
that it put an end to an extravagant and outworn form of fiction. Lx)ose 
in structure and uneven in workmanship, it remains unsurpassed as a 
masterpiece of droll humor, as a picture of Spanish life, as a gallery of 
immortal portraits. It has in the highest degree the mark of all great art, 
the successful combination of the {particular and the universal: it is true 



to the life of the country and age of its production, and true also to 
general human nature everywhere and always. With reference to the 
fiction of the Middle Ages, it is a triumphant satire; with reference to 
modern novels, it is the first and the most widely enjoyed. In its author's 
words: "It is so conspicuous and void of difficulty that children may 
handle him, youths may read him, men may understand him, and old 
men may celebrate him." 


THOU mayst believe me, gentle reader, without swearing, that 
I could willingly desire this book (as a child of my understand- 
ing) to be the most beautiful, gallant, and discreet that might 
possibly be imagined; but I could not transgress the order of nature, 
wherein everything begets his like, which being so, what could my sterile 
and ill-tilled wit engender but the history of a dry-toasted and humorous 
son, full of various thoughts and conceits never before imagined of any 
other; much like one who was engendered within some noisome prison, 
where all discommodities have taken possession, and all doleful noises 
made their habitation, seeing that rest, pleasant places, amenity of the 
fields, the cheerfulness of clear sky, the murmuring noise of the crystal 
fountains, and the quiet repose of the spirit are great helps for the most 
barren Muses to show themselves fruitful, and to bring into the world 
such births as may enrich it with admiration and delight? It ofttimes 
befalls that a father hath a child both by birth evil-favoured and quite 
devoid of all perfection, and yet the love that he bears him is such as it 
casts a mask over his eyes, which hinders his discerning of the faults and 
simplicities thereof, and makes him rather deem them discretions and 
beauty, and so tells them to his friends for witty jests and conceits. But I, 
though in show a father, yet in truth but a step>-father to Don Quixote, 
will not be borne away by the violent current of the modern custom 
nowadays, and therefore entreat thee, with the tears almost in mine eyes, 
as many others are wont to do, most dear reader, to pardon and dis- 
semble the faults which thou shalt discern in this my son; for thou art 
neither his kinsman nor friend, and thou hast thy soul in thy body, and 
thy free-will therein as absolute as the best, and thou art in 
thine own house, wherein thou art as absolute a lord as the king is of 
his subsidies, and thou knowest well the common proverb, that 'under 
my cloak a fig for the king,' all which doth exempt thee and makes thee 
free from all respect and obligation; and so thou mayst boldly say of this 
history whatsoever thou shalt think good, without fear either to be con- 
trolled for the evil or rewarded for the good that thou shalt speak thereof. 



I would very fain have presented it unto thee pure and naked, without 
the ornament of a preface, or the rabblement and catalogue of the wonted 
sonnets, epigrams, poems, elegies, etc., which are wont to be put at ih? 
beginning of books. For I dare say unto thee that, although it cost me 
some pains to compose it, yet in no respect did it equalise that which I 
took to make this preface which thou dost now read. I took, oftentimes, 
my pen in my hand to write it, and as often set it down again, as not 
knowing what I should write; and being once in a muse, with my paper 
before me, my pen in mine ear, mine elbow on the table, and mine hand 
on my cheek, imagining what I might write, there entered a friend of 
mine unexpectedly, who was a very discreet and pleasandy-witted man, 
who, seeing me so pensative, demanded of me the reason of my musing; 
and, not concealing it from him, said that I bethought myself on my 
preface I was to make to Don Quixote's history, which did so much 
trouble me as I neither meant to make any at all, nor publish the history 
of the acts of so noble a knight. 'For how can I choose,' quoth I, 'but be 
much confounded at that which the old legislator (the vulgar) will say, 
when it sees that, after the end of so many years as are sf)ent since I first 
slept in the bosom of oblivion, I come out loaden with my grey hairs, 
and bring with me a book as dry as a kex, void of invention, barren of 
good phrase, poor of conceits, and altogether empty both of learning and 
eloquence; without quotations on the margents, or annotations in the 
end of the book, wherewith I see other books are still adorned, be they 
never so idle, fabulous, and profane; so full of sentences of Aristode and 
Plato, and the other crew of the philosophers, as admires the readers, 
and makes them believe that these authors are very learned and eloquent? 
And after, when they cite Plutarch or Cicero, what can they say, but that 
they are the sayings of St. Thomas, or other doctors of the Church; 
observing herein so ingenious a method as in one line they will paint you 
an enamoured gull, and in the other will lay you down a litde seeming 
devout sermon, so that it is a great pleasure and delight to read or hear 
it? All which things must be wanting in my book, for neither have I 
anything to cite on the margent, or note in the end, and much less do I 
know what authors I follow, to put them at the beginning, as the custom 
is, by the letter of the ABC, beginning with Aristode, and ending in 
Xenophon, or in Zoilus or Zeuxis, although the one was a railer and the 
other a painter. So likewise shall my book want sonnets at the beginning, 
at least such sonnets whose authors be dukes, marquises, earls, bishops, 
ladies, or famous poets; although, if I would demand them of two or 
three artificers of mine acquaintance, I know they would make me some 

author's preface 7 

such as those of the most renowned in Spain would in no wise be able 
to equal or compare with them. 

'Finally, good sir, and my very dear friend,' quoth I, 'I do resolve that 
Sir Don Quixote remain entombed among the old records of the Mancha, 
until Heaven ordain some one to adorn him with the many graces that 
are yet wanting; for I find myself wholly unable to remedy them, through 
mine insufficiency and little learning, and also because I am naturally 
lazy and unwilling to go searching for authors to say that which I can 
say well enough without them. And hence proceeded the perplexity and 
ecstasy wherein you found me plunged.' 

My friend hearing that, and striking himself on the forehead, after a 
long and loud laughter, said: 'In good faith, friend, I have now at last 
delivered myself of a long and intricate error, wherewith I was jxjssessed 
all the time of our acquaintance; for hitherto I accounted thee ever to be 
discreet and prudent in all thy actions, but now I see plainly that thou 
art as far from that I took thee to be as heaven is from the earth. How 
is it possible that things of so small moment, and so easy to be redressed, 
can have force to suspend and swallow up so ripe a wit as yours hath 
seemed to be, and so fitted to break up and trample over the greatest 
difficulties that can be propounded? This proceeds not, in good sooth, 
from defect of will, but from superfluity of sloth and penury of discourse. 
Wilt thou see whether that I say be true or no? Listen, then, attentively 
awhile, and thou shalt perceive how, in the twinkling of an eye, I will 
confound all the difficulties and supply all the wants which do susf)end 
and affright thee from publishing to the world the history of thy famous 
Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knighthood-errant.' 

'Say, I pray thee,' quoth I, hearing what he had said, 'after what 
manner dost thou think to replenish the vacuity of my fear, and reduce 
the chaos of my confusion to any clearness and light?' 

And he replied: 'The first thing whereat thou stoppedst — of sonnets, 
epigrams, eclogues, etc., (which are wanting for the beginning, and 
ought to be written by grave and noble persons) — may be remedied, if 
thou thyself wilt but take a little pains to compass them, and thou mayst 
after name them as thou pleasest, and father them on Prester John of 
the Indians or the Emperor of Trapisonde, whom, I know, were held to 
be famous poets; and suppose they were not, but that some pedants and 
presumptuous fellows would backbite thee, and murmur against this 
truth, thou needest not weigh them two straws; for, although they could 
prove it to be an untruth, yet cannot they cut off thy hand for it. 

'As touching citations in the margent, and authors out of whom thou 

8 author's preface 

mayst collect sentences and sayings to insert in thy history, there is noth- 
ing else to be done but to bob into it some Latin sentences that thou 
knowest already by rote, or mayst get easily with a little labour; as, for 
example, when thou treatest of liberty and thraldom, thou mayst cite 
that, "Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro"; and presendy quote 
Horace, or he whosoever else that said it, on the margent. If thou 
shouldest speak of the power of death, have presently recourse to that of 
"Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauf>erum tabernas, regumque turres." 
If of the instability of friends, thou hast at hand Cato freely offering his 
distichon, "Donee eris foelix multos numerabis amicos; Tempora si 
fuerint nubila, solus eris." If of riches, "Quantum quisque sua num- 
morum servat in area, tantum habet et fidei." If of love, "Hei mihi quod 
nuUis amor est medicabilis hcrbis!" And so, with these Latin authorities 
and other suchlike, they will at least account thee a good grammarian, 
and the being of such an one is of no little honour and profit in this our 
age. As touching the addition of annotations in the end of thy book, 
thou mayst boldly observe this course: If thou namest any giant in thy 
book, procure that it be the Giant Goliah; and with this alone (which 
almost will cost thee nothing), thou hast gotten a fair annotation; for 
thou mayst say, "The Giant Golias or Goliat was a Philistine, whom the 
shepherd David slew with the blow of a stone in the Vale of Terebintho, 
as is recounted in the Book of Kings, in the chapter wherein thou shalt 
find it written." 

'After all this, to show that thou art learned in human letters, and a 
cosmographer, take some occasion to make mention of the River Tagus, 
and thou shalt presently find thyself stored with another notable notation, 
saying, "The River Tagus was so called of a King of Spain; it takes its 
beginning from such a place, and dies in the ocean seas, kissing first the 
walls of the famous City of Lisbon, and some are of opinion that the 
sands thereof are of gold, etc." If thou wilt treat of thieves, I will recite 
the history of Cacus to thee, for I know it by memory; if of whores or 
courtezans, there thou hast the Bishop of Mondonnedo, who will lend 
thee Lamia, Layda, and Flora, whose annotation will gain thee no small 
credit; if of cruel persons, Ovid will tender Medea; if of enchanters or 
witches. Homer hath Calypso, and Virgil Circe; if of valorous captains, 
Julius Csesar shall lend himself in his Commentaries to thee, and Plutarch 
shall give thee a thousand Alexanders. If thou dost treat of love, and hast 
but two ounces of the Tuscan language, thou shalt encounter with Lion 
the Hebrew, who will replenish thy vessels with store in that kind; but, 
if thou wilt not travel for it into strange countries, thou hast here at 


home in thy house Fonseca of the Love of God, wherein is deciphered 
all that cither thou or the most ingenious capacity can desire to learn of 
that subject. In conclusion, there is nothing else to be done, but that thou 
only endeavour to name those names, or to touch those histories, in thine 
own, which I have here related, and leave the adding of annotations and 
citations unto me; for I do promise thee that I will both fill up the 
margent, and also spend four or five sheets of advantage at the end of 
the book. 

'Now let us come to the citation of authors, which other books have, 
and thine wanteth; the remedy hereof is very easy; for thou needst do 
nought else but seek out a book that doth quote them all from the letter 
A until Z, as thou saidst thyself but even now, and thou shalt set that 
very same alphabet to thine own book; for, although the litde necessity 
that thou hadst to use their assistance in thy work will presently convict 
thee of falsehood, it makes no matter, and jierhaps there may not a few 
be found so simple as to believe that thou hast holp thyself in the narra- 
tion of thy most simple and sincere history with all their authorities. 
And, though that large catalogue of authors do serve to none other pur- 
pose, yet will it, at least, give some authority to the book, at the first 
blush; and the rather, because none will be so mad as to stand to 
examine whether thou dost follow them or no, seeing they can gain 
nothing by the matter. Yet, if I do not err in the consideration of so 
weighty an affair, this book of thine needs none of all these things, foras- 
much as it is only an invective against books of knighthood, a subject 
whereof Aristotle never dreamed, St. Basil said nothing, Cicero never 
heard any word; nor do the punctualities of truth, nor observations of 
astrology, fall within the sphere of such fabulous jestings; nor do geo- 
metrical dimensions impart it anything, nor the confutation of arguments 
usurped by rhetoric; nor ought it to preach unto any the mixture of holy 
matters with profane (a motley wherewith no Christian well should be 
attired), only it hath need to help itself with imitation; for, by how much 
the more it shall excel therein, by so much the more will the work be 
esteemed. And, since that thy labour doth aim at no more than to 
diminish the authority and acceptance that books of chivalry have in the 
world, and among the vulgar, there is no reason why thou shouldest go 
begging of sentences from philosophers, fables from poets, orations from 
rhetoricians, or miracles from the saints, but only endeavour to deliver 
with significant, plain, honest, and well-ordered words, thy jovial and 
cheerful discourse, expressing as near as thou mayst possibly thy intention, 
making thy conceits clear, and not intricate or dark; and labour also that 

10 author's preface 

the melancholy man, by the reading thereof, may be urged to laughter, 
the pleasant disposition increased, the simple not cloyed; and that the 
judicious may admire thy invention, the grave not despise it, the prudent 
applaud it. In conclusion, let thy project be to overthrow the ill<ompiled 
machina and bulk of those knightly books, abhorred by many, but 
applauded by more; for, if thou bring this to pass, thou hast not achieved 
a small matter.' 

I listened with very great attention to my friend's speech; and his 
reasons are so firmly imprinted in my mind, as, without making any 
reply unto them, I approved them all for good, and framed my preface of 
them, wherein, sweet reader, thou mayst perceive my friend's discretion, 
my happiness to meet with so good a counsellor at such a pinch, and thine 
own ease in finding so plainly and sincerely related The History of the 
famous Don Quixote of the Mancha, of whom it is the common opinion 
of all the inhabitants bordering on the field of Montiel that he was the 
most chaste, enamoured, and valiant knight that hath been seen, read, 
or heard of these many ages. I will not endear the benefit and service I 
have done thee, by making thee acquainted with so noble and honourable 
a knight, but only do desire that thou gratify me for the notice of the 
famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, in mine opinion, are deci- 
phered all the squire-like graces dispersed throughout the vain rout of 
knighdy books. And herewithal, I bid thee farewell, and do not forget 
me. Vale. 





Amadis of Gaule, in Praise of Don Quixote. 

Thou that my doleful life didst imitate, 
When, absent and disdained, it befell, 
Devoid of joy, I a repentant state 
Did lead, and on the Poor Rock's top did dwell; 
Thou, that the streams so often from thine eyes 
Didst suck of scalding tears' disgustful brine; 
And, without pewter, copper, plate likewise, 
Wast on the bare earth oft constrain'd to dine, — 
Live of one thing secure eternally. 
That whilst bright Phoebus shall his horses spur 
Through the fourth sphere's dilated monarchy. 
Thy name shall be renowned, near and fur; 
And as, 'mongst countries, thine is best alone, 
So shall thine author peers on earth have none. 

Don Belianis of Greece to Don Quixote of the Mancha. 

I TORE, I hackt, abolish'd, said and did, 

More than knight-errant else on earth hath done: 

I, dexterous, valiant, and so stout beside. 

Have thousand wrongs reveng'd, millions undone. 

I have done acts that my fame eternise. 

In love I courteous and so peerless was: 

Giants, as if but dwarfs, I did despise; 

And yet no time of love-plaints I let pass. 

I have held fortune prostrate at my feet. 

And by my wit seiz'd on Occasion's top. 

Whose wandering steps I led where I thought meet; 

And though beyond the moon my soaring hope 

Did crown my hap with all felicity, 

Yet, great Quixote, do I still envy thee. 


The Knight of the Sun, Alphebo, to Don Quixote. 

My sword could not at all compare with thine, 

Spanish Alphebo! full of courtesy; 

Nor thine arm's valour can be match'd by mine. 

Though I was fear'd where days both spring and die. 

Empires I scorn'd, and the vast monarchy 

Of th' Orient ruddy (ofler'd me in vain), 

I left, that I the sovereign face might see 

Of my Aurora, fair Claridiane, 

Whom, as by miracle, I surely lov'd: 

So banish'd by disgrace, even very hell 

Quak'd at mine arm, that did his fury tame. 

But thou, illustrious Goth, Quixote! hast prov'd 

Thy valour, for Dulcinea's sake, so well 

As both on earth have gain'd eternal fame. 

Orlando Furioso, Peer of France, to Don Quixote of the Mancha. 

Though thou art not a peer, thou hast no peer. 

Who mightst among ten thousand peers be one; 

Nor shalt thou never any peer have here, 

Who, ever-conquering, vanquish'd was of none. 

Quixote, I'm Orlando! that, cast away 

For fair Angelica, cross'd remotest seas, 

And did such trophies on Fame's altar lay 

As pass oblivion's reach many degrees. 

Nor can I be thy jjeer; for peerlessness 

Is to thy prowess due and great renown, 

Although I lost, as well as thou, my wit; 

Yet mine thou may'st be, if thy good success 

Make thee the proud Moor tame, [achieve] that crown, 

Us equals in disgrace and loving fit. 

SoLis Dan to Don Quixote of the Mancha. 

Maugre the ravings that are set abroach. 
And rumble up and down thy troubled brain. 
Yet none thine acts, Don Quixote, can reproach, 
Or thy proceedings tax as vile or vain. 
Thy feats shall be thy fairest ornament 
(Seeing wrongs t'undo thou goest thus about). 
Although with blows a thousand time y-shent 
TThou wert well-nigh, yea, even by the miscreant rout. 
And if thy fair Dulcinea shall wrong 
By misregard thy fairer expectation. 


And to thy cares will lend no listening ear, 
Then let this comfort all thy woes outwear, — 
That Sancho fail'd in broker's occupation: 
He, foolish; cruel, she; thou, without tongue. 

The Princess Oriana of Great Britain to Lady 
dulcinea del toboso. 

Happy those which, for more commodity 

And ease, Dulcinea fair! could bring to pass 

That Greenwich, where Toboso is, might be, 

And London chang'd where thy knight's village was. 

Happy she that might body and soul adorn 

With thy rich livery and thy high desire; 

And see thy happy knight, by honour borne, 

In cruel combat, broaching out his ire. 

But happiest she that might so cleanly 'scape 

From Amadis as thou hast whilom done 

From thy well-manner 'd knight, courteous Quixote! 

O! were I she, I'd envy no one's hap. 

And had been merry when I most did moan, 

And ta'en my pleasure without paying shot. 

Gandaline, Amadis of Gaule's Squire, to Sancho Panza, 
Don Quixote's Squire. 

Hail, famous man! whom fortune hath so blist, 

When first, in squire-like trade, it thee did place. 

As thou didst soft and sweedy pass disgrace 

Ere thou thereof the threatening danger wist. 

The shovel or sickle little do resist 

The wandering exercise; for now's in grace 

Plain squire-like dealing, which doth quite deface 

His pride that would the Moor bore with his list. 

Thine ass I jointly envy, and thy name. 

And eke thy wallet I do emulate. 

An argument of thy great providence. 

Hail once again! who, 'cause so good a man, 

Thy worths our Spanish Ovid does relate. 

And lovely chants them with all reverence. 

A Dialogue between Babieca, Horse to the Cid, a Famous Conqueror 
OF Spain; and Rozinante, Don Quixote's Courser. 

Ba. How haps it, Rozinante, thou art so lean? 
Ro. Because I travel still, and never eat: 


Ba. Thy want of barley and straw, what does it mean? 
Ro. That of my lord, a bit I cannot get. 
Ba. Away, sir jade! you are ill-mannered. 

Whose ass's tongue your lord does thus abase. 
Ro. If you did see how he's enamoured. 

You would conclude that he's the greater ass. 
Ba. Is love a folly? — Ro. Sure it is no wit. 
Ba. Thou art a metaphysician. — Ro. For want of meat. 
Ba. Complain upon the squire. — Ro. What profits it? 

Or how shall I my woful plaints repeat? 

Since, though the world imputes slowness to me, 

Yet greater jades my lord and Sancho be. 







Wherein Is Rehearsed the Calling and Exercise of the Renowtjed 
Gentleman, Don Quixote of the Mancha 

THERE lived not long since, in a certain village of the 
Mancha, the name whereof I purposely omit, a gentleman 
of their calling that use to pile up in their halls old lances, 
halberds, morions, and such other armours and weapons. He was, 
besides, master of an ancient target, a lean stallion, and a swift grey- 
hound. His pot consisted daily of somewhat more beef than mutton: 
a gallimaufry each night, collops and eggs on Saturdays, lentils on 
Fridays, and now and then a lean pigeon on Sundays, did consume 
three parts of his rents; the rest and remnant thereof was spent on 
a jerkin of fine puce, a pair of velvet hose, with pantofles of the same 
for the holy-days, and one suit of the finest vesture; for therewithal 
he honoured and set out his person on the workdays. He had in his 
house a woman-servant of about forty years old, and a niece not yet 
twenty, and a man that served him both in field and at home, and 
could saddle his horse, and likewise manage a pruning-hook. The 
master himself was about fifty years old, of a strong complexion, dry 
flesh, and a withered face. He was an early riser, and a great friend 
of hunting. Some affirm that his surname was Quixada, or Quesada 
(for in this there is some variance among the authors that write his 
life), although it may be gathered, by very probable conjectures, that 
he was called Quixana. Yet all this concerns our historical relation 
but little: let it then suffice, that in the narration thereof we will not 
vary a jot from the truth. 

You shall therefore wit, that this gentleman above named, the 
spurts that he was idle (which was the longer part of the year), did 
apply himself wholly to the reading of books of knighthood, and that 
with such gusts and delights, as he almost wholly neglected the exer- 



cise of hunting; yea, and the very administration of his household 
affairs. And his curiosity and folly came to that pass, that he made 
away many acres of arable land to buy him books of that kind, 
and therefore he brought to his house as many as ever he could get 
of that subject. And among them all, none pleased him better than 
those which famous Felician of Silva composed. For the smoothness 
of his prose, with now and then some intricate sentence meddled, 
seemed to him peerless; and principally when he did read the court- 
ings, or letters of challenge, that knights sent to ladies, or one to an- 
other; where, in many places, he found written: 'The reason of the 
unreasonableness which against my reason is wrought, doth so 
weaken my reason, as with all reason I do justly complain on your 
beauty.' And also when he read: 'The high heavens, which with 
your divinity do fortify you divinely with the stars, and make you 
deserveress of the deserts which your greatness deserves,' etc. With 
these and other such passages the poor gentleman grew distracted, 
and was breaking his brains day and night, to understand and un- 
bowel their sense, an endless labour; for even Aristotle himself would 
not understand them, though he were again resuscitated only for that 
purpose. He did not like so much the unproportionate blows that 
Don Belianis gave and took in fight; for, as he imagined, were the 
surgeons never so cunning that cured them, yet was it impossible but 
that the patient his face and all his body must remain full of scars 
and tokens. Yet did he praise, notwithstanding, in the author of 
that history, the conclusion of his book, with the promise of the 
Endless Adventure; and many times he himself had a desire to take 
f>en and finish it exactly, as it is there promised; and would doubtless 
have performed it, and that certes with happy success, if other more 
urgent and continual thoughts had not disturbed him. 

Many times did he fall at variance with the curate of his village 
(who was a learned man, graduated in Ciguenca) touching who was 
the better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul. But 
Master Nicholas, the barber of the same town, would affirm that 
none of both arrived in worth to the Knight of the Sun; and if any 
one knight might paragon with him, it was infallibly Don Galaor, 
Amadis de Gaul's brother, whose nature might fitly be accommo- 


dated to anything; for he was not so coy and whining a knight as his 
brother, and that in matters of valour he did not bate him an ace. 

In resolution, he plunged himself so deeply in his reading of these 
books, as he spent many times in the lecture of them whole days and 
nights; and in the end, through his little sleep and much reading, he 
dried up his brains in such sort as he lost wholly his judgment. His 
fantasy was filled with those things that he read, of enchantments, 
quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, tempests, and 
other impossible follies. And these toys did so firmly possess his 
imagination with an infaUible opinion that all that machina of 
dreamed inventions which he read was true, as he accounted no his- 
tory in the world to be so certain and sincere as they were. He was 
wont to say, that the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but not 
to be compared to the Knight of the Burning Sword, which, with one 
thwart blow, cut asunder two fierce and mighty giants. He agreed 
better with Bernardo del Carpio, because he slew the enchanted 
Roland in Roncesvalles. He likewise Uked of the shift Hercules used 
when he smothered Anteon, the son of the earth, between his arms. 
He praised the giant Morgant marvellously, because, though he was 
of that monstrous progeny, who are commonly all of them proud 
and rude, yet he was affable and courteous. But he agreed best of all 
with Reinauld of Mount Alban; and most of all then, when he saw 
him sally out of his castle to rob as many as ever he could meet; and 
when, moreover, he robbed the idol of Mahomet, made all of gold, as 
his history recounts, and would be content to give his old woman, 
yea, and his niece also, for a good opportunity on the traitor Galalon, 
that he might lamb-skin and trample him into powder. 

Finally, his wit being wholly extinguished, he fell into one of the 
strangest conceits that ever madman stumbled on in this world; to 
wit, it seemed unto him very requisite and behooveful, as well for the 
augmentation of his honour as also for the benefit of the common- 
wealth, that he himself should become a knight-errant, and go 
throughout the world, with his horse and armour, to seek adven- 
tures, and practise in person all that he had read was used by knights 
of yore; revenging of all kinds of injuries, and offering himself to 
occasions and dangers, which, being once happily achieved, might 


gain him eternal renown. The poor soul did already figure himself 
crowned, through the valour of his arm, at least Emperor of Trapi- 
sonda; and led thus by these soothing thoughts, and borne away with 
the exceeding delight he found in them, he hastened all that he 
might, to effect his urging desires. 

And first of all he caused certain old rusty arms to be scoured, 
that belonged to his great-grandfather, and lay many ages neglected 
and forgotten in a by<orner of his house; he trimmed and dressed 
them the best he might, and then perceived a great defect they had; 
for they wanted a helmet, and had only a plain morion; but he by his 
industry supplied that want, and framed, with certain papers pasted 
together, a beaver for his morion. True it is, that to make trial 
whether his pasted beaver was strong enough, and might abide the 
adventure of a blow, he out with his sword and gave it a blow or 
two, and with the very first did quite undo his whole week's labour. 
The facility wherewithal it was dissolved liked him nothing; where- 
fore, to assure himself better the next time from the like danger, he 
made it anew, placing certain iron bars within it, in so artificial a 
manner, as he rested at once satisfied, both with his invention, and 
also the solidity of the work; and without making a second trial, he 
deputed and held it in estimation of a most excellent beaver. Then 
did he presently visit his horse, who (though he had more quarters 
than pence in a sixpence, through leanness, and more faults than 
Gonella's), having nothing on him but skin and bone; yet he thought 
that neither Alexander's Bucephalus, nor the Cid his horse Balieca, 
were in any respect equal to him. He spent four days devising him a 
name; for (as he reasoned to himself) it was not fit that so famous a 
knight's horse, and chiefly being so good a beast, should want a 
known name; and therefore he endeavoured to give him such a one 
as should both declare what sometime he had been, before he per- 
tained to a knight-errant, and also what at present he was; for it 
stood greatly with reason, seeing his lord and master changed his es- 
tate and vocation, that he should alter likewise his denomination, and 
get a new one, that were famous and altisonant, as became the new 
order and exercise which he now professed; and therefore, after many 
other names which he framed, blotted out, rejected, added, undid, 
and turned again to frame in his memory and imagination, he finally 


concluded to name him Rozinante, a name in his opinion lofty, full, 
and significant of what he had been when he was a plain jade, before 
he was exalted to his new dignity; being, as he thought, the best car- 
riage beast of the world. The name being thus given to his horse, 
and so to his mind, he resolved to give himself a name also; and in 
that thought he laboured other eight days; and, in conclusion, called 
himself Don Quixote; whence (as is said) the authors of this most 
true history deduce, that he was undoubtedly named Quixada, and 
not Quesada, as others would have it. And remembering that the 
valorous Amadis was not satisfied only with the dry name of Amadis, 
but added thereunto the name of his kingdom and country, to render 
his own more redoubted, terming himself Amadis de Gaul; so he, 
like a good knight, would add to his own that also of his province, 
and call himself Don Quixote of the Mancha, wherewith it appeared 
that he very lively declared his lineage and country, which he did 
honour, by taking it for his surname. 

His armour being scoured, his morion transformed into a helmet, 
his horse named, and himself confirmed with a new name also, he 
forthwith bethought himself, that now he wanted nothing but a lady 
on whom he might bestow his service and affection; for the knight- 
errant that is loveless resembles a tree that wants leaves and fruit, or 
a body without a soul : and therefore he was wont to say, 'If I should 
for my sins, or by good hap, encounter there abroad with some giant 
(as knights-errant do ordinarily), and that I should overthrow him 
with one blow to the ground, or cut him with a stroke in two halves, 
or finally overcome, and make him yield to me, would it not be very 
expedient to have some lady to whom I might present him? And 
that he, entering in her presence, do kneel before my sweet lady, and 
say unto her, with an humble and submissive voice, "Madam, I am 
the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island called Malindrania, whom 
the never-too-much-praised knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, hath 
overcome in single combat; and hath commanded to present my- 
self to your greatness, that it may please your highness to dispose 
of me according unto your liking!" ' Oh, how glad was our knight 
when he had made this discourse to himself, but chiefly when he had 
found out one whom he might call his lady! For, as it is imagined, 
there dwelt in the next village unto his manor, a young handsome 


wench, with whom he was sometime in love, although, as is under- 
stood, she never knew or took notice thereof. She was called Aldonsa 
Lorenzo, and her he thought fittest to entitle with the name of Lady 
of his thoughts, and searching a name for her that should not vary 
much from her own, and yet should draw and aveer somewhat to 
that of a princess or great lady, he called her Dulcinea del Toboso 
(for there she was born), a name in his conceit harmonious, strange, 
and significant, like to all the others that he had given to his things. 

Of the FrasT Sallv That Don Quixote Made to Seek Adventures 

THINGS being thus ordered, he would defer the execution 
of his designs no longer, being spurred on the more vehe- 
mently by the want which he esteemed his delays wrought in 
the world, according to the wrongs that he resolved to right, the 
harms he meant to redress, the excesses he would amend, the abuses 
that he would better, and the debts he would satisfy. And therefore, 
without acquainting any living creature with his intentions, he, un- 
seen of any, upon a certain morning, somewhat before the day (being 
one of the warmest of July), armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted on 
Rozinante, laced on his ill-contrived helmet, embraced his target, took 
his lance, and by a postern door of his base<ourt issued out to the 
field, marvellous jocund and content to see with what facility he had 
commenced his good desires. But scarce had he sallied to the fields, 
when he was suddenly assaulted by a terrible thought, and such a one 
as did well-nigh overthrow his former good purposes; which was, he 
remembered he was not yet dubbed knight, and therefore, by the 
laws of knighthood, neither could nor ought to combat with any 
knight : and though he were one, yet ought he to wear white armour 
like a new knight, without any device in his shield until he did win 
it by force of arms. 

These thoughts did make him stagger in his purposes; but his fol- 
lies prevaihng more than any other reason, he purposed to cause 
himself to be knighted by the first he met, to the imitation of many 
others that did the same, as he had read in the books which dis- 
tracted him. As touching white armour, he resolved, with the first 
opportunity, to scour his own so well, that they should rest whiter 
than ermines. And thus he pacified his mind and prosecuted his 
journey, without choosing any other way than that which his horse 
pleased, believing that therein consisted the vigour of knightly ad- 
ventures. Our burnished adventurer, travelling thus onward, did 



parley with himself in this manner: 'Who doubts, in the ensuing 
ages, when the true history of my famous acts shall come to light, 
but that the wise man who shall write it, will begin it, when he comes 
to declare this my first sally so early in the morning, after this man- 
ner ? — "Scarce had the ruddy Apollo spread over the face of the vast 
and spacious earth the golden twists of his beautiful hairs, and scarce 
had the little enamelled birds with their naked tongues saluted with 
sweet and mellifluous harmony the arrival of rosy Aurora, when, 
abandoning her jealous husband's soft couch, she shows herself to 
mortal wights through the gates and windows of the Manchegall 
horizon; when the famous knight, Don Quixote of the Mancha, 
abandoning the slothful plumes, did mount upon his renowned 
horse Rozinante, and began to travel through the ancient and known 
fields of Montiel" ' (as indeed he did). And following still on with 
his discourse, he said: 'Oh, happy the age, and fortunate the time, 
wherein my famous feats shall be revealed, feats worthy to be graven 
in brass, carved in marble, and delivered with most curious art in 
tables, for a future instruction and memory. And, thou wise en- 
chanter, whosoever thou beest, whom it shall concern to be the 
chronicler of this strange history, I desire thee not to forget my good 
horse Rozinante, mine eternal and inseparable companion in all my 
journeys and courses.' And then, as if he were verily enamoured, he 
said: 'O Princess Dulcinea! lady of this captive heart! much wrong 
hast thou done me by dismissing me, and reproaching me with the 
rigorous decree and commandment, not to apfjear before thy beauty. 
I pray thee, sweet lady, deign to remember thee of this poor sub- 
jected heart, that for thy love suffers so many tortures!' And with 
these words he inserted a thousand other ravings, all after the same 
manner that his books taught him, imitating as near as he could their 
very phrase and language, and did ride therewithal so slow a pace, 
and the sun did mount so swiftly, and with so great heat, as it was 
sufficient to melt his brains, if he had had any left. 

He travelled almost all that day without encountering anything 
worthy the recital, which made him to fret for anger; for he desired 
to encounter presently some one upon whom he might make trial of 
his invincible strength. Some authors write that his first adventure 
was that of the Lapicean straits; others, that of the Windmills: but 


what I could only find out in this affair, and which I have found 
written in the annals of the Mancha, is that he travelled all that day 
long, and at night both he and his horse were tired, and marvellously 
pressed by hunger; and, looking about him on every side to see 
whether he could discover any castle or sheepfold wherein he might 
retire himself for that night, and remedy his wants, he perceived an 
inn near unto the highway wherein he travelled, which was as wel- 
come a sight to him as if he had seen a star that did address him to 
the porch, if not to the palace, of his redemption. Then, spurring his 
horse, he hied all he might towards it, and arrived much about night- 
fall. There stood by chance at the inn door two young women, ad- 
venturers likewise, which travelled toward Seville with certain car- 
riers, and did by chance take up their lodging in that inn the same 
evening; and, forasmuch as our knight-errant esteemed all which he 
thought, saw, or imagined, was done or did really pass in the very 
same form as he had read the like in his books, forthwith, as soon 
as he espied the vent, he feigned to himself that it was a castle with 
four turrets, whereof the pinnacles were of glistening silver, without 
omitting the drawbridge, deep fosse, and other adherents belonging 
to the like places. And approaching by little and little to the vent, 
when he drew near to it, checking Rozinante with the bridle, he 
rested a while to see whether any dwarf would mount on the battle- 
ments to give warning with the sound of a trumpet how some knight 
did approach the castle; but seeing they stayed so long, and also, that 
Rozinante kept a coil to go to his stable, he went to the inn door, and 
there beheld the two loose baggages that stood at it, whom he 
presently supposed to be two beautiful damsels or lovely ladies, that 
did solace themselves before the castle gates. And in this space it 
befel by chance, that a certain swineherd, as he gathered together his 
hogs, blew the horn whereat they are wont to come together; and 
instantly Don Quixote imagined it was what he desired, to wit, some 
dwarf who gave notice of his arrival; and therefore, with marvel- 
lous satisfaction of mind he approached to the inn and ladies; who 
beholding one armed in that manner to draw so near, with his lance 
and target they made much haste, being greatly affrighted, to get to 
their lodging. But Don Quixote perceiving their fear by their flight, 
lifting up his pasted beaver, and discovering his withered and dusty 


countenance, did accost them with gentle demeanour and grave 
words in this manner: 'Let not your ladyships flee, nor fear any out- 
rage; for to the order of knighthood which I do profess, it toucheth 
nor appertaineth not to wrong anybody, and least of all such worthy 
damsels as your presence denote you to be.' The wenches looked on 
him very earnestly, and did search with their eyes for the visage, 
which his ill-fashioned beaver did conceal; but when they heard 
themselves termed damsels, a thing so far from their profession, they 
could not contain their laughter, which was so loud, as Don Quixote 
waxed ashamed thereat; and therefore said to them: 'Modesty is a 
comely ornament of the beautiful, and the excessive laughter that 
springs from a light occasion must be reputed great folly. But I do 
not object this unto you to make you the more ashamed, or that you 
should take it in ill part; for my desire is none other than to do you 
all the honour and service I may.' This he spake unto them in such 
uncouth words as they could not understand him, which was an 
occasion, joined with his own uncomeliness, to increase their laughter 
and his wrath, which would have passed the bounds of reason, if 
the innkeep)er had not come out at the instant, being a man who, by 
reason of his exceeding fatness, must needs have been of a very peace- 
able condition; who, beholding that counterfeit figure, all armed 
in so unsuitable armour as were his bridle, lance, target, and corslet, 
was very near to have kept the damsels company in the pleasant 
shows of his merriment, but fearing in effect the machina and bulk 
contrived of so various furnitures, he determined to speak him fairly; 
and therefore began to him in this manner: 'If your worship, sir 
knight, do seek for lodging, you may chalk yourself a bed for there 
is none in this inn, wherein you shall find all other things in abun- 
dance.' Don Quixote, noting the lowliness of the constable of that 
fortress (for such the inn and innkeeper seemed unto him), an- 
swered, 'Anything, sir constable, may serve me; for mine arms are 
mine ornaments, and battles mine ease, etc' The host thought he 
had called him a castellano or constable, because he esteemed him 
to be one of the sincere and honest men of Castile, whereas he was 
indeed an Andalusian, and of the commark of St. Lucars, no less 
thievish than Cacus, nor less malicious and crafty than a student or 
page; and therefore he answered him thus: 'If that be so, your bed 
must be hard rocks, and your sleep a perpetual watching; and being 


such, you may boldly alight, and shall find certainly here occasion 
and opportunity to hold you waking this twelvemonth more, for 
one night.' And, saying so, laid hold on Don Quixote's stirrup, who 
did forthwith alight, though it was with great difficulty and pain 
(as one that had not eaten all the day one crumb), and then he 
requested his host to have sf)ecial care of his horse, saying, he was 
one of the best pieces that ever ate bread. The innkeeper viewed and 
reviewed him, to whom he did not seem half so good as Don Quixote 
valued him, and, setting him up in the stable, he turned to see what 
his guest would command, who was a-disarming by both the dam- 
sels (which were by this time reconciled to him), who, though they 
had taken off his breastplate and back parts, yet knew they not how, 
nor could anywise undo his gorget, nor take off his counterfeit 
beaver, which he had fastened on with green ribbons; and by reason 
the knots were so intricate, it was requisite they should be cut, 
whereunto he would not in anywise agree; and therefore remained 
all the night with his helmet on, and was the strangest and pleasant- 
est figure thereby that one might behold. And as he was a-disarming 
(imagining those light wenches that helped him to be certain 
principal ladies and dames of that castle), he said unto them, with 
a very good grace: 'Never was any knight so well attended on and 
served by ladies as was Don Quixote: when he departed from his 
village, damsels attended on him, and princesses on his horse. O 
Rozinante! — for, ladies, that is the name of my horse, and Don 
Quixote de la Mancha is mine own. For although I meant at the 
first not to have discovered myself, until the acts done in your 
service and benefit should manifest me; yet the necessity of accom- 
modating to our present purpose the old romance of Sir Launcelot, 
hath been an occasion that you should know my name before the 
right season. But the time will come wherein your ladyships may 
command me, and I obey, and then the valour of mine arm shall 
discover the desire I have to do you service.' 

The wenches being unaccustomed to hear so rhetorical terms, 
answered never a word to him, but only demanded whether he 
would eat anything. 'That I would,' replied Don Quixote, 'foras- 
much as I think the taking of a little meat would be very behooveful 
for me.' It chanced by hap to be on Friday, and therefore there 
was no other meat in the inn than a few pieces of a fish called in 


Castile abadexo, in Andalusia bacallao, and in some places curadillo, 
and in others truchuela, and is but poor-john. 

They demanded of him, therefore, whether he would eat thereof, 
giving it the name, used in that place, of truchuela, or little trout; 
for there was no other fish in all the inn to present unto him but 
such. 'Why, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'bring it in; for if there be 
many little trouts they may serve me instead of a great one; it being 
all one to me, to be paid my money (if I were to receive any) in 
eight single reals, or to be paid the same in one real of eight. And, 
moreover, those little trouts are jserhaps like unto veal, which is 
much more delicate flesh than beef; or the kid, which is better than 
the goat; but be it what it list, let it be brought in presently; for the 
labour and weight of arms cannot be well borne without the well- 
supplying of the guts.' Then was there straight laid a table at the 
inn door, that he mought take the air; and the host brought him a 
portion of evil-watered and worse-boiled poor-john, and a loaf as 
black and hoary as his harness. But the only sport was to behold 
him eat; for by reason his helmet was on, and his beaver lifted, he 
could put nothing into his mouth himself if others did not help 
him to find the way, and therefore one of those ladies served his 
turn in that; but it was altogether impossible to give him drink after 
that manner, and would have remained so for ever, if the innkeeper 
had not bored a cane, and setting the one end in his mouth, poured 
down the wine at the other: all which he suffered most patiently, 
because he would not break the ribbons of his helmet. And as he 
sat at supper, there arrived by chance a sowgelder, who, as soon as 
he came to the inn, did sound four or five times a whistle of canes, 
the which did confirm Don Quixote that he was in some famous 
castle, where he was served with music; and that the poor-john was 
trouts; the bread of the finest flour; the whores, ladies; and the inn- 
keeper, constable of that castle; wherefore he accounted his resolution 
and departure from his own house very well employed. But that 
which did most afflict him was, that he was not yet dubbed knight, 
forasmuch as he was fully [persuaded that he could not lawfully 
enterprise, or follow any adventure, until he received the order of 


Whekein Is Recounted the Pleasant Manner Observed in the 
Knighting of Don Quixote 

AND being thus tossed in mind, he made a short, beggarly 
L^k supper; which being finished, he called for his host, and, 
X JL shutting the stable door very fast, he laid himself down 
upon his knees in it before him, saying, 'I will never rise from the 
place where I am, valorous knight, until your courtesy shall grant 
unto me a boon that I mean to demand of you, the which will 
redound unto your renown, and also to the profit of all human kind.' 
The innkeeper seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing him speak 
those words, remained confounded beholding him, not knowing 
what he might do or say, and did study and labour to make him 
arise; but all was in vain, until he must have promised unto him 
that he would grant him any gift that he sought at his hands. 'I 
did never exjject less,' replied Don Quixote, 'from your magnificence, 
my lord; and therefore I say unto you, that the boon which I demand 
of you, and that hath been granted unto me by your liberality, is, 
that to-morrow, in the morning, you will dub me knight, and this 
night I will watch mine armour in the chapel of your castle, and in 
the morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be accom- 
plished, that I may go in due manner throughout the four parts of 
the world, to seek adventures, to the benefit of the needy, as is the 
duty of knighthood, and of knights-errant, as I am; whose desires 
are wholly inclined and dedicated to such achievements.' The host, 
who, as we noted before, was a great giber, and had before gathered 
some arguments of the defect of wit in his guest, did wholly now 
persuade himself that his suspicions were true, when he heard him 
speak in that manner; and that he might have an occasion of laugh- 
ter, he resolved to feed his humour that night; and therefore an- 
swered him, that he had very great reason in that which he desired 
and sought, and that such projects were proper and natural to 



knights of the garb and worth he seemed to be of; and that he him- 
self likewise, in his youthful years, had followed that honourable 
exercise, going through divers parts of the world to seek adventures, 
without either omitting the dangers of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, 
the compass of Seville, the quicksilver house of Segovia, the olive 
field of Valencia, the circuit of Granada, the wharf of St. Lucar, the 
Potro or Cowlt of Cordova, and the little taverns of Toledo; and 
many other places, wherein he practised the dexterity of his hands; 
doing many wrongs, soliciting many widows, undoing certain 
maidens, and deceiving many pupils, and finally making himself 
known and famous in all the tribunals and courts almost of all 
Spain; and that at last he had retired himself to that his castle, where 
he was sustained with his own and other men's goods, entertaining 
in it all knights-errant, of whatsoever quality and condition they 
were, only for the great affection he bore towards them, and to the 
end they might divide with him part of their winnings in recom- 
pense of his goodwill. He added besides, that there was no chapel 
in his castle wherein he might watch his arms, for he had broken 
it down, to build it up anew; but, notwithstanding, he knew very 
well that in a case of necessity they might lawfully be watched in 
any other place, and therefore he might watch them that night in 
the base-court of the castle; for in the morning, an it pleased God, 
the ceremonies requisite should be done in such sort as he should 
remain a dubbed knight, in so good fashion as in all the world he 
could not be bettered. He demanded of Don Quixote whether he 
had any money; who answered that he had not a blank, for he had 
never read in any history of knights-errant that any one of them 
ever carried any money. To this his host replied, that he was de- 
ceived; for, admit that histories made no mention thereof, because 
the authors of them deemed it not necessary to express a thing so 
manifest and needful to be carried as was money and clean shirts, 
it was not therefore to be credited that they had none; and therefore 
he should hold, for most certain and manifest, that all the knights- 
errant, with the story of whose acts so many books are replenished 
and heaped, had their purses well lined for that which might befall, 
and did moreover carry with them a little casket of ointments and 
salves, to cure the wounds which they received, for they had not the 


commodity of a surgeon to cure them, every time that they fought 
abroad in the fields and deserts, if they had not by chance some wise 
enchanter to their friend, who would presently succour them, bring- 
ing unto them, in some cloud, through the air, some damsel or 
dwarf, with a vial of water of so great virtue, as tasting one drop 
thereof, they remained as whole of their sores and wounds as if they 
had never received any. But when they had not that benefit, the 
knights of times past held it for a very commendable and secure 
course that their squires should be provided of money and other 
necessary things, as lint and ointments for to cure themselves; and 
when it befel that the like knights had no squires to attend upoa 
them (which happened but very seldom), then would they them- 
selves carry all this provision behind them on their horses, in some 
slight and subtle wallets, which could scarce be (perceived as a thing 
of very great consequence; for, if it were not upon such an occasion, 
the carriage of wallets was not very tolerable among knights-errant. 
And in this respect he did advise him, seeing he might yet com- 
mand him, as one that, by receiving the order of knighthood at his 
hands, should very shortly become his godchild, that he should not 
travel from thenceforward without money and other the preven- 
tions he had then given unto him; and he should perceive him- 
self how behooveful they would prove unto him when he least 
expected it. 

Don Quixote promised to accomplish all that he had counselled 
him to do, with all punctuality; and so order was forthwith given 
how he should watch his arms in a great yard that lay near unto 
one side of the inn. Wherefore Don Quixote gathered all his arms 
together, laid them on a cistern that stood near unto a well; and, 
buckling on his target, he laid hold on his lance, and walked up 
and down before the cistern very demurely, and when he began to 
walk, the night likewise began to lock up the splendour of the day. 
The innkeeper, in the mean season, recounted to all the rest that 
lodged in the inn the folly of his guest, the watching of his arms, 
and the knighthood which he expected to receive. They all admired 
very much at so strange a kind of folly, and went out to behold him 
from afar off, and saw that sometimes he pranced to and fro with 
a quiet gesture; other times, leaning upon his lance, he looked upon 


his armour, without beholding any other thing save his arms for a 
good space. 

The night being shut up at last wholly, but with such clearness 
of the moon as it might well compare with his brightness that lent 
her her splendour, everything which our new knight did was easily 
perceived by all the beholders. In this season one of the carriers 
that lodged in the inn resolved to water his mules, and for that pur- 
pose it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armour that lay on 
the cistern; who, seeing him approach, said unto him, with a loud 
voice, 'O thou, whosoever thou beest, bold knight! that comest to 
touch the armour of the most valorous adventurer that ever girded 
sword, look well what thou dost, and touch them not, if thou mean- 
est not to leave thy life in payment of thy presumption.' The carrier 
made no account of those words (but it were better he had, for it 
would have redounded to his benefit), but rather, laying hold on 
the leatherings, threw the armour a pretty way off from him, which 
being perceived by Don Quixote, he lifted up his eyes towards 
heaven, and addressing his thoughts (as it seemed) to his Lady 
Dulcinea, he said, 'Assist me, dear lady, in this first dangerous scorn 
and adventure offered to this breast, that is enthralled to thee, and 
let not thy favour and protection fail me in this my first trance!' 
And, uttering these and other such words, he let slip his target, and, 
lifting up his lance with bold hands, he paid the carrier so round a 
knock therewithal on the pate, as he overthrew him to the ground 
in so evil taking, as, if he had seconded it with another, he should 
not have needed any surgeon to cure him. This done, he gathered 
up his armour again, and laying them where they had been before, 
he walked after up and down by them, with as much quietness as 
he did at the first. 

But very soon after, another carrier, without knowing what had 
happened (for his companion lay yet in a trance on the ground), 
came also to give his mules water, and coming to take away the 
arms, that he might free the cistern of encumbrances, and take water 
the easier — Don Quixote saying nothing nor imploring favour of 
his mistress or any other, let slip again his target, and, lifting his 
lance, without breaking of it in pieces, made more than three of 
the second carrier's noddle; for he broke it in four places. All the 


people of the inn, and amongst them the host likewise, repaired at 
this time to the noise; which Don Quixote perceiving, embracing 
his target, and laying hand on his sword, he said: 'O lady of all 
beauty! courage and vigour of my weakened heart! it is now high 
time that thou do convert the eyes of thy greatness to this thy captive 
knight, who doth expect so marvellous great an adventure.' Saying 
thus, he recovered, as he thought, so great courage, that if all the 
carriers of the world had assailed him, he would not go one step 
backward. The wounded men's fellows, seeing them so evil dight, 
from afar off began to rain stones on Don Quixote, who did defend 
himself the best he might with his target, and durst not depart from 
the cistern, lest he should seem to abandon his arms. The innkeeper 
cried to them to let him alone; for he had already informed them 
that he was mad, and so such a one would escape scot-free although 
he had slain them all. Don Quixote likewise cried out louder, term- 
ing them all disloyal men and traitors, and that the lord of the castle 
was a treacherous and bad knight, seeing that he consented that 
knights-errant should be so basely used; and that, if he had not yet 
received the order of knighthood, he would make him understand 
his treason: 'But of you base and rascally kennel,' quoth he, 'I make 
no reckoning at all. Throw at me, approach, draw near, and do me 
all the hurt you may, for you shall ere long perceive the reward you 
shall carry for this your madness and outrage.' Which words he 
spoke with so great spirit and boldness, as he struck a terrible fear 
into all those that assaulted him; and therefore, moved both by it, 
and the innkeeper's persuasions, they left off throwing stones at 
him, and he permitted them to carry away the wounded men, and 
returned to the guard of his arms with as great quietness and gravity 
as he did at the beginning. 

The innkeeper did not like very much these tricks of his guest, 
and therefore he determined to abbreviate, and give him the un- 
fortunate order of knighthood forthwith, before some other disaster 
befel. And with this resolution coming unto him, he excused him- 
self of the insolences those base fellows had used to him, without 
his privity or consent; but their rashness, as he said, remained well 
chastised. He added how he had already told unto him, that there 
was no chapel in his castle, and that for what yet rested unperfected 


of their intention, it was not necessary, because the chief point of 
remaining knighted consisted chiefly in blows of the neck and 
shoulders, as he had read in the ceremonial book of the order, and 
that that might be given in the very midst of the fields; and that he 
had already accomplished the obligation of watching his arms, which 
with only two hours' watch might be fulfilled; how much more 
after having watched four, as he had done. All this Don Quixote 
believed, and therefore answered, that he was most ready to obey 
him, and requested him to conclude with all the brevity possible; 
for if he saw himself knighted, and were once again assaulted, he 
meant not to leave one person alive in all the castle, except those 
which the constable should command, whom he would spare for 
his sake. 

The constable being thus advertised, and fearful that he would 
put this his deliberation in execution, brought out a book presently, 
wherein he was wont to write down the accounts of the straw and 
barley which he delivered from time to time to such carriers as 
lodged in his inn, for their beasts; and, with a butt of a candle, which 
a boy held lighted in his hand before him, accompanied by the two 
damsels above mentioned, he came to Don Quixote, whom he com- 
manded to kneel upon his knees, and, reading in his manual (as it 
seemed, some devout orison), he held up his hand in the midst of 
the lecture, and gave him a good blow on the neck, and after that 
gave him another trim thwack over the shoulders with his own 
sword, always murmuring something between the teeth, as if he 
prayed. This being done, he commanded one of the ladies to gird 
on his sword, which she did with a singular good grace and dexterity, 
which was much, the matter being of itself so ridiculous, as it wanted 
but little to make a man burst with laughter at every passage of the 
ceremonies; but the prowess which they had already beheld in the 
new knight did hmit and contain their delight. At the girding on 
of his sword, the good lady said, 'God make you a fortunate knight, 
and give you good success in all your debates!' Don Quixote de- 
manded then how she was called, that he might thenceforward know 
to whom he was so much obliged for the favour received. And she 
answered, with great buxomness, that she was named Tolosa, and 
was a butcher's daughter of Toledo, that dwelt in Sancho Benega's 


Street, and that she would ever honour him as her lord. Don Quixote 
replied, requesting her, for his sake, to call herself from thenceforth 
the Lady Tolosa, which she promised him to perform. The other 
lady buckled on his spur, with whom he had the very like con- 
ference, and, asking her name, she told him she was called Molinera, 
and was daughter to an honest miller of Antequera. Her likewise 
our knight entreated to call herself the Lady Molinera, proffering 
her new services and favours. The new and never-seen-before cere- 
monies being thus speedily finished, as it seemed, with a gallop, 
Don Quixote could not rest until he was mounted on horseback, 
that he might go to seek adventures; wherefore, causing Rozinante 
to be instantly saddled, he leaped on him, and embracing his host, 
he said unto him such strange things, gratifying the favour he had 
done him in dubbing him knight, as it is impxjssible to hit upon the 
manner of recounting them right. The innkeeper, that he might be 
quickly rid of him, did answer his words with others no less rhetori- 
cal, but was in his speech somewhat briefer; and, without demand- 
ing of him anything for his lodging, he suffered him to depart in a 
fortunate hour. 


Of That Which Befel to Our Knight after He Had Departed 

FROM the Inn 

AURORA began to display her beauties about the time that 
I ^k Don Quixote issued out of the inn, so content, Uvely, and 
A. .m. jocund to behold himself knighted, as his very horse-girths 
were ready to burst for joy. But calling to memory the counsels 
that his host had given him, touching the most needful implements 
that he was ever to carry about him, of money and clean shirts, he 
determined to return to his house, and to provide himself of them, 
and also of a squire; making account to entertain a certain labourer, 
his neighbour, who was poor and had children, but yet one very 
fit for this purpxjse and squirely function belonging to knighthood. 
With this determination he turned Rozinante towards the way of 
his own village, who, knowing in a manner his will, began to trot 
on with so good a pace as he seemed not to touch the ground. He 
had not travelled far, when he thought that he heard certain weak 
and delicate cries, like to those of one that complained, to issue out 
from the thickest of a wood that stood on the right hand. And 
scarce had he heard them when he said: 'I render infinite thanks to 
Heaven for the favour it doth me, by proffering me so soon occasion 
wherein I may accomplish the duty of my profession, and gather 
the fruits of my good desires. These plaints doubtlessly be of some 
distressed man or woman, who needeth my favour and aid.' Then, 
turning the reins, he guided Rozinante towards the place from 
whence he thought the complaints sallied; and within a few paces 
after he had entered into the thicket, he saw a mare tied unto an 
holm oak, and to another was tied a young youth, all naked from 
the middle upward, of about the age of fifteen years, and was he 
that cried so pitifully: and not without cause; for a certain country- 
man of comely personage did whip him with a girdle, and accom- 
panied every blow with a reprehension and counsel; for he said, 



'The tongue must peace, and the eyes be wary.' And the boy an- 
swered, 'I will never do it again, good master; for the passion of 
God, I will never do it again. And I promise to have more care of 
your things from henceforth.' 

But Don Quixote, viewing all that passed, said, with an angry 
voice, 'Discourteous knight, it is very uncomely to see thee deal thus 
with one that cannot defend himself. Mount, therefore, on horse- 
back, and take thy lance' (for the farmer had also a lance leaning 
to the very same tree whereunto his mare was tied), 'for I will make 
thee know that it is the use of cowards to do that which thou dost.' 
The other, beholding such an antic to hover over him, all laden with 
arms, and brandishing of his lance towards his face, made full ac- 
count that he should be slain, and therefore he answered, with very 
mild and submissive words, saying, 'Sir knight, the boy which I 
chastise is mine own servant, and keep)eth for me a flock of sheep 
in this commark; who is grown so negligent, as he loseth one of 
them every other day, and because I correct him for his carelessness 
and knavery, he says I do it through covetousness and pinching, as 
meaning to defraud him of his wages; but, before God, and in con- 
science, he belies me.' 'What! the lie in my presence, rascally clown?' 
quoth Don Quixote. 'By the sun that shines on us, I am about to 
run thee through and through with my lance, base carle! Pay him 
instantly, without more replying; or else, by that God which doth 
manage our sublunar affairs, I will conclude thee and annihilate 
thee in a moment! Loose him forthwith!' The countryman, hang- 
ing down of his head, made no reply, but loosed his servant; of 
whom Don Quixote demanded how much did his master owe unto 
him. He said, nine months' hire, at seven reals a month. Don 
Quixote made then the account, and found that all amounted to 
sixty-one reals, and therefore commanded the farmer to pay the 
money presently, if he meant not to die for it. The fearful country- 
man answered, that by the trance wherein he was then, and by the 
oath he had made (which was none at all, for he swore not), that 
he owed not so much; for there should be deducted out of the account 
three pairs of shoes he had given unto him, and a real for twice 
letting him blood, being sick. 'All is well,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'but let the price of the shoes and letting blood go for the blows 


which thou hast given him without any desert; for if he have broken 
the leather of those shoes thou hast bestowed on him, thou hast like- 
wise torn the skin of his body; and if the barber took away his blood, 
being sick, thou hast taken it out, he being in health; so as in that 
respect he owes thee nothing.' 'The damage is, sir knight,' replied 
the boy's master, 'that 1 have no money here about me. Let Andrew 
come with me to my house, and I will pay him his wages, one real 
upon another.' 'I go with him!' quoth the boy; 'evil befall me then! 
No, sir, I never meant it; for as soon as ever he were alone, he would 
flay me like St. Bartholomew.' 'He will not dare to do it,' quoth 
Don Quixote; 'for my command is sufficient to make him respect 
me, and so that he will swear to me to observe it, by the order of 
knighthood which he hath received, 1 will set him free, and assure 
thee of the payment.' 'Good sir,' quoth the youth, 'mark well what 
you say; for this man, my master, is no knight, nor did ever receive 
any order of knighthood, for he is John Haldudo, the rich man, a 
dweller of Quintinar.' 'That makes no matter,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'for there may be knights of the Haldudos; and what is more, every 
one is son of his works.' 'That's true,' quoth Andrew; 'but of what 
works can this my master be son, seeing he denies me my wages, 
and my sweat and labour?' 'I do not deny thy wages, friend An- 
drew,' quoth his master; 'do me but the pleasure to come with me, 
and I swear, by all the orders of knighthood that are in the world, 
to pay thee as I have said, one real upon another — yea, and those also 
perfumed.' 'For the perfuming, I thank thee,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'give it him in reals, and with that I will rest satisfied; and see that 
thou fulfillest it as thou hast sworn: if not, I swear again to thee, 
by the same oath, to return and search thee, and chastise thee, and 
I will find thee out, though thou shouldst hide thyself better than a 
hzard; and if thou desirest to note who commands thee this, that 
thou mayst remain more firmly obliged to accomplish it, know that 
I am the valorous Don Quixote of the Mancha, the righter of wrongs 
and undoer of injuries; and so farewell, and do not forget what thou 
hast promised and sworn, on pain of the pains already pronounced.' 
And, saying these words, he spurred Rozinante, and in short space 
was got far off from them. The countryman pursued him with his 
eye, and, perceiving that he was past the wood, and quite out of 


sight, he returned to his man Andrew, and said to him, 'Come to 
me, child, for I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of 
wrongs hath left me commanded.' 'That I swear,' quoth Andrew; 
'and you shall deal discreetly in fulfilling that good knight's com- 
mandment, who I pray God may live a thousand years; for, seeing 
he is so valorous and so just a judge, I swear by Rocque, that if you 
pay me not, he shall return and execute what he promised.' 'I also 
do swear the same,' quoth the farmer; 'but in respect of the great 
af?ection I bear unto thee, 1 will augment the debt, to increase the 
payment.' And, catching the youth by the arm, he tied him again 
to the oak, where he gave him so many blows as he left him for 
dead. 'Call now. Master Andrew,' quoth he, 'for the righter of 
wrongs, and thou shalt see that he cannot undo this, although I 
believe it is not yet ended to be done; for I have yet a desire to flay 
thee alive, as thou didst thyself fear.' Notwithstanding all these 
threats, he untied him at last, and gave him leave to go seek out his 
judge, to the end he might execute the sentence pronounced. An- 
drew departed somewhat discontent, swearing to search for the 
valorous Don Quixote of the Mancha, and recount unto him, word 
for word, all that had passed, and that he should pay the abuse with 
usury; but, for all his threats, he departed weeping, and his master 
remained behind laughing: and in this manner the valorous Don 
Quixote redressed that wrong. 

Who, glad above measure for his success, accounting himself to 
have given a most noble beginning to his feats of arms, did travel 
towards his village, with very great satisfaction of himself, and said, 
in a low tone, these words following: 'Well mayst thou call thyself 
happy above all other women of the earth, O above all beauties, 
beautiful Dulcinea of Toboso! since thy good fortune was such, to 
hold subject and prostrate to thy will and desire so valiant and re- 
nowned a knight as is, and ever shall be, Don Quixote of the Mancha, 
who, as all the world knows, received the order of knighthood but 
yesterday, and hath destroyed to-day the greatest outrage and wrong 
that want of reason could form, or cruelty commit. To-day did he 
take away the whip out of that pitiless enemy's hand, which did so 
cruelly scourge without occasion the delicate infant.' 

In this discourse he came to a way that divided itself into four, 


and presently these thwarting cross-ways represented themselves to 
his imagination, which ofttimes held knights-errant in suspense 
which way they should take; and, that he might imitate them, he 
stood still a while, and, after he had bethought himself well, he let 
slip the reins to Rozinante, subjecting his will to that of his horse, 
who presently pursued his first design, which was to return home 
unto his own stable: and having travelled some two miles, Don 
Quixote discovered a great troop of people, who, as it was after 
known, were certain merchants of Toledo, that rode towards Murcia 
to buy silks. They were six in number, and came with their quita- 
soles, or shadows of the sun, four serving-men on horseback, and 
three lackeys. Scarce had Don Quixote perceived them, when he 
straight imagined them to be a new adventure. And because he 
would imitate as much as was possible the passages which he read 
in his books, he represented this to himself to be just such an ad- 
venture as he purposed to achieve. And so, with comely gesture and 
hardiness, settling himself well in the stirrups, he set his lance into 
his rest, and embraced his target, and, placing himself in the midst 
of the way, he stood awaiting when those knights-errant should 
arrive; for now he judged and took them for such. And when they 
were so near as they might hear and see him, he lifted up his voice, 
and said: 'Let all the world stand and pass no further, if all the 
world will not confess that there is not in all the world a more beau- 
tiful damsel than the Empress of the Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea 
of Toboso!' The merchants stayed at these words to behold the 
marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spake them, and, by 
his fashion and them joined did incontinently gather his folly and 
distraction, and, notwithstanding, would leisurely behold to what 
tended that confession which he exacted of them; and therefore one 
of them, who was somewhat given to gibing, and was withal very 
discreet, said unto him, 'Sir knight, we do not know that good lady 
of whom you speak; show her therefore to us, and if she be so beau- 
tiful as you affirm, we will willingly, and without any compulsion, 
confess the truth which you now demand of us.' 'If I did show her 
to you,' replied Don Quixote, 'what mastery were it then for you to 
acknowledge a truth so notorious? The consequence of mine affairs 
consists in this, that, without beholding her, you do believe, confess, 


affirm, swear, and defend it; which if you refuse to perform, I chal- 
lenge you all to battle, proud and unreasonable folk; and, whether 
you come one by one (as the order of knighthood requires), or all 
at once, as is the custom and dishonourable practice of men of your 
brood, here will I expect and await you all, trusting in the reason 
which I have on my side.' 'Sir knight,' replied the merchant, 'I 
request you, in all these princes' names, as many as we be here, that 
to the end we may not burden our consciences, confessing a thing 
which we never beheld nor heard, and, chiefly, being so prejudicial 
to the empresses and queens of the kingdoms of Alcaria and Estre- 
madura, you will please to show us some portraiture of that lady, 
although it be no bigger than a grain of wheat, for by one thread 
we may judge of the whole clew; and we will with this favour rest 
secure and satisfied, and you likewise remain content and apaid. 
And I do believe, moreover, that we are already so inclined to your 
side, that although her picture showed her to be blind of the one 
eye, and at the other that she ran fire and brimstone, yet would we, 
notwithstanding, to please you, say in her favour all that you listed.* 
'There drops not, base scoundrels,* quoth Don Quixote, all inflamed 
with choler, — 'there drops not, I say, from her that which thou 
sayst, but amber and civet among bombase; and she is not blind of 
an eye, or crook-backed, but is straighter than a spindle of Guada- 
rama. But all of you together shall pay for the great blasphemy 
thou hast spoken against so immense a beauty as is that of my 
mistress.* And, saying so, he abased his lance against him that had 
answered, with such fury and anger, as, if good fortune had not so 
ordained it that Rozinante should stumble and fall in the midst of 
the career, it had gone very ill with the bold merchant. Rozinante 
fell, in fine, and his master reeled over a good piece of the field; and 
though he attempted to rise, yet was he never able, he was so en- 
cumbered by his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and his weighty old 
armour. And in the meanwhile that he strove to arise, and could 
not, he cried: 'Fly not, cowardly folk! abide, base people, abide! for 
I lie not here through mine own fault, but through the defect of 
my horse.* 

One of the lackeys that came in the company, and seemed to be 
a man of none of the best intentions, hearing the poor overthrown 


knight speak such insolent words, could not forbear them without 
returning him an answer on his ribs; and with that intention ap- 
proaching to him, he took his lance, and, after he had broken it in 
pieces, he gave Don Quixote so many blows with one of them, that, 
in despite of his armour, he threshed him like a sheaf of wheat. 
His masters cried to him, commanding him not to beat him so much, 
but that he should leave him; but all would not serve, for the youth 
was angry, and would not leave off the play, until he had avoided 
the rest of his choler. And therefore, running for the other pieces 
of the broken lance, he broke them all on the miserable fallen knight; 
who, for all the tempest of blows that rained on him, did never 
shut his mouth, but threatened heaven and earth, and those mur- 
derers; for such they seemed to him. The lackey tired himself at 
last, and the merchants followed on their way, carrying with them 
occasion enough of talk of the poor belaboured knight; who, when 
he saw himself alone, turned again to make trial whether he might 
arise; but if he could not do it when he was whole and sound, how 
was it possible he being so bruised and almost destroyed? And yet 
he accounted himself very happy, persuading himself that his dis- 
grace was proper and incident to knights-errant, and did attribute 
all to the fault of his horse, and could in no wise get up, all his body 
was so bruised and laden with blows. 


Wherein Is Proseccted the Former Narration of Our Knight's 


BUT seeing, in eflect, that he could not stir himself, he resolved 
to have recourse to his ordinary remedy, which was to think 
on some passage of his histories; and in the instant his folly 
presented to his memory that of Valdovinos and the Marquis of 
Mantua, then when Carloto had left him wounded on the moun- 
tain: a history known by children, not hidden to young men, much 
celebrated, yea, and believed by many old men; and is yet for all 
that no more authentical than are Mahomet's miracles. This history, 
as it seemed to him, was most fit for the trance wherein he was; and 
therefore he began, with signs of great pain, to tumble up and down, 
and pronounce, with a languishing breath, the same that they feign 
the wounded knight to have said in the wood: 

"Where art thou, lady dear! that griev'st not at my smart? 
Or thou dost it not know, or thou disloyal art." 

And after this manner he did prosecute the old song, until these 
verses that say: *0 noble Marquis of Mantua, my carnal lord and 
uncle!' And it befel by chance, that at the very same time there 
passed by the place where he lay a man of his own village, who 
was his neighbour, and returned after having carried a load of wheat 
to the mill; who beholding a man stretched on the ground, he came 
over to him, and demanded what he was, and what was it that 
caused him to complain so dolefully. Don Quixote did verily be- 
lieve that it was his uncle, the Marquis of Mantua, and so gave him 
no other answer, but only followed on in the repetition of his old 
romance, wherein he gave him account of his misfortune, and of 
the love the emperor's son bore to his spouse all in the very same 
manner that the ballad recounts it. The labourer remained much 
astonished, hearing those follies. And, taking off his visor, which 



with the lackey's blows was broken all to pieces, he wiped his face 
that was full of dust, and scarce had he done it when he knew him; 
to whom he said: 'Master Quixada' (for so he was probably called 
when he had his wits, before he left the state of a staid yeoman to 
become a wandering knight), 'who hath used you after this man- 
ner?' But he continued his romance, answering out of it to every 
question that was put to him; which the good man perceiving, dis- 
armed him the best he could, to see whether he had any wound; 
but he could see no blood, or any token on him of hurt. Afterward 
he endeavoured to raise him from the ground, which he did at the 
last with much ado, and mounted him on his ass, as a beast of easiest 
carriage. He gathered then together all his arms, and left not behind 
so much as the splinters of the lance, and tied them altogether upon 
Rozinante, whom he took by the bridle, and the ass by his halter, 
and led them both in that equipage fair and easily towards his vil- 
lage, being very pensative to hear the follies that Don Quixote spoke. 
And Don Quixote was no less melancholy, who was so beaten and 
bruised as he could very hardly hold himself upon the ass; and ever 
and anon he breathed forth such grievous sighs, as he seemed to fix 
them in heaven; which moved his neighbour to entreat him again 
to declare unto him the cause of his grief. And it seems none other 
but that the very devil himself did call to his memory histories 
accommodated to his successes; for in that instant, wholly forgetting 
Valdovinos, he remembered the Moor Abindarraez, then, when 
the constable of Antequera, Roderick Narvaez, had taken him, and 
carried him prisoner to his castle. So that, when his neighbour 
turned again to ask of him how he did, and what ailed him, he 
answered the very same words and speech that captive Abindarraez 
said to Narvaez, just as he had read them in Diana of Montemayor, 
where the history is written; applying it so properly to his purpose, 
that the labourer grew almost mad for anger to hear that machina 
of follies, by which he collected that his neighbour was distracted; 
and therefore he hied as fast as possible he could to the village, that 
so he might free himself from the vexation that Don Quixote's idle 
and prolix discourse gave unto him. At the end whereof the knight 
said: 'Don Roderick of Narvaez, you shall understand that this 
beautiful Xarifa, of whom I spoke, is now the fair Dulcinea o£ 


Toboso; for whom I have done, I do, and will do, such famous acts 
of knighthood as ever have been, are, and shall be seen in all the 
world.' To this his neighbour answered: 'Do not you perceive, sir, 
(sinner that I am!) how I am neither Don Roderick de Narvaez 
nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Peter Alonso, your neighbour? nor 
are you Valdovinos nor Abindarraez, but the honest gentleman, 
Master Quixada.' 'I know very well who I am,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'and also I know that I may not only be those whom I have named, 
but also all the twelve Peers of France, yea, and the nine Worthies; 
since mine acts shall surpass all those that ever they did together, or 
every one of them apart.' 

With these and such other discourses, they arrived at last at their 
village about sunset: but the labourer awaited until it waxed some- 
what dark, because folk should not view the knight so simply 
mounted. And when he saw his time he entered into the town, and 
went to Don Quixote's house, which he found full of confusion. 
There was the curate and the barber of the village, both of them 
Don Quixote's great friends; to whom the old woman of the house 
said, in a lamentable manner: 'What do you think, Master Licentiate 
Pero Perez' (for so the curate was called), 'of my master's mis- 
fortune? These six days neither he nor his horse have appeared, 
nor the target, lance, or armour. Unfortunate woman that I am! 
I do suspect, and I am as sure it is true as that I shall die, how those 
accursed books of knighthood, which he hath, and is wont to read 
ordinarily, have turned his judgment; for now I remember that I 
have heard him say oftentimes, speaking to himself, that he would 
become a knight-errant, and go seek adventures throughout the 
world. Let such books be recommended to Satan and Barabbas, 
which have destroyed in this sort the most delicate understanding 
of all the Mancha.' His niece affirmed the same, and did add: 
'Moreover, you shall understand, good Master Nicholas' (for so 
hight the barber), 'that it many times befel my uncle to continue 
the lecture of those unhappy books of disventures two days and two 
nights together, at the end of which, throwing the book away from 
him, he would lay hand on his sword, and would fall a-slashing of 
the walls; and when he were wearied, he would say that he had 
slain four giants as great as four towers, and the sweat that dropped 


down, through the labour he took, he would say was blood that 
gushed out of those wounds which he had received in the conflict, 
and then would he quafT off a great pot full of cold water, and 
straight he did become whole and quiet; saying that water was a 
most precious drink, which the wise man Esquife, a great enchanter 
or sorcerer, and his friend, had brought unto him. But I am in the 
fault of all this, who never advertised you both of mine uncle's rav- 
ing, to the end you might have redressed it ere it came to these terms, 
and burnt all those excommunicated books; for he had many that 
deserved the fire as much as if they were heretical.' 'That do I like- 
wise affirm,' quoth Master Curate; 'and, in sooth, to-morrow shall 
not pass over us without making a public process against them, and 
condemn them to be burnt in the fire, that they may not minister 
occasion again to such as may read them, to do that which I fear 
my good friend hath done.' 

The labourer and Don Quixote stood hearing all that which was 
said, and then he {perfectly understood the disease of his neighbour, 
and therefore he began to cry aloud : 'Open the doors to Lord Valdo- 
vinos and to the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who comes very sore 
wounded and hurt, and to the Lord Moor, Abindarraez, whom the 
valorous Roderick of Narvaez, Constable of Antequera, brings as 
his prisoner!' All the household ran out, hearing these cries; and, 
some knowing their friend, the others their master and uncle, who 
had not yet alighted from the ass, because he was not able, they ran 
to embrace him; but he forbade them, saying, 'Stand still and touch 
me not, for I return very sore wounded and hurt, through default 
of my horse: carry me to my bed, and, if it be possible, send for the 
wise Urganda, that she may cure and look to my hurt.' 'See, in an 
ill hour,' quoth the old woman straightway, 'if my heart did not 
very well foretell me on which foot my master halted. Come up in 
good time, for we shall know how to cure you well enough without 
sending for that Urganda you have mentioned. Accursed, say I 
once again, and a hundred times accursed, may those books of 
knighthood be, which have brought you to such estate!' With that 
they bore him up to his bed, and searching for his wounds, could 
not find any; and then he said all was but bruising, by reason of a 
great fall he had with his horse Rozinante, as he fought with ten 


giants, the most unmeasurable and boldest that might be found in 
a great part of the earth. 'Hearken,' quoth the curate, 'we have also 
giants in the dance; by mine honesty, I will burn them all before 
to-morrow at night.' Then did they ask a thousand questions of 
Don Quixote; but he would answer to none of them, and only re- 
quested them to give him some meat, and suffer him to sleep, seeing 
rest was most behooveful for him. All which was done; and the 
curate informed himself at large of the labouring man, in what sort 
he had found Don Quixote, which he recounted to him, and also 
the follies he said, both at his finding and bringing to town; which 
did kindle more earnestly the licentiate's desire to do what he had 
resolved the next day; which was to call his friend the barber. 
Master Nicholas, with whom he came to Don Quixote's house. 


Of the Pleasant and Curious Search Made by the Curate and 
THE Barber of Don Quixote's Library 

WHO slept yet soundly. The curate sought for the keys of 
the library, the only authors of his harm, which the gen- 
tleman's niece gave unto him very willingly. All of them 
entered into it, and among the rest the old woman; wherein they 
found more than a hundred great volumes, and those very well 
bound, besides the small ones. And as soon as the old woman had 
seen them, she departed very hastily out of the chamber, and eftsoons 
returned with as great speed, with a holy-water pot and a sprinkler 
in her hand, and said: 'Hold, master licentiate, and sprinkle this 
chamber all about, lest there should lurk in it some one enchanter 
of the many which these books contain, and cry quittance with us 
for the penalties we mean to inflict on these books, by banishing 
them out of this world.' The simplicity of the good old woman 
caused the licentiate to laugh: who commanded the barber to fetch 
him down the books from their shelves, one by one, that he might 
peruse their arguments; for it might happen some to be found which 
in no sort deserved to be chastised with fire. 'No,' replied the niece, 
'no; you ought not to pardon any of them, seeing they have all been 
offenders: it is better you throw them all into the base<ourt, and 
there make a pile of them, and then set them a-fire; if not, they may 
be carried into the yard, and there make a bonfire of them, and the 
smoke will offend nobody.' The old woman said as much, both of 
them thirsted so much for the death of these innocents; but the 
curate would not condescend thereto until he had first read the titles, 
at the least, of every book. 

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was that of 
Amadis of Gaul; which the curate perusing a while: 'This comes 
not to me first of all others without some mystery; for, as I have 
heard told, this is the first book of knighthood that ever was printed 



in Spain, and all the others have had their beginning and original 
from this; and therefore methinks that we must condemn him to 
the fire, without all remission, as the dogmatiser and head of so bad 
a sect.' 'Not, so, fiel' quoth the barber; 'for I have heard that it is 
the very best contrived book of all those of that kind; and therefore 
he is to be pardoned, as the only complete one of his profession.' 
'That is true,' replied the curate, 'and for that reason we do give him 
his life for this time. Let us see that other which lies next unto him.' 
'It is,' quoth the barber, 'The Adventures of Splandian, Amadis of 
Gaul's lawfully begotten son.' 'Yet, on mine honesty,' replied the 
curate, 'his father's goodness shall nothing avail him. Take this 
book, old mistress, and open the window, throw it down into the 
yard, and let it lay the foundation of our heap for the fire we mean 
to make.' She did what was commanded with great alacrity, and 
so the good Splandian fled into the yard, to expect with all patience 
the fire which he was threatened to abide. 'Forward,' quoth the 
curate. 'This that comes now,' said the barber, 'is Amadis of Greece; 
and, as I conjecture, all those that lie on this side are of the same 
lineage of Amadis.' 'Then let them go all to the yard,' quoth the 
curate, 'in exchange of burning Queen Pintiquinestra, and the 
shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, and the subtle and intricate dis- 
courses of the author, which are able to entangle the father that 
engendered me, if he went in form of a knight-errant.' 'I am of the 
same opinion,' quoth the barber. 'And I also,' said the niece. 'Then, 
since it is so,' quoth the old wife, 'let them come, and to the yard 
with them all.' They were rendered all up unto her, which were 
many in number: wherefore, to save a labour of going up and down 
the stairs, she threw them out at the window. 

'What bundle is that?' quoth the curate. 'This is,' answered 
Master Nicholas, 'Don Olivante of Laura.' 'The author of that book,' 
quoth the curate, 'composed likewise The Garden of Flowers, and, 
in good sooth, I can scarce resolve which of the two works is truest, 
or, to speak better, is less lying; only this much I can determine, that 
this must go to the yard, being a book foolish and arrogant.' 'This 
that follows is Florismarte of Hircania,' quoth the barber. 'Is Lord 
Florismarte there?' then replied the curate; 'then, by mine honesty, 
he shall briefly make his arrest in the yard, in despite of his wonder- 


ful birth and famous adventures; for the drouth and harshness of 
his style deserves no greater favour. To the yard with him, and 
this other, good masters.' 'With a very good will,' quoth old Mumf>- 
simus; and straightway did execute his commandment with no 
small gladness. 'This is Sir Platyr,' quoth the barber. 'It is an an- 
cient book,' replied the curate, 'wherein I find nothing meriting 
pardon; let him, without any reply, keep company with the rest.' 
Forthwith it was done. Then was another book opened, and they 
saw the title thereof to be The Knight of the Cross. 'For the holy 
title which this book beareth,' quoth the curate, 'his ignorance might 
be pardoned; but it is a common saying, "The devil lurks behind 
the cross"; wherefore let it go the fire.' The barber, taking another 
book, said, 'This is The Mirror of Knighthood.' 'I know his wor- 
ship well,' quoth the curate. 'There goes among those books, I see, 
the Lord Raynold of Montalban, with his friends and companions, 
all of them greater thieves than Cacus, and the twelve peers of France, 
with the historiographer Turpin. I am, in truth, about to condemn 
them only to exile, forasmuch as they contain some part of the 
famous poet, Matthew Boyardo, his invention: out of which the 
Christian f)oet, Lodovic Ariosto, did likewise weave his work, which, 
if I can find among these, and that he speaks not his own native 
tongue, I'll use him with no respect; but if he talk in his own lan- 
guage, I will put him, for honour's sake, on my head.' 'If that be 
so,' quoth the barber, 'I have him at home in the Italian, but cannot 
understand him.' 'Neither were it good you should understand him,' 
replied the curate; 'and here we would willingly have excused the 
good captain that translated it into Spanish, from that labour, or 
bringing it into Spain, if it had pleased himself; for he hath deprived 
it of much natural worth in the translation: a fault incident to all 
those that presume to translate verses out of one language into 
another; for, though they employ all their industry and wit therein, 
they can never arrive to the height of that primitive conceit which 
they bring with them in their first birth. I say, therefore, that this 
book, and all the others that may be found in this library to treat 
of French affairs, be cast and deposited in some dry vault, until we 
may determine, with more deliberation, what we should do with 
them; always excepting Bernardo del Carpio, which must be there 


amongst the rest, and another called Roncesvalles; for these two, 
coming to my hands, shall be rendered up to those of the old guar- 
dian, and from hers into the fire's, without any remission.' All which 
was confirmed by the barber, who did ratify his sentence, holding 
it for good and discreet, because he knew the curate to be so vir- 
tuous a man, and so great a friend of the truth, as he would say 
nothing contrary to it for all the goods of the world. 

And then, opening another book, he saw it was Palmerin de Oliva, 
near unto which stood another, entitled Palmerin of England; which 
the licentiate perceiving, said, 'Let Oliva be presently rent in pieces, 
and burned in such sort that even the very ashes thereof may not 
be found; and let Palmerin of England be preserved, as a thing 
rarely delectable; and let such another box as that which Alexander 
found among Darius' spoils, and deputed to keep Homer's works, 
be made for it; for, gossip, this book hath sufficient authority for 
two reasons; the first, because of itself it is very good, and excel- 
lently contrived ; the other, forasmuch as the report runs, that a cer- 
tain discreet king of Portugal was the author thereof. All the 
adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and artificial; 
the discourses very clear and courtly, observing evermore a decorum 
in him that speaks, with great propriety and conceit; therefore I say, 
Master Nicholas, if you think good, this and Amadis de Gaul may 
be preserved from the fire, and let all the rest, without further search 
or regard, f)erish.' 'In the devil's name, do not so, gentle gossip,' 
replied the barber; 'for this which I hold now in my hand is the 
famous Don Belianis.' 'What! he?' quoth the curate; 'the second, 
third, and fourth part thereof have great need of some rhubarb to 
purge his excessive choler, and we must, moreover, take out of him 
all that of the Castle of Fame, and other impertinences of more 
consequence. Therefore, we give them a terminus ultramarinus, 
and as they shall be corrected, so will we use mercy or justice towards 
them; and in the mean space, gossip, you may keep them at your 
house, but permit no man to read them.' 'I am pleased,' quoth the 
barber; and, being unwilling to tire himself any more by reading 
of titles, he bade the old woman to take all the great volumes and 
throw them into the yard. The words were not spoken to a mome 
or deaf person, but to one that had more desire to burn them than 


to weave a piece of linen, were it never so great and fine; and there- 
fore, taking eight of them together, she threw them all out of the 
window, and returning the second time, thinking to carry away a 
great many at once, one of them fell at the barber's feet, who, de- 
sirous to know the title, saw that it was The History of the famous 
Knight Tirante the White. 'Good God!' quoth the curate, with a 
loud voice, 'is Tirante the White here? Give me it, gossip; for I 
make account to find in it a treasure of delight, and a copious mine 
of pastime. Here is Don Quireleison of Montalban, a valiant knight; 
and his brother Thomas of Montalban, and the Knight Fonseca, 
and the combat which the valiant Detriante fought with Alano, and 
the witty conceits of the damsel Plazcrdemivida, with the love and 
guiles of the widow Reposada, and of the empress enamoured on 
her squire Ipwlito. I say unto you, gossip, that this book is, for the 
style, one of the best of the world: in it knights do eat, and drink, 
and sleep, and die in their beds naturally, and make their testaments 
before their death; with many other things which all other books 
of this subject do want; yet, notwithstanding, if I might be judge, 
the author thereof deserved, because he purposely p)enned and wrote 
so many follies, to be sent to the galleys for all the days of his life. 
Carry it home and read it, and you shall see all that I have said 
thereof to be true.' 'I believe it very well,' quoth the barber; 'but 
what shall we do with these little books that remain?' 'These, as 
I take,' said the curate, 'are not books of knighthood, but of p)oetry.' 
And, opening one, he p)erceived it was the Diana of Montemayor; 
and, believing that all the rest were of that stamp, he said: 'These 
deserve not to be burned with the rest, for they have not, nor can 
do, so much hurt as books of knighthood, being all of them works 
full of understanding and conceits, and do not prejudice any other.' 
'Oh, good sir,' quoth Don Quixote his niece, 'your reverence shall 
likewise do well to have them also burnt, lest that mine uncle, after 
he be cured of his knightly disease, may fall, by reading of these, in 
a humour of becoming a shepherd, and so wander through the woods 
and fields, singing of roundelays, and playing on a crowd; and what 
is more dangerous than to become a poet ? which is, as some say, an 
incurable and infectious disease.' 'This maiden says true,' quoth 
the curate; 'and it will not be amiss to remove this stumbling-block 


and occasion out of our friend's way; and since we begin with the 
Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion that it be not burned, but 
only that all that which treats of the wise Felicia, and of the en- 
chanted water, be taken away, and also all the longer verses, and 
let him remain with his prose, and the honour of being the best of 
that kind.' 'This that follows,' quoth the barber, 'is the Diana, called 
the second, written by him of Salamanca; and this other is of the 
same name, whose author is Gil Polo.' 'Let that of Salamanca,' 
answered master parson, 'augment the number of the condemned 
in the yard, and that of Gil Polo be kept as charily as if it were 
Apollo his own work; and go forward speedily, good gossip, for it 
grows late. 'This book,' quoth the barber, opening of another, 'is 
The Twelve Book^s of the Fortunes of Love, written by Anthony 
Lofraso, the Sardinian [K)et.' 'By the holy orders which I have re- 
ceived,' quoth the curate, 'since Apollo was Apollo, and the muses 
muses, and poets poets, was never written so delightful and extrava- 
gant a work as this; and that, in his way and vein, it is the only one 
of all the books that have ever issued of that kind to view the light 
of the world, and he that hath not read it may make account that he 
hath never read matter of delight. Give it to me, gossip, for I do 
prize more the finding of it than I would the gift of a cassock of 
the best satin of Florence.' And so, with great joy, he laid it aside. 
And the barber prosecuted, saying, 'These that follow be The Shep- 
herd of Iberia, The Nymphs of Enares, and The Reclaiming of the 
Jealousies.' 'Then there's no more to be done but to deliver them 
up to the secular arm of the old wife, and do not demand the reason, 
for that were never to make an end.' 'This that comes is The 
Shepherd of Filida.' 'That is not a shepherd,' quoth the curate, 'but 
a very complete courtier; let it be reserved as a precious jewel.' 'This 
great one that follows is,' said the barber, 'entitled The Treasure of 
Divers Poems.' 'If they had not been so many,' replied the curate, 
'they would have been more esteemed. It is necessary that this book 
be carded and purged of certain base things that lurk among his 
high conceits. Let him be kept, both because the author is my very 
great friend, and in regard of other more heroical and lofty works 
he hath written.' 'This is,' said the barber, 'the Ditty Boof(^ of Lopez 
Maldonado.' 'The author of that work is likewise my great friend,' 


replied the parson; 'and his Unes, pronounced by himself, do ravish 
the hearers, and such is the sweetness of his voice when he sings 
them, as it doth enchant the ear. He is somewhat prolix in his 
eclogues, but that which is good is never superfluous; let him be 
kept among the choicest. But what book is that which lies next 
unto him?' 'The Galatea of Michael Cervantes,' quoth the barber. 
'That Cervantes,' said the curate, 'is my old acquaintance this many 
a year, and I know he is more practised in misfortunes than in verses. 
His book hath some good invention in it; he intends and propounds 
somewhat, but concludes nothing; therefore we must expect the 
second part, which he hath promised; perhaps his amendment may 
obtain him a general remission, which until now is denied him; 
and whilst we expect the sight of his second work, keep this part 
closely imprisoned in your lodging.' 'I am very well content to do 
so, good gossip,' said the barber; 'and here there come three together: 
the Auracana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the Austriada of John Ruffo, 
one of the magistrates of Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christopher 
de Virnes, a Valencian poet.' 'All these three books,' quoth the 
curate, 'are the best that are written in heroical verse in the CastiUan 
tongue, and may compare with the most famous of Italy; reserve 
them as the richest pawns that Spain enjoyeth of poetry.' The curate 
with this grew weary to see so many books, and so he would have 
all the rest burned at all adventures. But the barber, ere the sentence 
was given, had ofiened, by chance, one entitled The Tears of An- 
gelica. 'I would have shed those tears myself,' said the curate, 'if I 
had wittingly caused such a book to be burned; for the author thereof 
was one of the most famous poets of the world, not only of Spain, 
and was most happy in the translation of certain fables of Ovid.' 


Of the Second Departure Which Our Good Knight, Don Quixote, 
Made from His House to Seek Adventures 

WHILE they were thus busied, Don Quixote began to cry 
aloud, saying, 'Here, here, valorous knights! Here it is 
needful that you show the force of your valiant arms; for 
the courtiers begin to bear away the best of the tourney.' The folk 
repairing to this rumour and noise, was an occasion that any further 
speech and visitation of the books was omitted; and therefore it is 
to be suspected, that the Carolea and Lion of Spain, with the Acts 
of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, written by Don Louis de Avila, 
were burned, without being ever seen or heard; and perhaps if the 
curate had seen them, they should not have passed under so rigorous 
a sentence. When they all arrived to Don Quixote his chamber, he 
was risen already out of his bed, and continued still his outcries, 
cutting and slashing on every side, being so broadly awake as if he 
never had slept. Wherefore, taking him in their arms, they returned 
him by main force into his bed, and, after he was somewhat quiet 
and settled, he said, turning himself to the curate, 'In good sooth, 
Lord Archbishop Turpin, it is a great dishonour to us that are 
called the twelve Peers, to permit the knights of the court to bear 
thus away the glory of the tourney without more ado, seeing that 
we the adventurers have gained the prize thereof the three foremost 
days.' 'Hold your peace, good gossip,' quoth the curate, 'for fortune 
may be pleased to change the success, and what is lost to-day may 
be won again to-morrow. Look you to your health for the present; 
for you seem at least to be very much tired, if besides you be not 
sore wounded.' 'Wounded! no,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but doubtless 
I am somewhat bruised, for that bastard, Don Rowland, hath beaten 
me to powder with the stock of an oak-tree; and all for envy, because 
he sees that I only dare oppose myself to his valour. But let me be 
never again called Raynold of Montealban if he pay not dearly for 



it, as soon as I rise from this bed, in despite of all his enchantment. 
But, I pray you, call for my breakfast, for I know it will do me much 
good, and leave the revenge of this wrong to my charge.' Presently 
meat was brought; and after he had eaten he fell asleep, and they 
remained astonished at his wonderful madness. That night the old 
woman burned all the books that she found in the house and yard; 
and some there were burnt that deserved, for their worthiness, to 
be kept up in everlasting treasuries, if their fortunes and the laziness 
of the searchers had permitted it. And so the proverb was verified 
in them, 'that the just pays sometimes for the sinners.' One of the 
remedies which the curate and the barber prescribed for that present, 
to help their friend's disease, was that they should change his cham- 
ber, and dam up his study, to the end that, when he arose, he might 
not find them; for, perhaps, by removing the cause, they might also 
take away the effects: and, moreover, they bade them to say that a 
certain enchanter had carried them away, study and all; which device 
was presently put in practice. And, within two days after, Don 
Quixote got up, and the first thing he did was to go and visit his 
books; and seeing he could not find the chamber in the same place 
where he had left it, he went up and down to find it. Sometimes he 
came to the place where the door stood, and felt it with his hands, 
and then would turn his eyes up and down here and there to seek 
it, without speaking a word. But at last, after deliberation, he asked 
of the old woman the way to his books. She, as one well schooled 
before what she should answer, said, 'What study, or what nothing, 
is this you look for? There is now no more study nor books in this 
house; for the very devil himself carried all away with him.' 'It 
was not the devil,' said his niece, 'but an enchanter, that came here 
one night upon a cloud, the day after you departed from hence; 
and, alighting down from a serpent upon which he rode, he entered 
into the study, and what he did therein I know not; and within a 
while after he fled out at the roof of the house, and left all the house 
full of smoke; and when we accorded to see what he had done, we 
could neither see book nor study: only this much the old woman 
and I do remember very well, that the naughty old man, at his 
departure, said, with a loud voice, that he, for hidden enmity that 
he bore to the lord of those books, had done all the harm to the house 


that they might perceive when he were departed, and added that he 
was named the wise Muniaton. 'Frestron, you would have said,' 
quoth Don Quixote. 'I know not,' quoth the old woman, 'whether 
he hight Frestron or Friton, but well I wot that his name ended 
with "ton." ' 'That is true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and he is a very 
wise enchanter, and my great adversary, and looks on me with a 
sinister eye; for he knows, by his art and science, that I shall in 
time fight a single combat with a knight, his very great friend, and 
overcome him in battle, without being able to be by him assisted, 
and therefore he labours to do me all the hurt he may; and I have 
sent him word, that he strives in vain to divert or shun that which 
is by Heaven already decreed.' 'Who doubts of that?' quoth his 
niece. 'But I pray you, good uncle, say, what need have you to 
thrust yourself into these difficulties and brabbles? Were it not bet- 
ter to rest you quietly in your own house, than to wander through 
the world, searching bread of blasted corn, without once considering 
how many there go to seek for wool that return again shorn them- 
selves?' 'Oh, niece,' quoth Don Quixote, 'how ill dost thou under- 
stand the matter! Before I permit myself to be shorn, I will pill 
and pluck away the beards of as many as shall dare or imagine to 
touch but a hair only of me.' To these words the women would 
make no reply, because they saw his choler increase. 

Fifteen days he remained quietly at home, without giving any 
argument of seconding his former vanities; in which time passed 
many pleasant encounters between him and his two gossips, the 
curate and barber, upon that point which he defended, to wit, that 
the world needed nothing so much as knights-errant, and that the 
erratical knighthood ought to be again renewed therein. Master 
parson would contradict him sometimes, and other times yield unto 
that he urged; for had they not observed that manner of proceed- 
ing, it were impossible to bring him to any conformity. In this space 
Don Quixote dealt with a certain labourer, his neighbour, an honest 
man (if the title of honesty may be given to the poor), but one of 
a very shallow wit; in resolution, he said so much to him, and per- 
suaded him so earnestly, and made him so large promises, as the 
poor fellow determined to go away with him, and serve him as 
his squire. Don Quixote, among many other things, bade him to 


dispose himself willingly to depart with him; for now and then 
such an adventure might present itself, that, in as short space as 
one would take up a couple of straws, an island might be won, and 
he be left as governor thereof. With these and such like promises, 
Sancho Panza (for so he was called) left his wife and children, and 
agreed to be his squire. Afterward, Don Quixote began to cast 
plots how to come by some money; which he achieved by selling 
one thing, pawning another, and turning all upside down. At last 
he got a pretty sum, and, accommodating himself with a buckler 
which he had borrowed of a friend, and patching up his broken 
beaver again as well as he could, he advertised his squire Sancho 
of the day and hour wherein he meant to depart, that he might 
likewise furnish himself with that which he thought needful; but 
above all things he charged him to provide himself of a wallet; 
which he promised to perform, and said that he meant also to carry 
a very good ass, which he had of his own, because he was not wont 
to travel much a-foot. In that of the ass Don Quixote stood a while 
pensive, calling to mind whether ever he had read that any knight- 
errant carried his squire assishly mounted; but he could not remem- 
ber any authority for it; yet, notwithstanding, he resolved that he 
might bring his beast, with intention to accommodate him more 
honourably, when occasion were offered, by dismounting the first 
discourteous knight they met, from his horse, and giving it to his 
squire; he also furnished himself with shirts, and as many other 
things as he might, according unto the innkeeper's advice. All which 
being finished, Sancho Panza, without bidding his wife and children 
farewell, or Don Quixote his niece and old servant, they both de- 
parted one night out of the village, unknown to any person living; 
and they travelled so far that night, as they were sure in the morning 
not to be found, although they were pursued. Sancho Panza rode 
on his beast like a patriarch, with his wallet and bottle, and a marvel- 
lous longing to see himself governor of the island which his master 
had promised unto him. 

Don Quixote took by chance the very same course and way that 
he had done in his first voyage through the field of Montiel, wherein 
he travelled then with less vexation than the first; for, by reason it 
was early, and the sunbeams striking not directly down, but athwart, 
the heat did not trouble them much. And Sancho Panza, seeing 


the opportunity good, said to his master, 'I pray you, have care, good 
sir knight, that you forget not that government of the island which 
you have promised me, for I shall be able to govern it were it never 
so great.' To which Don Quixote replied: 'You must understand, 
friend Sancho Panza, that it was a custom very much used by an- 
cient knights-errant, to make their squires governors of the islands 
and kingdoms that they conquered; and I am resolved that so good 
a custom shall never be abolished by me, but rather I will pass and 
exceed them therein; for they sometimes, and as I take it, did, for 
the greater part, expect until their squires waxed aged; and after 
they were cloyed with service, and had suffered many bad days and 
worse nights, then did they bestow upon them some title of an earl, 
or at least of a marquis, of some valley or province, of more or less 
account. But if thou livest, and I withal, it may happen that I may 
conquer such a kingdom within six days, that hath other kingdoms 
adherent to it, which would fall out as just as it were cast in a 
mould for thy purpose, whom I would crown presently king of one 
of them. And do not account this to be any great matter; for things 
and chances do happen to such knights-adventurers as I am, by so 
unexpected and wonderful ways and means, as I might give thee 
very easily a great deal more than I have promised.' 'After that 
manner,' said Sancho Panza, 'if I were a king, through some miracle 
of those which you say, then should Joan Gutierez, my wife, become 
a queen, and my children princes!' 'Who doubts of that?' said Don 
Quixote. 'That do I,' replied Sancho Panza; 'for I am fully per- 
suaded, that although God would rain kingdoms down upon the 
earth, none of them would sit well on Mary Gutierez her head; for, 
sir, you must understand that she's not worth a dodkin for a queen. 
To be a countess would agree with her better; and yet, I pray God 
that she be able to discharge that calling.' 'Commend thou the mat- 
ter to God,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that He may give her that which 
is most convenient for her. But do not thou abase thy mind so much 
as to content thyself with less than at the least to be a viceroy.' 'I 
will not, good sir,' quoth Sancho, 'especially seeing I have so worthy 
a lord and master as yourself, who knows how to give me all that 
may turn to my benefit, and that I shall be able to discharge in good 


Of the Good Success Don Quixote Had, in the Dreadful and 

Never-imagined Adventure of the Windmiixs, with Other 

Accidents Worthy to Be Recorded 

AS they discoursed, they discovered some thirty or forty wind- 
L^k mills, that are in that field; and as soon as Don Quixote 
X .^ espied them, he said to his squire, 'Fortune doth address 
our affairs better than we ourselves could desire; for behold there, 
friend Sancho Panza, how there appears thirty or forty monstrous 
giants, with whom I mean to fight, and deprive them all of their 
lives, with whose spoils we will begin to be rich; for this is a good 
war, and a great service unto God, to take away so bad a seed from 
the face of the earth.' 'What giants?' quoth Sancho Panza. 'Those 
that thou seest there,' quoth his lord, 'with the long arms; and some 
there are of that race whose arms are almost two leagues long.' 'I 
pray you understand,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'that those which appear 
there are no giants, but windmills; and that which seems in them 
to be arms, are their sails, that, swung about by the wind, do also 
make the mill go.' 'It seems well,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that thou 
art not yet acquainted with matter of adventures. They are giants; 
and, if thou beest afraid, go aside and pray, whilst I enter into cruel 
and unequal battle with them.' And, saying so, he spurred his horse 
Rozinante, without taking heed to his squire Sancho's cries, adver- 
tising him how they were doubtless windmills that he did assault, 
and no giants; but he went so fully persuaded that they were giants 
as he neither heard his squire's outcries, nor did discern what they 
were, although he drew very near to them, but rather said, as loud 
as he could, 'Fly not, ye cowards and vile creatures! for it is only 
one knight that assaults you.' 

With this the wind increased, and the mill sails began to turn 
about; which Don Quixote espying, said, 'Although thou movest 
more arms than the giant Briareus thou shalt stoop to me.' And, 



after saying this, and commending himself most devoutly to his 
Lady Dulcinea, desiring her to succor him in that trance, covering 
himself well with his buckler, and setting his lance on his rest, he 
spurred on Rozinante, and encountered with the first mill that was 
before him, and, striking his lance into the sail, the wind swung it 
about with such fury, that it broke his lance into shivers, carrying 
him and his horse after it, and finally tumbled him a good way of! 
from it on the field in evil plight. Sancho Panza repaired presently 
to succor him as fast as his ass could drive; and when he arrived, 
he found him not able to stir, he had gotten such a crush with 
Rozinante. 'Good God!' quoth Sancho, 'did I not foretell unto you 
that you should look well what you did, for they were none other 
than windmills? nor could any think otherwise, unless he had also 
windmills in his brains.' 'Peace, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for 
matters of war are more subject than any other thing to continual 
change; how much more, seeing I do verily persuade myself, that 
the wise Frestron, who robbed my study and books, hath transformed 
these giants into mills, to deprive me of the glory of the victory, such 
is the enmity he bears towards me. But yet, in fine, all his bad arts 
shall but little prevail against the goodness of my sword.' 'God 
grant it as he may!' said Sancho Panza, and then helped him to 
arise; and presently he mounted on Rozinante, who was half shoul- 
der-pitched by rough encounter; and, discoursing upon that adven- 
ture, they followed on the way which guided towards the passage 
or gate of Lapice; for there, as EX)n Quixote avouched, it was not 
possible but to find many adventures, because it was a thoroughfare 
much frequented; and yet he affirmed that he went very much 
grieved, because he wanted a lance; and, telling it to his squire, he 
said, 'I remember how I have read that a certain Spanish knight, 
called Diego Peres of Vargas, having broken his sword in a battle, 
tore off a great branch or stock from an oak-tree, and did such mar- 
vels with it that day, and battered so many Moors, as he remained 
with the surname of Machuca, which signifies a stump, and as well 
he as all his progeny were ever after that day called Vargas and 
Machuca. I tell thee this, because I mean to tear another branch, 
such, or as good as that at least, from the first oak we shall encounter, 
and I mean to achieve such adventures therewithal, as thou wilt 


account thyself fortunate for having merited to behold them, and 
be a witness of things almost incredible.' 'In God's name!' quoth 
Sancho, 'I do believe every word you said. But, I pray you, sit right 
in your saddle; for you ride sideling, which proceeds, as I suppose, 
of the bruising you got by your fall.' 'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don 
Quixote; 'and if I do not complain of the grief, the reason is, be- 
cause knights-errant use not to complain of any wound, although 
their guts did issue out thereof.' 'If it be so,' quoth Sancho, 'I know 
not what to say; but God knows that I would be glad to hear you 
to complain when anything grieves you. Of myself I dare affirm, 
that I must complain of the least grief that I have, if it be not like- 
wise meant that the squires of knights-errant must not complain of 
any harm.' Don Quixote could not refrain laughter, hearing the 
simplicity of his squire; and after showed unto him that he might 
lawfully complain, both when he pleased, and as much as he listed 
with desire, or without it; for he had never yet read anything to 
the contrary in the order of knighthood. Then Sancho said unto 
him that it was dinner-time. To whom he answered, that he needed 
no repast; but if he had will to eat, he might begin when he pleased. 
Sancho, having obtained his license, did accommodate himself on 
his ass's back the best he might. Taking out of his wallet some 
belly-munition, he rode after his master, travelling and eating at 
once, and that with great leisure; and ever and anon he lifted up his 
bottle with such pleasure as the best-fed victualler of Malaga might 
envy his state; and whilst he rode, multiplying of quaffs in that 
manner, he never remembered any of the promises his master had 
made him, nor did he hold the fetch of adventures to be a labour, 
but rather a great recreation and ease, were they never so dangerous. 
In conclusion, they passed over that night under certain trees, from 
one of which Don Quixote tore a withered branch, which might 
serve him in some sort for a lance; and therefore he set thereon the 
iron of his own, which he had reserved when it was broken. 

All that night Don Quixote slept not one wink, but thought upon 
his Lady Dulcinea, that he might conform himself to what he had 
read in his books of adventures, when knights passed over many 
nights without sleep in forests and fields, only entertained by the 
memory of their mistresses. But Sancho spent not his time so vainly; 


for, having his stomach well stuffed, and that not with succory 
water, he carried smoothly away the whole night in one sleep; and 
if his master had not called him up, neither the sunbeams which 
struck on his visage, nor the melody of the birds, which were many, 
and did cheerfully welcome the approach of the new day, could have 
been able to awake him. At his arising he gave one assay to the 
bottle, which he found to be somewhat more weak than it was the 
night before, whereat his heart was somewhat grieved; for he mis- 
trusted that they took not a course to remedy that defect so soon as 
he wished. Nor could Don Quixote break his fast, who, as we have 
said, meant only to sustain himself with pleasant remembrances. 

Then did they return to their commenced way towards the port 
of Lapice, which they discovered about three of the clock in the 
afternoon. 'Here,' said Don Quixote, as soon as he kenned it, 'may 
we, friend Sancho, thrust our hands up to the very elbows in that 
which is called adventures. But observe well this caveat which I 
shall give thee, that, although thou seest me in the greatest dangers 
of the world, thou must not set hand to thy sword in my defence, 
if thou dost not see that those which assault me be base and vile 
vulgar people; for in such a case thou mayst assist me. Marry, if 
they be knights, thou mayst not do so in anywise, nor is it permit- 
ted, by the laws of arms, that thou mayst help me, until thou beest 
likewise dubbed knight thyself.' 'I do assure you, sir,' quoth Sancho, 
'that herein you shall be most punctually obeyed; and therefore 
chiefly in resp)ect that I am of mine own nature a quiet and peace- 
able man, and a mortal enemy of thrusting myself into stirs or 
quarrels; yet it is true that, touching the defence of mine own per- 
son, I will not be altogether so observant of those laws, seeing that 
both divine and human allow every man to defend himself from 
any one that would wrong him.' 'I say no less,' answered Don 
Quixote; 'but in this of aiding me against any knight, thou must 
set bounds to thy natural impulses.' 'I say I will do so,' quoth 
Sancho; 'and I will observe this commandment as punctually as 
that of keeping holy the Sabbath day.' 

Whilst thus they reasoned, there appeared in the way two monks 
of St. Benet's order, mounted on two dromedaries; for the mules 
whereon they rode were but little less. They wore masks with 


spectacles in them, to keep away the dust from their faces; and each 
of them besides bore their umbrills. After them came a coach, and 
four or five a-horseback accompanying it, and two lackeys that ran 
hard by it. There came therein, as it was after known, a certain 
Biscaine lady, which travelled towards Seville, where her husband 
sojourned at the present, and was going to the Indies with an hon- 
orable charge. The monks rode not with her, although they travelled 
the same way. Scarce had Don Quixote perceived them, when he 
said to his squire, 'Either I am deceived, or else this will prove the 
most famous adventure that ever hath been seen; for these two great 
black bulks, which appear there, are, questionless, enchanters, that 
steal, or carry away f)erforce, some princess in that coach; and there- 
fore I must, with all my power, undo that wrong.' 'This will be 
worse than the adventure of the windmills,' quoth Sancho. 'Do 
not you see, sir, that those are friars of St. Benet's order? and the 
coach can be none other than of some travellers. Therefore, listen 
to mine advice, and see well what you do, lest the devil deceive you.' 
'I have said already to thee, Sancho, that thou art very ignorant in 
matter of adventures. What I say is true, as now thou shalt see.' 
And, saying so, he spurred on his horse, and placed himself just in 
the midst of the way by which the friars came; and when they 
approached so near as he supposed they might hear him, he said, 
with a loud voice, 'Devilish and wicked people! leave presently those 
high princesses which you violently carry away with you in that 
coach; or, if you will not, prepare yourselves to receive sudden death, 
as a just punishment of your bad works.' The friars held their 
horses, and were amazed both at the shaf)e and words of Don 
Quixote; to whom they answered: 'Sir knight, we are neither devil- 
ish nor wicked, but religious men of St. Benet's order, that travel 
about our affairs; and we know not whether or no there come any 
princesses forced in this coach.' 'With me fair words take no effect,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'for I know you very well, treacherous knaves!' 
And then, without expecting their reply, he set spurs to Rozinante, 
and, laying his lance on the thigh, charged the first friar with such 
fury and rage, that if he had not suffered himself willingly to fall 
off his mule, he would not only have overthrown him against his 
will, but likewise have slain, or at least wounded him very ill with 


the blow. The second religious man, seeing how ill his companion 
was used, made no words; but, setting spurs to that castle his mule, 
did fly away through the field, as swift as the wind itself. Sancho 
Panza, seeing the monk overthrown, dismounted very speedily off 
his ass, and ran over to him, and would have ransacked his habits. 
In this arrived the monks' two lackeys, and demanded of him why 
he thus despoiled the friar. Sancho replied that it was his due, by 
the law of arms, as lawful spoils gained in battle by his lord, Don 
Quixote. The lackeys, which understood not the jest, nor knew 
not what words of battle or spoils meant, seeing that Don Quixote 
was now out of the way, sp)eaking with those that came in the coach, 
set both at once upon Sancho, and left him not a hair in his beard 
but they plucked, and did so trample him under their feet, as they 
left him stretched on the ground without either breath or feeling. 
The monk, cutting off all delays, mounted again on horseback, all 
affrighted, having scarce any drop of blood left in his face through 
fear; and, being once up, he spurred after his fellow, who expected 
him a good way ofl, staying to see the success of that assault; and, 
being unwilling to attend the end of that strange adventure, they 
did prosecute their journey, blessing and crossing themselves as if 
the devil did pursue them. 

Don Quixote, as is rehearsed, was in this season speaking to the 
lady of the coach, to whom he said: 'Your beauty, dear lady, may 
dispose from henceforth of your person as best ye liketh; for the 
pride of your robbers lies now prostrated on the ground, by this my 
invincible arm. And because you may not be troubled to know your 
deliverer his name, know that I am called Don Quixote de la 
Mancha, a knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peer- 
less and beautiful Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. And, in reward of the 
benefit which you have received at my hands, I demand nothing 
else but that you return to Toboso, and there present yourselves, in 
my name, before my lady, and recount unto her what I have done 
to obtain your liberty.' To all these words which Don Quixote said, 
a certain Biscaine squire, that accompanied the coach, gave ear; who, 
seeing that Don Quixote suffered not the coach to pass onward, but 
said that it must presently turn back to Toboso, he drew near to him, 
and, laying hold on his lance, he said, in his bad Spanish and worse 


Basquish: 'Get thee away, knight, in an ill hour. By the God that 
created me, if thou leave not the coach, I will kill thee, as sure as I 
am a Biscaine.' Don Quixote, understanding him, did answer, with 
great staidness: 'If thou were a knight, as thou art not, I would by 
this have punished thy folly and presumption, caitiff creature!' The 
Biscaine replied, with great fury: 'Not I a gentleman! I swear God 
thou liest, as well as I am a Christian. If thou cast away thy lance, 
and draw thy sword, thou shalt see the water as soon as thou shalt 
carry away the cat: a Biscaine by land, and a gentleman by sea, a 
gentleman in spite of the devil; and thou liest, if other things thou 
sayst!' ' "Straight thou shalt see that," said Agrages,' replied Don 
Quixote; and, throwing his lance to the ground, he out with his 
sword, and took his buckler, and set on the Biscaine, with resolution 
to kill him. The Biscaine, seeing him approach in that manner, 
although he desired to alight off his mule, which was not to be 
trusted, being one of those naughty ones which are wont to be hired, 
yet had he no leisure to do any other thing than to draw out his 
sword; but it befel him happily to be near to the coach, out of which 
he snatched a cushion, that served him for a shield; and presently 
the one made upon the other like mortal enemies. Those that* were 
present laboured all that they might, but in vain, to compound the 
matter between them; for the Biscaine swore, in his bad language, 
that if they hindered him from ending the battle, he would put his 
lady, and all the rest that dared to disturb him, to the sword. 

The lady, astonished and fearful of that which she beheld, com- 
manded the coachman to go a little out of the way, and sat aloof, 
beholding the rigorous conflict; in the progress whereof the Biscaine 
gave Don Quixote over the target a mighty blow on one of the 
shoulders, where, if it had not found resistance in his armour, it 
would doubtlessly have cleft him down to the girdle. Don Quixote, 
feeling the weight of that unmeasurable blow, cried, with a loud 
voice, saying, 'O Dulcinea! lady of my soul! the flower of all beauty! 
succor this thy knight, who to set forth thy worth, finds himself in 
this dangerous trance!' The saying of these words, the gripping 
fast of his sword, the covering of himself well with his buckler, and 
the assailing of the Biscaine, was done all in one instant, resolving 
to venttire all the success of the battle on that one only blow. The 


Biscaine, who perceived him come in that manner, perceived, by his 
doughtiness, his intention, and resolved to do the Uke; and therefore 
expected him very well, covered with his cushion, not being able 
to manage his mule as he wished from one part to another, who 
was not able to go a step, it was so wearied, as a beast never before 
used to the like toys. Don Quixote, as we have said, came against 
the wary Biscaine with his sword lifted aloft, with full resolution 
to part him in two; and all the beholders stood, with great fear 
suspended, to see the success of those monstrous blows wherewithal 
they threatened one another. And the lady of the coach, with her 
gentlewomen, made a thousand vows and offerings to all the devout 
places of Spain, to the end that God might deliver the squire and 
themselves out of that great danger wherein they were. 

But it is to be deplored how, in this very point and term, the 
author of this history leaves his battle def)ending, excusing himself 
that he could find no more written of the acts of Don Quixote than 
those which he hath already recounted. True it is, that the second 
writer of this work would not believe that so curious a history was 
drowned in the jaws of oblivion, or that the wits of the Mancha were 
so little curious as not to reserve among their treasures or records 
some papers treating of this famous knight; and therefore, encour- 
aged by this presumption, he did not despair to find the end of this 
pleasant history; which, Heaven being propitious to him, he got at 
last, after the manner that shall be recounted in the Second Part. 



Wherein Is Related the Events of the Fearful Battle Which 
THE Gallant Biscaine Fought with Don Quixote 

WE left the valorous Biscaine and the famous Don Quixote, 
in the First Part, with their swords lifted up and naked, 
in terms to discharge one up)on another two furious cleav- 
ers, and such, as if they had lighted rightly, would cut and divide 
them both from the top to the toe, and open them like a pomegran- 
ate; and in that so doubtful a taking the delightful history stopped 
and remained dismembered, the author thereof leaving us no notice 
where we might find the rest of the narration. This grieved me not 
a little, but wholly turned the pleasure I took in reading the begin- 
ning thereof into disgust, thinking how small commodity was 
offered to find out so much as in my opinion wanted of this so 
delectable a tale. It seemed unto me almost impossible, and con- 
trary to all good order, that so good a knight should want some 
wise man that would undertake his wonderful prowess and feats of 
chivalry: a thing that none of those knights-errant ever wanted, of 
whom (jeople speak; for each of them had one or two wise men, of 
purpose, that did not only write their acts, but also depainted their 
very least thoughts and toys, were they never so hidden. And surely 
so good a knight could not be so unfortunate as to want that where- 
with Platyr and others his like abounded; and therefore could not 
induce myself to believe that so gallant a history might remain 
maimed and lame, and did rather cast the fault upon the malice of 
the time, who is a consumer and devourer of all things, which had 
either hidden or consumed it. Methought, on the other side, seeing 
that among his books were found some modern works, such as 
the Undeceiving of Jealousy, and the Nymphs and Shepherds of 
Henares, that also his own history must have been new; and if that 



it were not written, yet was the memory of him fresh among the 
dwellers of his own village and the other villages adjoining. This 
imagination held me suspended, and desirous to learn really and 
truly all the life and miracles of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote 
of the Mancha, the light and mirror of all Manchical chivalry, being 
the first who, in this our age and time, so full of calamities, did 
undergo the travels and exercise of arms-errant; and undid wrongs, 
succored widows, protected damsels that rode up and down with 
their whips and palfreys, and with all their virginity on their backs, 
from hill to hill and dale to dale; for, if it happened not that some 
lewd miscreant, or some clown with a hatchet and long hair, or 
some monstrous giant, did force them, damsels there were in times 
past that at the end of fourscore years old, all which time they never 
slept one day under a roof, went as entire and pure maidens to their 
graves as the very mother that bore them. Therefore I say, that as 
well for this as for many other good respects, our gallant Don 
Quixote is worthy of continual and memorable praises; nor can 
the like be justly denied to myself, for the labour and diligence which 
I used to find out the end of this grateful history, although I know 
very well that, if Heaven, chance, and fortune had not assisted me, 
the world had been deprived of the delight and pastime that they 
may take for almost two hours together, who shall with attention 
read it. The manner, therefore, of finding it was this: 

Being one day walking in the exchange of Toledo, a certain boy 
by chance would have sold divers old quires and scrolls of books to 
a squire that walked up and down in that place, and I, being ad- 
dicted to read such scrolls, though I found them torn in the streets, 
borne away by this my natural inclination, took one of the quires 
in my hand, and perceived it to be written in Arabical characters, 
and seeing that, although I knew the letters, yet could I not read 
the substance, I looked about to view whether I could fjerceive any 
Moor turned Spaniard thereabouts, that could read them; nor was 
it very difficult to find there such an interpreter; for, if I had 
searched one of another better and more ancient language, that 
place would easily afford him. In fine, my good fortune presented 
one to me; to whom telling my desire, and setting the book in his 
hand, he opened it, and, having read a little therein, began to laugh. 


I demanded of him why he laughed; and he answered, at that mar- 
ginal note which the book had. I bade him to expound it to me, 
and with that took him a little aside; and he, continuing still his 
laughter, said: 'There is written there, on this margin, these words: 
"This Dulcinea of Toboso, so many times spoken of in this history, 
had the best hand for powdering of pxjrks of any woman in all the 
Mancha." ' When I heard it make mention of Dulcinea of Toboso, 
I rested amazed and suspended, and imagined forthwith that those 
quires contained the history of Don Quixote. With this conceit I 
hastened him to read the beginning, which he did, and, translating 
the Arabical into Spanish in a trice, he said that it begun thus: 'The 
History of Don Quixote of the Mancha, written by Cid Hamete 
Benengeli, an Arabical historiographer.' Much discretion was req- 
uisite to dissemble the content of mind I conceived when I heard 
the title of the book, and preventing the squire, I bought all the boy's 
scrolls and papers for a real; and were he of discretion, or knew my 
desire, he might have promised himself easily, and also have borne 
away with him, more than six reals for his merchandise. I departed 
after with the Moor to the cloister of the great church, and I re- 
quested him to turn me all the Arabical sheets that treated of Don 
Quixote into Spanish, without adding or taking away anything from 
them, and I would pay him what he listed for his pains. He de- 
manded fifty pounds of raisins and three bushels of wheat, and 
promised to translate them speedily, well, and faithfully. But I, to 
hasten the matter more, lest I should lose such an unexpected and 
welcome treasure, brought him to my house, where he translated all- 
the work in less than a month and a half, even in the manner that it 
is here recounted. 

There was painted, in the first quire, very naturally, the battle 
betwixt Don Quixote and the Biscaine; even in the same manner that 
the history relateth it, with their swords lifted aloft, the one covered 
with his buckler, the other with the cushion; and the Biscaine's mule 
was delivered so naturally as a man might p)erceive it was hired, 
although he stood farther off than the shot of a cross-bow. The Bis- 
caine had a title written under his feet that said, 'Don Sancho de 
Azpetia,' for so belike he was called; and at Rozinante his feet there 
was another, that said 'Don Quixote.' Rozinante was marvellous 
well portraited; so long and lank, so thin and lean, so like one labour- 


ing with an incurable consumption, as he did show very clearly with 
what consideration and propriety he had given unto him the name 
Rozinante. By him stood Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the 
halter; at whose feet was another scroll, saying, 'Sancho Zancas,' and 
I think the reason thereof was, that, as his picture showed, he had 
a great belly, a short stature, and thick legs; and therefore, I judge, 
he was called Panza, or Zanca; for both these names were written 
of him indifferently in the history. There were other little things in it 
worthy noting; but all of them are of no great importance, nor any- 
thing necessary for the true relation of the history; for none is ill, 
if it be true. And if any objection be made against the truth of this, 
it can be none other than that the author was a Moor; and it is a 
known propriety of that nation to be lying: yet, in respect that they 
hate us so mortally, it is to be conjectured that in this history there 
is rather want and concealment of our knight's worthy acts than any 
superfluity; which I imagine the rather, because I find in the progress 
thereof, many times, that when he might and ought to have ad- 
vanced his pen in our knight's praises, he doth, as it were of purpose, 
pass them over in silence; which was very ill done, seeing that his- 
toriographers ought and should be very precise, true, and unpas- 
sionate; and that neither profit nor fear, rancour nor affection, should 
make them to tread awry from the truth, whose mother is history, 
the emulatress of time, the treasury of actions, the witness of things 
past, the advertiser of things to come. In this history 1 know a man 
may find all that he can desire in the most pleasing manner; and if 
they want anything to be desired, I am of opinion that it is through 
the fault of that ungracious knave that translated it, rather than 
through any defect in the subject. Finally, the Second Part thereof 
(according to the translation) began in this manner: 

The trenchant swords of the two valorous and enraged combatants 
being lifted aloft, it seemed that they threatened heaven, the earth, 
and the depths, such was their hardiness and courage. And the 
first that discharged his blow was the Biscaine, which fell with such 
force and fury, as if the sword had not turned a little in the way, 
that only blow had been sufficient to set an end to the rigorous con- 
tention, and all other the adventures of our knight. But his good 
fortune, which reserved him for greater affairs, did wrest his ad- 
versary's sword awry in such sort, as though he struck him on the 


left shoulder, yet did it no more harm than disarm all that side, 
carrying away with it a great part of his beaver, with the half of 
his ear; all which fell to the ground with a dreadful ruin, leaving 
him in very ill case for a good time. Good God! who is he that can 
well describe, at this present, the fury that entered in the heart of 
our Manchegan, seeing himself used in that manner. Let us say no 
more, but that it was such that, stretching himself again in the stir- 
rups, and gripping his sword fast in both his hands, he discharged 
such a terrible blow on the Biscaine, hitting him right upon the 
cushion, and by it on the head, that the strength and thickness 
thereof so little availed him, that, as if a whole mountain had fallen 
upon him, the blood gushed out of his mouth, nose, and ears, all 
at once, and he tottered so on his mule, that every step he took he 
was ready to fall off, as he would indeed if he had not taken him 
by the neck; yet, nevertheless, he lost the stirrups, and, losing his 
grip of the mule, it being likewise frighted by that terrible blow, 
ran away as fast as it could about the fields, and within two or three 
winches overthrew him to the ground. All which Don Quixote 
stood beholding with great quietness; and as soon as he saw him 
fall, he leaped off his horse, and ran over to him very speedily; and, 
setting the point of his sword on his eyes, he bade him yield himself, 
or else he would cut off his head. The Biscaine was so amazed as 
he could not speak a word; and it had succeeded very ill with him, 
considering Don Quixote's fury, if the ladies of the coach, which 
until then had beheld the conflict with great anguish, had not come 
where he was, and earnestly besought him to do them the favour to 
pardon their squire's life. Don Quixote answered, with a great 
loftiness and gravity: 'Truly, fair ladies, I am well apaid to grant 
you your request, but it must be with this agreement and condition, 
that this knight shall promise me to go to Toboso, and present him- 
self, in my name, to the peerless Lady Dulcinea, to the end she may 
dispose of him as she pleaseth.' The timorous and comfortless lady, 
without considering what Don Quixote demanded, or asking what 
Dulcinea was, promised that her squire should accomplish all that 
he pleased to command. 'Why, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'trusting 
to your promise, I'll do him no more harm, although he hath well 
deserved it at my hands.' 


Of That Which after Befel Don Quixote When He Had Left 

THE Ladies 

BY this Sancho Panza had gotten up, though somewhat abused 
I by the friars' lackeys, and stood attentively beholding his 
lord's combat, and prayed to God with all his heart, that it 
would please Him to give him the victory; and that he might therein 
win some island, whereof he might make him governor, as he had 
promised. And, seeing the controversy ended at last, and that his 
lord remounted upon Rozinante, he came to hold him the stirrup, 
and cast himself on his knees before him ere he got up, and, taking 
him by the hand, he kissed it, saying, 'I desire that it will please you, 
good my lord Don Quixote, to bestow upon me the government of 
that island which in this terrible battle you have won; for though 
it were never so great, yet do I find myself able enough to govern 
it, as well as any other whatsoever that ever governed island in this 
world.' To this demand Don Quixote answered: 'Thou must note, 
friend Sancho, that this adventure, and others of this kind, are not 
adventures of islands, but of thwartings and highways, wherein 
nothing else is gained but a broken pate, or the loss of an ear. Have 
patience a while; for adventures will be offered whereby thou shalt 
not only be made a governor, but also a greater man.' Sancho ren- 
dered him many thanks, and, kissing his hand again, and the skirt 
of his habergeon, he did help him to get up on Rozinante, and he 
leapt on his ass, and followed his lord, who, with a swift pace, with- 
out taking leave or speaking to those of the coach, entered into a 
wood that was hard at hand. Sancho followed him as fast as his 
beast could trot; but Rozinante went off so swiftly, as he, perceiving 
he was like to be left behind, was forced to call aloud to his master 
that he would stay for him, which Don Quixote did, by checking 
Rozinante with the bridle, until his wearied squire did arrive; who, 



as soon as he came, said unto him, 'Methinks, sir, that it will not be 
amiss to retire ourselves to some church; for, according as that man 
is ill dight with whom you fought, I certainly persuade myself that 
they will give notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood, and 
they will seek to apprehend us, which if they do, in good faith, 
before we can get out of their claws, I fear me we shall sweat for 
it.' 'Peace!' quoth Don Quixote; 'where hast thou ever read or seen 
that knight-errant that hath been brought before the judge, though 
he committed never so many homicides and slaughters?' 'I know 
nothing of omicills,' quoth Sancho, 'nor have I cared in my life for 
any; but well I wot that it concerns the Holy Brotherhood to deal 
with such as fight in the fields, and in that other I will not inter- 
meddle.' 'Then be not afraid, friend,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for I 
will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, how much more 
out of those of the brotherhood. But tell me, in very good earnest, 
whether thou didst ever see a more valorous knight than I am 
throughout the face of the earth? Didst thou ever read in histories 
of any other that hath, or ever had, more courage in assailing, more 
breath in persevering, more dexterity in offending, or more art in 
overthrowing, than I?' 'The truth is,' quoth Sancho, 'that I have 
never read any history; for I can neither read nor write: but that 
which I dare wager is, that I never in my life served a bolder master 
than you are; and I pray God that we pay not for this boldness 
there where I have said. That which I request you is, that you will 
cure yourself; for you lose much blood by that ear, and here I have 
lint and a little tinguentum album in my wallet.' 'All this might be 
excused,' quoth Don Quixote, 'if I had remembered to make a vial- 
ful of the Balsam of Fierebras; for, with one drop of it, we might 
spare both time, and want well all those other medicines.' 'What 
vial, and what balsam, is that?' said Sancho Panza. 'It is,' answered 
Don Quixote, 'a balsam whereof I have the recipe in memory, which 
one possessing he needs not fear death, nor ought he to think that 
he may be killed by any wound; and therefore, after I have made it, 
and given it unto thee, thou hast nothing else to do, but when thou 
shalt see that in any battle I be cloven in twain (as many times it 
happens), thou shalt take fair and softly that part of my body that 
is fallen to the ground, and put it up again, with great subtlety, on 
the part that rests in the saddle, before the blood congeal, having 


evermore great care that thou place it just and equally; then presently 
after thou shalt give me two draughts of that balsam of which I have 
spoken, and thou shalt see me straight become sounder than an 
apple.' 'If that be true,' quoth Sancho, 'I do presently here renounce 
the government of the island you promised, and will demand nothing 
else in recompense of my services of you, but only the recipe of 
this precious liquor; for I am certain that an ounce thereof will be 
worth two reals in any place, and when I have it I should need 
nothing else to gain my living easily and honestly. But let me 
know, is it costly in making?' 'With less than three reals,' quoth 
Don Quixote, 'a man may make three gallons of it. But I mean 
to teach thee greater secrets than this, and do thee greater favours 
also. And now, let me cure myself; for mine ear grieves me more 
than I would wish.' Sancho then took out of his wallet his lint and 
ointment to cure his master. But when Don Quixote saw that the 
visor of his helmet was broken, he was ready to run mad; and, 
setting his hand to his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he 
said: 'I vow to the Creator of all things, and to the four gospels 
where they are largest written, to lead such another life as the great 
Marquis of Mantua did, when he swore to revenge the death of 
his nephew Valdovinos: which was, not to eat on table<loth, nor 
sport with his wife, and other things, which, although I do not now 
remember, I give them here for expressed, until I take complete 
revenge on him that hath done me this outrage.' 

Sancho, hearing this, said: 'You must note. Sir Don Quixote, that 
if the knight had accomplished that which you ordained, to go and 
present himself before my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, then hath he 
fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no new punishment, except he 
commit a new fault.' 'Thou hast spoken well, and hit the mark 
right,' said Don Quixote; 'and therefore I disannul the oath, in that 
of taking any new revenge on him; but I make it, and confirm it 
again, that I will lead the life I have said until I take another helmet 
like, or as good as this, perforce from some knight. And do not 
think, Sancho, that I make this resolution lightly, or, as they say, 
with the smoke of straws, for I have an author whom I may very 
well imitate herein; for the very like, in every respect, passed about 
Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacriphante so dearly.' 'I would 
have you resign those kind of oaths to the devil,' quoth Sancho; 'for 


they will hurt your health, and prejudice your conscience. If not, 
tell me now, 1 beseech you, if we shall not these many days en- 
counter with any that wears a helmet, what shall we do? Will you 
accomplish the oath in despite of all the inconveniences and dis- 
commodities that ensue thereof? to wit, to sleep in your clothes, nor 
to sleep in any dwelling, and a thousand other penitences, which 
the oath of the mad old man, the Marquis of Mantua, contained, 
which you mean to ratify now? Do not you consider that armed 
men travel not in any of these ways, but carriers and waggoners, 
who not only carry no helmets, but also, for the most part, never 
heard speak of them in their lives?' 'Thou dost deceive thyself say- 
ing so,' replied Don Quixote; 'for we shall not haunt these ways 
two hours before we shall see more armed knights than were at 
the siege of Albraca, to conquer Angelica the fair.' 

'Well, then, let it be so,' quoth Sancho; 'and I pray God it befall 
us well, whom I devoutly beseech that the time may come of gain- 
ing that island which costs me so dear, and after let me die presently, 
and I care not.' 'I have already said to thee, Sancho,' quoth his lord, 
'that thou shouldst not trouble thyself in any wise about this affair; 
for if an island were wanting, we have then the kingdom of Den- 
mark, or that of Sobradisa, which will come as fit for thy purpose 
as a ring to thy finger; and principally thou art to rejoice because 
they are on the continent. But, omitting this till his own time, see 
whether thou hast anything in thy wallet, and let us eat it, that 
afterward we may go search out some castle wherein we may lodge 
this night, and make the balsam which I have told thee; for I vow 
to God that this ear grieves me marvellously.' 'I have here an onion,' 
replied the squire, 'a piece of cheese, and a few crusts of bread; but 
such gross meats are not befitting so noble a knight as you are.' 
'How ill dost thou understand it!' answered Don Quixote. 'I let 
thee to understand, Sancho, that it is an honour for knights-errant 
not to eat once in a month's space; and if by chance they should 
eat, to eat only of that which is next at hand; and this thou might- 
est certainly conceive, hadst thou read so many books as I have done; 
for though I passed over many, yet did I never find recorded in any 
that knights-errant did ever eat, but by mere chance and adventure, 
or in some costly banquets that were made for them, and all the 


Other days they passed over with herbs and roots: and though it is 
to be understood that they could not Hve without meat, and supply 
ing the other needs of nature, because they were in effect men as 
we are, it is likewise to be understood, that spending the greater 
part of their lives in forests and deserts, and that, too, without a 
cook, that their most ordinary meats were but coarse and rustical, 
such as thou dost now offer unto me. So that, friend Sancho, let 
not that trouble thee which is my pleasure, nor go not thou about 
to make a new world, or to hoist knight-errantry off her hinges.' 
'Pardon me, good sir,' quoth Sancho; 'for, by reason I can neither 
read nor write, as I have said once before, I have not fallen rightly 
in the rules and laws of knighthood; and from henceforth my wal- 
let shall be well furnished with all kinds of dry fruits for you, 
because you are a knight; and for myself, seeing I am none, I will 
provide fowls and other things, that are of more substance.' 'I say 
not, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that it is a forcible law to knights- 
errant not to eat any other things than such fruits, but that their 
most ordinary sustenance could be none other than those, and some 
herbs they found up and down the fields, which they knew very 
well, and so do I also.' 'It is a virtue,' quoth Sancho, 'to know those 
herbs; for, as I imagine, that knowledge will some day stand us in 
stead.' And, saying so, he took out the provision he had, which they 
both ate together with good conformity. But, being desirous to 
search out a place where they might lodge that night, they did 
much shorten their poor dinner, and, mounting anon a-horseback, 
they made as much haste as they could to find out some dwellings 
before the night did fall; but the sun and their hopes did fail them 
at once, they being near the cabins of certain goatherds; and there- 
fore they concluded to take up their lodging there for that night: 
for, though Sancho's grief was great to lie out of a village, yet Don 
Quixote's joy exceeded it far, considering he must sleep undei open 
heaven; because he made account, as oft as this befel him, that he 
did a worthy act, which did facilitate and ratify the practice of his 


Of That Which Passed Between Don Quixote and Certain 


HE was entertained very cheerfully by the goatherds; and 
Sancho, having set up Rozinante and his ass as well as he 
could, he presently repaired to the smell of certain pieces 
of goat-flesh, that stood boiling in a kettle over the fire; and although 
he thought, in that very moment, to try whether they were in sea- 
son to be translated out of the kettle into the stomach, he did omit 
it, because he saw the herds take them off the fire, and, spreading 
certain sheepskins, which they had for that purpose, on the ground, 
lay in a trice their rustical table, and invited the master and man, 
with very cheerful mind, to come and take part of that which they 
had. There sat down round about the skins six of them, which 
were all that dwelt in that fold; having first (using some coarse 
compliments) placed Don Quixote upon a trough, turning the bot- 
tom up. Don Quixote sat down, and Sancho stood to serve the cup, 
which was made of horn. His master, seeing him afoot, said, 
'Sancho, to the end thou mayst f)erceive the good included in wan- 
dering knighthood, and also in what possibility they are which 
exercised themselves in any ministry thereof, to arrive briefly to 
honour and reputation in the world, my will is, that thou dost sit 
here by my side, and in company with this good people, and that 
thou beest one and the very selfsame thing with me, who am thy 
master and natural lord; that thou eat in my dish and drink in the 
same cup wherein I drink; for the same may be said of chivalry 
that is of love, to wit, that it makes all things equal.' 'I yield you 
great thanks,' quoth Sancho; 'yet dare 1 avouch unto you, that so 
I had therewithal to eat well, I could eat it as well, or better, stand- 
ing and alone, than if I sat by an emp)eror. And besides, if I must 
say the truth, methinks that which I eat in a corner, without cere- 
monies, curiosity, or respect of any, though it were but bread and 



an onion, smacks a great deal better than turkey<ocks at other 
tables, where I must chew my meat leisurely, drink but little, wipe 
my hands often, must not neese nor cough though I have a desire, 
or be like to choke, nor do other things that solitude and liberty 
bring with them. So that, good sir, I would have you convert these 
honours that you would bestow upon me, in respect that I am an 
adherent to chivalry (as I am, being your squire), into things more 
essential and profitable for me than these; and though I remain as 
thankful for them as if they were received, yet do I here renounce, 
from this time until the world's end.' 'For all that, thou shalt sit; 
for the humble shall be exalted.' And so, taking him by the arm, 
he forced him to sit down near himself. 

The goatherds did not understand that gibberish of squires and 
knights-errant, and therefore did nothing else but eat and hold their 
peace, and look on their guests, that tossed in with their fists whole 
slices, with good grace and stomachs. The course of flesh being 
ended, they served in on the rugs a great quantity of shelled acorns, 
and half a cheese, harder than if it were made of rough-casting. 
The horn stood not the while idle; for it went round about so often, 
now full, now empty, much hke a conduit of Noria; and in a trice 
it emptied one of the two wine-bags that lay there in the public 
view. After that Don Quixote had satisfied his appetite well, he 
took up a handful of acorns, and, beholding them earnestly, he be- 
gan to discourse in this manner: 'Happy time, and fortunate ages 
were those, whereon our ancestors bestowed the title of golden! not 
because gold (so much prized in this our iron age) was gotten in 
that happy time without any labours, but because those which lived 
in that time knew not these two words, 'thine' and 'mine'; in that 
holy age all things were in common. No man needed, for his or- 
dinary sustenance, to do ought else than lift up his hand, and take 
it from the strong oak, which did liberally invite them to gather his 
sweet and savoury fruit. The clear fountains and running rivers 
did offer them these savoury and transparent waters in magnificent 
abundance. In the clefts of rocks and hollow trees did the careful 
and discreet bees erect their commonwealth, offering to every hand, 
without interest, the fertile crop of their sweetest travails. The lofty 
cork-trees did dismiss of themselves, without any other art than 


that of their native liberality, their broad and light rinds; where- 
withal houses were at first covered, being sustained by rustical stakes, 
to none other end but for to keep back the inclemencies of the air. 
All then was peace, all amity, and all concord. As yet the plough- 
share presumed not, with rude encounter, to open and search the 
compassionate bowels of our first mother; for she, without compul- 
sion, o/Jered up, through all the parts of her fertile and spacious 
bosom, all that which might satisfy, sustain, and delight those chil- 
dren which it then had. Yea, it was then that the simple and beau- 
tiful young shepherdesses went from valley to valley and hill to 
hill, with their hair sometimes plaited, sometimes dishevelled, with- 
out other apparel than that which was requisite to cover comely 
that which modesty wills, and ever would have, concealed. Then 
were of no request the attires and ornaments which are now used 
by those that esteem the purple of Tyre and the so-many-ways-mar- 
tynsed silk so much, but only certain green leaves of burdocks and 
ivy intertexed and woven together; wherewithal, perhaps, they went 
as gorgeously and comely decked as now our court dames, with all 
their rare and outlandish inventions that idleness and curiosity hath 
found out. Then were the amorous conceits of the mind simply and 
sincerely deUvered, and embellished in the very form and manner 
that she had conceived them, without any artificial contexture of 
words to endear them. Fraud, deceit, or malice had not then med- 
dled themselves with plainness and truth. Justice was then in her 
proper terms, favour daring not to trouble or confound her, or the 
respect of profit, which do now persecute, blemish, and disturb her 
so much. The law of corruption, or taking bribes, had not yet pos- 
sessed the understanding of the judge; for then was neither judge, 
nor person to be judged. Maidens and honesty wandered then, I 
say, where they listed, alone, signiorising, secure that no stranger 
liberty, or lascivious intent could prejudice it, or their own native 
desire or will any way endamage it. But now, in these our detest- 
able times, no damsel is safe, although she be hid and shut up in 
another new labyrinth, like that of Crete; for even there itself the 
amorous plague would enter, either by some cranny, or by the air, 
or by the continual urgings of cursed care, to infect her; for whose 

THE goatherd's MUSIC 8 1 

protection and security was first instituted, by success of times, the 
order of knighthood, to defend damsels, protect widows, and assist 
orphans and distressed wights. Of this order am I, friends goatherds, 
whom I do heartily thank for the good entertainment which you 
do give unto me and my squire; for although that every one living 
is obliged, by the law of nature, to favour knights-errant, yet not- 
withstanding, knowing that you knew not this obligation, and yet 
did receive and make much of me, it stands with all reason that I 
do render you thanks with all my heart!' 

Our knight made this long oration (which might have been well 
excused), because the acorns that were given unto him called to his 
mind the golden world, and therefore the humour took him to make 
the goatherds that unprofitable discourse; who heard him, all amazed 
and suspended, with very great attention all the while. Sancho like- 
wise held his peace, eating acorns, and in the meanwhile visited very 
often the second wine-bag, which, because it might be fresh, was 
hanged upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote had spent more time in his 
speech than in his supper; at the end whereof one of the goatherds 
said, 'To the end that you may more assuredly know, sir knight- 
errant, that we do entertain you with prompt and ready will, we 
will likewise make you some pastime by hearing one of our com- 
panions sing, who is a herd of good understanding, and very 
amorous withal, and can besides read and write, and play so well 
on a rebec, that there is nothing to be desired.' Scarce had the goat- 
herd ended his speech, when the sound of the rebec touched his ear; 
and within a while after he arrived that played on it, being a youth 
of some twenty years old, and one of a very good grace and coun- 
tenance. His fellows demanded if he had supped; and, answering 
that he had, he which did offer the courtesy, said, 'Then, Anthony, 
thou mayst do us a pleasure by singing a little, that this gentleman 
our guest may see that we enjoy, amidst these groves and woods, 
those that know what music is. We have told him already thy good 
qualities, and therefore we desire that thou show them, to verify 
our words; and therefore I desire thee, by thy life, that thou wilt 
sit and sing the ditty which thy uncle the prebendary made of thy 
love, and was so well liked of in our village.' 'I am content,' quoth 


the youth; and, without further entreaty, sitting down on the trunk 
of a lopped oak, he tuned his rebec, and after a while began, with a 
singular good grace, to sing in this manner: 

'I know, Olalia, thou dost me adore! 

Though yet to me the same thou hast not said; 
Nor shown it once by one poor glance or more, 

Since love is soonest by such tongues bewray 'd. 

'Yet, 'cause I ever held thee to be wise, 

It me assures thou bearest me good will; 
And he is not unfortunate that sees 

How his affections are not taken ill. 

'Yet for all this, Olalia, 'tis true! 

I, by observance, gather to my woe; 
Thy mind is framed of brass, by art undue. 

And flint thy bosom is, though it seem snow. 

'And yet, amidst thy rigour's winter-face, 

And other shifts, thou usest to delay me. 
Sometimes hope, peeping out, doth promise grace; 

But, woe is me! I fear 'lis to betray me. 

'Sweetest! once in the balance of thy mind. 

Poise with just weights my faith, which never yet 

Diminish'd, though disfavour it did find; 

Nor can increase more, though thou favoured'st it. 

'If love be courteous (as some men say). 

By thy humanity, I must collect 
My hopes, hows'ever thou dost use delay. 
Shall reap, at last, the good I do expect. 

'If many services be of esteem 

Or power to render a hard heart benign. 
Such things I did for thee, as made me deem 
I have the match gain'd, and thou shalt be mine. 

'For, if at any time thou hast ta'en heed, 

Thou more than once might'st view how I was clad, 

To honour thee on Mondays, with the weed 
Which, worn on Sundays, got me credit had. 

Anthony's ditty 83 

'For love and brav'ry still themselves consort, 

Because they both shoot ever at one end; 
Which made me, when I did to thee resort, 

Still to be neat and fine I did contend. 

'Here I omit the dances I have done. 

And musics I have at thy window given; 
When thou didst at cock-crow listen alone, 

And seem'dst, hearing my voice, to be in heaven. 

'I do not, eke, the praises here recount 

Which of thy beauty I so oft have said; 
Which, though they all were true, were likewise wont 

To make thee envious me for spite upbraid. 

'When to Teresa, she of Berrocal, 

I, of thy worth, discourse did sometime shape: 

"Good God!" quoth she, "you seem an angel's thrall, 
And yet, for idol, you adore an ape. 

' "She to her bugles thanks may give, and chains, 
False hair, and other shifts that she doth use 

To mend her beauty, with a thousand pains 

And guiles, which might love's very self abuse." 

'Wroth at her words, I gave her straight the lie, 

Which did her and her cousin so offend. 
As me to fight he challenged presently. 

And well thou know'st of our debate the end. 

'I mean not thee to purchase at a clap, 

Nor to that end do I thy favour sue; 
Thereby thine honour either to entrap. 

Or thee jjersuade to take courses undue. 

'The Church hath bands which do so surely hold, 
As no silk string for strength comes to them near; 

To thrust thy neck once in the yoke be bold, 
And see if I, to follow thee, will fear. 

'If thou wilt not, here solemnly I vow, 

By holiest saint, enwrapt in precious shrine, 
Never to leave those hills where I dwell now, 

If 't be not to become a Capucine.' 


Here the goatherd ended his ditty, and although Don Quixote 
entreated him to sing somewhat else, yet would not Sancho Panza 
consent to it; who was at that time better disposed to sleep than to 
hear music; and therefore said to his master, 'You had better pro- 
vide yourself of a place wherein to sleep this night than to hear 
music; for the labour that these good men endure all the day long 
doth not permit that they likewise spend the night in singing.' 'I 
understand thee well enough, Sancho,' answered Don Quixote; 'nor 
did I think less, but that thy manifold visitations of the wine-bottle 
would rather desire to be recomjjensed with sleep than with music' 
'The wine liked us all well,' quoth Sancho. 'I do not deny it,' replied 
Don Quixote; 'but go thou and lay thee down where thou pleasest, 
for it becomes much more men of my profession to watch than to 
sleep. Yet, notwithstanding, it will not be amiss to lay somewhat 
again to mine ear, for it grieves me very much.' One of the goat- 
herds, beholding the hurt, bade him be of good cheer, for he would 
apply a remedy that should cure it easily. And, taking some rose- 
mary-leaves of many that grew thereabouts, he hewed them, and 
after mixed a little salt among them; and, applying this medicine 
to the ear, he bound it up well with a cloth, assuring him that he 
needed to use no other medicine; as it proved after, in effect. 


Of That Which One of the Goatherds Recounted to Those That 
Were with Don Quixote 

ABOUT this time arrived another youth, one of those that 
/ \ brought them provision from the village, who said, 'Com- 
jL J^ panions, do not you know what passeth in the village?' 
'How can we know it, being absent?' says another of them. 'Then, 
wit,' quoth the youth, 'that the famous shepherd and student, 
Chrysostom, died this morning, and they murmur that he died for 
love of that devilish lass Marcela, William the Rich his daughter, 
she that goes up and down these plains and hills among us, in the 
habit of a shepherdess.' 'Dost thou mean Marcela?' quoth one of 
them. 'Even her, I say,' answered the other; 'and the jest is, that he 
hath commanded, in his testament, that he be buried in the fields, 
as if he were a Moor; and that it be at the foot of the rock, where 
the fountain stands off the cork-tree; for that, according to fame, 
and as they say he himself affirmed, was the place wherein he viewed 
her first. And he hath likewise commanded such other things to be 
done, as the ancienter sort of the village do not allow, nor think fit 
to be performed; for they seem to be ceremonies of the Gentiles. 
To all which objections, his great friend, Ambrosio the student, who 
likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd at once with him, an- 
swers, that all shall be accomplished, without omission of anything, 
as Chrysostom hath ordained; and all the village is in an aproar 
about this affair; and yet it is said that what Ambrosio and all the 
other shepherds his friends do pretend, shall in fine be done; and 
to-morrow morning they will come to the place I have named, to 
bury him with great pomp. And as I suppose it will be a thing 
worthy the seeing, at leastwise I will not omit to go and behold it 
although I were sure that I could not return the same day to the 
village.' 'We will all do the same,' quoth the goatherds, 'and will 
draw lots who shall tarry here to keep all our herds.' 'Thou sayst 



well, Peter,' quoth one of them, 'although that labour may be ex- 
cused; for I mean to stay behind for you all, which you must not 
attribute to any virtue, or little curiosity in me, but rather to the 
fork that pricked my foot the other day, and makes me unable to 
travel from hence.' 'We do thank thee, notwithstanding,' quoth 
Peter, 'for thy good-will.' And Don Quixote, who heard all their 
discourse, entreated Peter to tell him who that dead man was, and 
what the shepherdess of whom they s[X)ke. 

Peter made answer, that what he knew of the affair was, 'that 
the dead p)erson was a rich gentleman of a certain village seated 
among those mountains, who had studied many years in Salamanca, 
and after returned home to his house, with the opinion to be a very 
wise and learned man; but principally it was reported of him, that 
he was skilful in astronomy, and all that which passed above in 
heaven, in the sun and the moon, for he would tell us most punc- 
tually the clipse of the sun and the moon.' 'Friend,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'the darkening of these two great luminaries is called an 
eclipse, not a clipse.' But Peter, stopping not at those trifles, did 
prosecute his history, saying, 'He did also prognosticate when the 
year would be abundant or estile.' 'Thou wouldst say sterile,' quoth 
Don Quixote. 'Sterile or estile,' said Peter, 'all is one for my pur- 
pose. And I say that, by his words, his father and his other friends, 
that gave credit to him, became very rich; for they did all that he 
counselled them: who would say unto them, Sow barley this year, 
and no wheat; in this, you may sow peas, and no barley; the next 
year will be good for oil; the three ensuing, you shall not gather a 
drop.' 'That science is called astrology,' quoth Don Quixote. 'I 
know not how it is called,' repHed Peter; 'but I know well he knew 
all this, and much more. 

'Finally, a few months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared 
one day apparelled like a shepherd, with his flock, and leather coat, 
having laid aside the long habits that he wore, being a scholar; and 
jointly with him came also a great friend of his and fellow-student, 
called Ambrosio, apparelled like a shepherd. I did almost forget to 
tell how Chrysostom, the dead man, was a great maker of verses; 
insomuch that he made the carols of Christmas Day at night, and 
the plays for Corpus Christi Day, which the youths of our village 


did represent, and all of them affirmed that they were most excel- 
lent. When those of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly 
clad like shepherds, they were amazed, and could not guess the cause 
that moved them to make so wonderful a change. And about this 
time Chrysostom's father died, and he remained possessed of a great 
deal of goods, as well moveable as immoveable; and no little quantity 
of cattle, great and small, and also a great sum of money; of all 
which the young man remained a dissolute lord. And truly he de- 
served it all; for he was a good fellow, charitable, and a friend of 
good folk, and he had a face like a blessing. It came at last to be 
understood, that the cause of changing his habit was none other 
than for to go up and down through these deserts after the shep)- 
herdess Marcela, whom our herd named before; of whom the poor 
dead Chrysostom was become enamoured. And I will tell you now, 
because it is fit you should know it, what this wanton lass is; per- 
haps, and I think without perhaps, you have not heard the like 
thing in all the days of your life, although you had lived more years 
than Sarna.' 'Say Sarra,' quoth Don Quixote, being not able any 
longer to hear him to change one word for another. 

'The Sarna, or Scab,' quoth Peter, 'lives long enough too. And 
if you go thus, sir, interrupting my tale at every pace, we shall not 
be able to end it in a year.' 'Pardon me, friend,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'for I speak to thee by reason there was such difference between 
Sarna and Sarra. But thou dost answer well; for the Sarna or Scab 
lives longer than Sarra. And therefore prosecute thy history; for I 
will not interrupt thee any more.' 'I say, then, dear sir of my soul,' 
quoth the goatherd, 'that there was, in our village, a farmer that 
was yet richer than Chrysostom's father, who was called William, 
to whom fortune gave, in the end of his great riches, a daughter 
called Marcela, of whose birth her mother died, who was the best 
woman that dwelt in all this circuit. Methinks I do now see her 
quick before me, with that face which had on the one side the sun 
and on the other side the moon; and above all, she was a thrifty 
housewife, and a great friend to the poor; for which I believe that 
her soul is this very hour enjoying of the gods in the other world. 
For grief of the loss of so good a wife, her husband William likewise 
died, leaving his daughter Marcela, young and rich, in the custody 


of his uncle, who was a priest, and curate of our village. The child 
grew with such beauty as it made us remember that of her mother, 
which was very great; and yet, notwithstanding, they judged that 
the daughter's would surpass hers, as indeed it did; for when she 
arrived to the age of fourteen or fifteen years old, no man beheld 
her that did not bless God for making her so fair, and most men 
remained enamoured and cast away for her love. Her uncle kept 
her with very great care and closeness; and yet, nevertheless, the 
fame of her great beauty did spread itself in such sort that, as well 
for it as for her great riches, her uncle was not only requested by 
those of our village, but also was prayed, solicited, and importuned 
by all those that dwelt many leagues about, and that by the very 
best of them, to give her to them in marriage. But he (who is a 
good Christian, every inch of him), although he desired to marry 
her presently, as soon as she was of age, yet would he not do it 
without her goodwill, without ever respecting the gain and profit 
he might make by the possession of her goods whilst he desired her 
marriage. And, in good sooth, this was spoken of, to the good priest 
his commendation, in more than one meeting of the people of our 
village; for I would have you to wit, sir errant, that in these little 
villages they talk of all things, and make account, as I do, that the 
priest must have been too good who could oblige his parishioners 
to speak so well of him, and especially in the villages.' 'Thou hast 
reason,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and therefore follow on, for the his- 
tory is very pleasant, and thou, good Peter, dost recount it with a 
very good grace.' 'I pray God,' said Peter, 'that I never want our 
Herd's; for it is that which makes to the purpose. And in the rest 
you shall understand, that although her uncle propounded, and told 
to his niece the quality of every wooer of the many that desired her 
for wife, and entreated her to marry and choose at her pleasure, yet 
would she never answer other but that she would not marry as then, 
and that, in respect of her over green years, she did not find herself 
able enough yet to bear the burden of marriage. With these just 
excuses which she seemed to give, her uncle left off importuning of 
her, and did expect until she were further entered into years, and 
that she might know how to choose one that might like her; for he 
was wont to say, and thai very well, that parents were not to place 


or bestow their children where they bore no Uking. But, see here! 
when we least imagined it, the coy Marcela appeared one morning 
to become a shepherdess; and neither her uncle, nor all those of the 
village which dissuaded her from it, could work any effect, but she 
would needs go to the fields, and keep her own sheep with the other 
young lasses of the town. And she coming thus in public, when her 
beauty was seen without hindrance, I cannot jxissibly tell unto you 
how many rich youths, as well gentlemen as farmers, have taken on 
them the habit of Chrysostom, and follow, wooing of her, up and 
down those fields; one of which, as is said already, was our dead 
man, of whom it is said, that learning to love her, he had at last 
made her his idol. Nor is it to be thought that because Marcela set 
herself in that liberty, and so loose a life, and of so little or no keep- 
ing, that therefore she hath given the least token or shadow of 
dishonesty or negligence. Nay, rather, such is the watchfulness 
wherewithal she looks to her honour, that among so many as serve 
and solicit her, not one hath praised or can justly vaunt himself to 
have received, at her hands, the least hope that may be to obtain his 
desires; for, although she did not fly or shun the company and con- 
versation of shepherds, and doth use them courteously and friendly, 
whensoever any one of them begin to discover their intention, be it 
ever so just and holy, as that of matrimony, she casts them away 
from her, as with a sling. 

'And with this manner of proceeding she does more harm in this 
country than if the plague had entered into it by her means; for her 
affability and beauty doth draw to it the hearts of those which do 
serve and love her, but her disdain and resolution do conduct them 
to terms of desperation. And so they know not what to say unto 
her, but to call her with a loud voice cruel and ungrateful, with other 
titles like unto this, which do clearly manifest the nature of her 
condition; and, sir, if you stayed here but a few days, you should 
hear these mountains resound with the lamentations of those 
wretches that follow her. There is a certain place not far off, wherein 
are about two dozen of beech-trees, and there is not any one of them 
in whose rind is not engraven Marcela's name, and over some names 
graven also a crown in the same tree, as if her lover would plainly 
denote that Marcela bears it away, and deserves the garland of all 


human beauty. Here sighs one shepherd, there another complains; 
in another place are heard amorous ditties; here, in another, doleful 
and despairing laments. Some one there is that passeth over all the 
whole hours of the night at the foot of an oak or rock, and, without 
folding once his weeping eyes, swallowed and transported by his 
thoughts, the sun finds him there in the morning; and some other 
there is, who, without giving way or truce to his sighs, doth, amidst 
the fervour of the most fastidious heat of the summer, stretched upon 
the burning sand, breathe his pitiful complaints to heaven. And of 
this, and of him, and of those, and these, the beautiful Marcela doth 
indifferently and quietly triumph. All we that know her do wait to 
see wherein this her loftiness will finish, or who shall be so happy as 
to gain dominion over so terrible a condition, and enjoy so peerless 
a beauty. And because all that I have recounted is so notorious a 
truth, it makes me more easily believe that our companion hath 
told, that is said of the occasion of Chrysostom's death; and there- 
fore I do counsel you, sir, that you do not omit to be present to- 
morrow at his burial, which will be worthy the seeing; for 
Chrysostom hath many friends, and the place wherein he com- 
manded himself to be buried is not half a league from hence.' 'I do 
mean to be there,' said Don Quixote; 'and do render thee many 
thanks for the delight thou hast given me by the relation of so 
pleasant a history.' 'Oh,' quoth the goatherd, '1 do not yet know the 
half of the adventures succeeded to Marcela's lovers; but peradven- 
ture we may meet some shepherd on the way to-morrow that will 
tell them unto us. And for the present you will do well to go take 
your rest under some roof, for the air might hurt your wound, 
although the medicine be such that I have applied to it that any 
contrary accidents need not much to be feared.' Sancho Panza, being 
wholly out of patience with the goatherd's long discourse, did solicit, 
for his part, his master so effectually as he brought him at last into 
Peter's cabin, to take his rest for that night; whereinto, after he had 
entered, he bestowed the remnant of the night in remembrances of 
his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcela's lovers. Sancho Panza 
did lay himself down between Rozinante and his ass, and slept it 
out, not like a disfavoured lover, but like a man stamped and bruised 
with tramplings. 


Wherein is Finished the History of the Shepherdess Marcela, 
WITH Other Accidents 

BUT scarce had the day begun to discover itself by the oriental 
, windows, when five of the six goatherds arising, went to 
awake Don Quixote, and demanded of him whether he yet 
intended to go to Chrysostom's burial, and that they would accom- 
pany him. Don Quixote, that desired nothing more, got up, and 
commanded Sancho to saddle and empannel in a trice; which he 
did with great expedition, and with the like they all presently began 
their journey. And they had not yet gone a quarter of a league, 
when, at the crossing of a pathway, they saw six shepherds coming 
towards them, apparelled with black skins, and crowned with gar- 
lands of cypress and bitter enula campana. Every one of them car- 
ried in his hand a thick truncheon of elm. There came likewise 
with them two gentlemen a-horseback, very well furnished for the 
way, with other three lackeys that attended on them. And, as soon 
as they encountered, they saluted one another courteously, and de- 
manded whither they travelled; and knowing that they all went 
towards the place of the burial, they began their journey together. 
One of the horsemen, speaking to his companion, said, 'I think, Mr. 
Vivaldo, we shall account the time well employed that we shall stay 
to see this so famous an entertainment; for it cannot choose but be 
famous, according to the wonderful things these shepherds have 
recounted unto us, as well of the dead shepherd as also of the mur- 
dering shepherdess.' 'It seems so to me likewise,' quoth Vivaldo; 
'and I say, I would not only stay one day, but a whole week, rather 
than miss to behold it.' Don Quixote demanded of them what they 
had heard of Marcela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered that 
they had encountered that morning with those shepherds, and that, 
by reason they had seen them apparelled in that mournful attire, 
they demanded of them the occasion thereof, and one of them 



rehearsed it, recounting the strangeness and beauty of a certain shep- 
herdess called Marcela, and the amorous pursuits of her by many, 
with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they rode. Finally, 
he told all that again to him that Peter had told the night before. 
This discourse thus ended, another began, and was, that he who 
was called Vivaldo demanded of Don Quixote the occasion that 
moved him to travel thus armed through so p)eaceable a country. 
To whom Don Quixote answered: 'The profession of my exercise 
doth not license or permit me to do other. Good days, cockering, 
and ease were invented for soft courtiers; but travels, unrest, and 
arms were only invented and made for those which the world terms 
knights-errant, of which number I myself (although unworthy) am 
one, and the least of all.' Scarce had they heard him say this, when 
they all held him to be wood. And, to find out the truth better, 
Vivaldo did ask him again what meant the word knights-errant. 
'Have you not read, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'the histories and 
annals of England, wherein are treated the famous acts of King 
Arthur, whom we continually call, in our Castilian romance. King 
Artus? of whom it is an ancient and common tradition, in the king- 
dom of Great Britain, that he never died, but that he was turned, 
by art of enchantment, into a crow; and that, in process of time, he 
shall return again to reign, and recover his sceptre and kingdom; 
for which reason it cannot be proved that, ever since that time until 
this, any Englishman hath killed a crow. In this good king's time 
was first instituted the famous order of knighthood of the Knights 
of the Round Table, and the love that is there recounted did in every 
respect pass as it is laid down between Sir Launcelot du Lake and 
Queen Genever, the honourable Lady Quintaniona being a dealer, 
and privy thereto; whence sprung that so famous a ditty, and so 
celebrated here in Spain, of, "Never was knight of ladies so well 
served as Launcelot when that he in Britain arrived," etc., with that 
progress so sweet and delightful of his amorous and valiant acts; and 
from that time forward, the order of knight went from hand to 
hand, dilating and spreading itself through many and sundry parts 
of the world; and in it were, famous and renowned for their feats 
of arms, the valiant Amadis of Gaul, with all his progeny until the 
fifth generation; and the valorous Felixmarte of Hircania, and the 


never-duly-praised Tirante the White, together with Sir Bevis of 
Hampton, Sir Guy of Warwick, Sir Eglemore, with divers others 
of that nation and age; and almost in our days we saw, and com- 
muned, and heard of the invincible and valiant knight, Don Belianis 
of Greece. This, then, good sirs, is to be a knight-errant; and that 
which I have said is the order of chivalry: wherein, as I have already 
said, I, although a sinner, have made profession, and the same do I 
profess that those knights professed whom I have above mentioned; 
and therefore I travel through these solitudes and deserts, seeking 
adventures, with full resolution to offer mine own arm and person 
to the most dangerous that fortune shall present, in the aid of weak 
and needy persons.' 

By these reasons of Don Quixote's the travellers perfectly perceived 
that he was none of the wisest; and knew the kind of folly where- 
withal he was crossed, whereat those remained wonderfully admired, 
that by the relation of the others came to understand it. 

And Vivaldo, who was very discreet, and likewise of a pleasant 
disposition, to the end they might pass over the rest of the way with- 
out heaviness unto the rock of the burial, which the shepherds said 
was near at hand, he resolved to give him further occasion to pass 
onward with his follies, and therefore said unto him, 'Methinks, 
sir knight, that you have professed one of the most austere profes- 
sions in the world; and I do constantly hold that even that of the 
Charterhouse monks is not near so strait.' 'It may be as strait as our 
profession,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but that it should be so necessary 
for the world, I am within the breadth of two fingers to call it in 
doubt; for, if we would speak a truth, the soldier that puts in execu- 
tion his captain's command doth no less than the very captain that 
commands him. Hence I infer, that religious men do with all peace 
and quietness seek of Heaven the good of the earth; but soldiers 
and we knights do put in execution that which they demand, de- 
fending it with the valour of our arms and files of our swords; not 
under any roof, but under the wide heavens, made, as it were, in 
summer a mark to the insupportable sunbeams, and in winter to 
the rage of withering frosts. So that we are the ministers of God 
on earth, and the armies wherewith He executeth His justice; and 
as the affairs of war, and things thereunto pertaining, cannot be put 


in execution without sweat, labour, and travail, it follows that those 
which profess warfare take, questionless, greater pain than those 
which, in quiet, peace, and rest, do pray unto God that He will 
favour and assist those that need it. I mean not therefore to affirm, 
nor doth it once pass through my thought, that the state of a knight- 
errant is as perfect as that of a retired religious man, but only would 
infer, through that which I myself suffer, that it is doubtlessly more 
laborious, more battered, hungry, thirsty, miserable, torn, and lousy. 
For the knights-errant of times past did, without all doubt, suffer 
much woe and misery in the discourse of their life; and if some of 
them ascended at last to empires, won by the force of their arms, 
in good faith, it cost them a great part of their sweat and blood; 
and if those which mounted to so high a degree had wanted those 
enchanters and wise men that assisted them, they would have re- 
mained much defrauded of their desires, and greatly deceived of 
their hopes.' 'I am of the same opinion,' replied the traveller; 'but 
one thing among many others hath seemed to me very ill in knights- 
errant, which is, when they perceive themselves in any occasion to 
begin any great and dangerous adventure, in which appears mani- 
fest peril of losing their lives, they never, in the instant of attempt- 
ing it, remember to commend themselves to God, as every Christian 
is bound to do in like dangers, but rather do it to their ladies, with 
so great desire and devotion as if they were their gods — a thing 
which, in my opinion, smells of Gentilism.* 'Sir,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'they can do no less in any wise, and the knight-errant 
which did any other would digress much from his duty; for now 
it is a received use and custom of errant chivalry, that the knight 
adventurous who, attempting of any great feat of arms, shall have 
his lady in place, do mildly and amorously turn his eyes towards 
her, as it were by them demanding that she do favour and protect 
him in that ambiguous trance which he undertakes; and, moreover, 
if none do hear him, he is bound to say certain words between his 
teeth, by which he shall, with all his heart, commend himself to 
her: and of this we have innumerable examples in histories. Nor 
is it therefore to be understood that they do omit to commend them- 
selves to God; for they have time and leisure enough to do it in 
the progress of the work.' 


'For all that,' replied the traveller, 'there remains in me yet one 
scruple which is, that oftentimes, as I have read, some speech be- 
gins between two knights-errant, and from one word to another 
their choler begins to be inflamed, and they to turn their horses, and 
to take up a good piece of the field, and, without any more ado, to 
run as fast as ever they can drive to encounter again, and, in the 
midst of their race, do commend themselves to their dames; and 
that which commonly ensues of this encountering is, that one of 
them falls down, thrown over the crupper of his horse, passed 
through and through by his enemy's lance; and it befalls the other 
that, if he had not caught fast of his horse's mane, he had likewise 
fallen; and I here cannot perceive how he that is slain had any 
leisure to commend himself unto God in the discourse of this so 
accelerate and hasty a work. Methinks it were better that those 
words which he spent in his race on his lady were bestowed as 
they ought, and as every Christian is bound to bestow them; and 
the rather, because I conjecture that all knights-errant have not 
bdies to whom they may commend themselves, for all of them are 
not amorous.' 

'That cannot be,' answered Don Quixote; 'I say it cannot be that 
there's any knight-errant without a lady; for it is as proper and es- 
sential to such to be enamoured as to heaven to have stars: and I 
dare warrant that no history hath yet been seen wherein is found 
a knight-errant without love; for, by the very reason that he were 
found without them, he would be convinced to be no legitimate 
knight, but a bastard; and that he entered into the fortress of 
chivalry, not by the gate, but by leaping over the staccado like a 
robber and a thief.' 

'Yet, notwithstanding,' replied the other, 'I have read (if I do 
not forget myself) that Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis 
de Gaul, had never any certain mistress to whom he might com- 
mend himself; and yet, for all that, he was nothing less accounted 
of, and was a most valiant and famous knight.' To that objection 
our Don Quixote answered: 'One swallow makes not a summer. 
How much more that I know, that the knight whom you allege 
was secretly very much enamoured; besides that, that his inclina- 
tion of loving all ladies well, which he thought were fair, was a 


natural inclination, which he could not govern so well; but it is, 
in conclusion, sufficiently verified, that yet he had one lady whom 
he crowned queen of his will, to whom he did also commend him- 
self very often and secretly; for he did not a little glory to be so 
secret in his loves.' 

'Then, sir, if it be of the essence of all knights-errant to be in 
love,' quoth the traveller, 'then may it likewise be presumed that 
you are also enamoured, seeing that it is annexed to the profession? 
And if you do not prize yourself to be as secret as Don Galaor, I do 
entreat you, as earnestly as I may, in all this company's name and 
mine own, that it will please you to tell us the name, country, qual- 
ity, and beauty of your lady; for I am sure she would account herself 
happy to think that all the world doth know she is beloved and 
served by so worthy a knight as is yourself.' Here Don Quixote, 
breathing forth a deep sigh, said: 'I cannot affirm whether my 
sweet enemy delight or no that the world know how much she is 
'oeloved, or that I serve her. Only I dare avouch (answering to that 
which you so courteously demanded) that her name is Dulcinea, 
her country Toboso, a village of Mancha. Her calling must be at 
least of a princess, seeing she is my queen and lady; her beauty 
so%'ereign, for in her are verified and give glorious lustre to all 
those impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty that poets give 
to their mistresses, that her hairs are gold, her forehead the Elysian 
fields, her brows the arcs of heaven, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, 
her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, 
ivory her hands, and her whiteness snow; and the parts which 
modesty conceals from human sight, such as I think and understand 
that the discreet consideration may prize, but never be able to 
equalize them.' 'Her lineage, progeny, we desire to know likewise,' 
quoth Vivaldo. To which Don Quixote answered: 'She is not of 
the ancient Roman Curcios, Cayos, or Scipios; nor of the modern 
Colonnas, or Ursinos; nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of 
Catalonia; and much less of the Rebelias and Villanovas of Valencia; 
Palafoxes, Nucas, Rocabertis, Corelias, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, and 
Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendo^as, and Guzmanes 
of Castile; Lancasters, Palias, and Meneses of Portugal; but she is 
of those of Toboso of the Mancha; a lineage which, though it be 


modern, is such as may give a generous beginning to the most noble 
families of ensuing ages. And let none contradict me in this, if it 
be not with those conditions that Cerbino put at the foot of Orlando's 
armour, to wit: 

"Let none from hence presume these arms to move. 
But he that with Orlando dares his force to prove." ' 

'Although my lineage be of the Cachopines of Laredo,' replied 
the traveller, 'yet dare I not to compare it with that of Toboso in 
the Mancha; although, to speak sincerely, I never heard any men- 
tion of that lineage you say until now.' 'What!' quoth Don Quixote, 
'is it possible that you never heard of it till now.''' 

All the company travelled, giving marvellous attention to the 
reasons of those two; and even the very goatherds and shepherds 
began to perceive the great want of judgment that was in Don 
Quixote: only Sancho Panza did verily believe that all his master's 
words were most true, as one that knew what he was from the very 
time of his birth; but that wherein his belief staggered somewhat, 
was of the beautiful Dulcinea of Toboso; for he had never heard 
speak in his life before of such a name or princess, although he had 
dwelt so many years hard by Toboso. 

And as they travelled in these discourses, they beheld descending, 
betwixt the cleft of two lofty mountains, to the number of twenty 
shepherds, all apparelled in skins of black wool and crowned with 
garlands, which, as they perceived afterward, were all of yew and 
cypress. Six of them carried a bier, covered with many sorts of 
flowers and boughs; which one of the goatherds espying, he said, 
'Those that come there are they which bring Chrysostom's body, 
and the foot of that mountain is the place where he hath commanded 
them to bury him.' These words were occasion to make them haste 
to arrive in time, which they did just about the instant that the 
others had laid down the corpse on the ground. And four of them, 
with sharp pickaxes, did dig the grave at the side of a hard rock. 
The one and the others saluted themselves very courteously; and 
then Don Quixote, and such as came with him, began to behold 
the bier, wherein they saw laid a dead body, all covered with flow- 
ers, and apparelled like a shepherd of some thirty years old; and 


his dead countenance showed that he was very beautiful, and an 
able-bodied man. He had, placed round about him in the bier, 
certain books and many papers, some open and some shut, and 
altogether, as well those that beheld this as they which made the 
grave, and all the others that were present, kept a marvellous silence, 
until one of them which carried the dead man said to another: 'See 
well, Ambrosio, whether this be the place that Chrysostom meant, 
seeing that thou wouldst have all so punctually observed which he 
commanded in his testament.' 'This is it,' answered Ambrosio; 'for 
many times my unfortunate friend recounted to me in it the history 
of his mishaps. Even there he told me that he had seen that cruel 
enemy of mankind first; and there it was where he first broke his 
affections too, as honest as they were amorous; and there was the 
last time wherein Marcela did end to resolve, and began to disdain 
him, in such sort as she set end to the tragedy of his miserable life; 
and here, in memory of so many misfortunes, he commanded him- 
self to be committed to the bowels of eternal oblivion.' And, turning 
himself to Don Quixote and to the other travellers, he said, 'This 
body, sirs, which you do now behold with pitiful eyes, was the 
treasury of a soul wherein heaven had hoarded up an infinite part 
of his treasures. This is the body of Chrysostom, who was p)eerless 
in wit, without fellow for courtesy, rare for comeliness, a phoenix 
for friendship, magnificent without measure, grave without pre- 
sumption, pleasant without offence; and finally, the first in all that 
which is good, and second to none in all unfortunate mischances. 
He loved well, and was hated; he adored, and was disdained; he 
prayed to one no less savage than a beast; he importuned a heart 
as hard as marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to deserts, he served 
ingratitude, and he obtained for reward the sjxjils of death in the 
midst of the career of his life: to which a shepherdess hath given 
end whom he laboured to eternize, to the end she might ever live 
in the memories of men, as those papers which you see there might 
very well prove, had he not commanded me to sacrifice them to the 
fire as soon as his body was rendered to the earth.' 

'If you did so,' quoth Vivaldo, 'you would use greater rigour and 
cruelty towards them than their very lord, nor is it discreet or justly 


done that his will be accomplished who commands anything re- 
pugnant to reason; nor should Augustus Caesar himself have gained 
the reputation of wisdom, if he had permitted that to be put in 
execution which the divine Mantuan had by his will ordained. So 
that, Senor Ambrosio, now that you commit your friend's body to 
the earth, do not therefore commit his labour to oblivion; for though 
he ordained it as one injured, yet are not you to accomplish it as 
one void of discretion; but rather cause, by giving life to these papers, 
that the cruelty of Marcela may live eternally, that it may serve as 
a document to those that shall breathe in ensuing ages how they 
may avoid and shun the like downfalls; for both myself, and all 
those that come here in my company, do already know the history 
of your enamoured and despairing friend, the occasion of his death, 
and what he commanded ere he deceased: out of which lamentable 
relation may be collected how great hath been the cruelty of Mar- 
cela, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of your affection, and the con- 
clusion which those make which do rashly run through that -way 
which indiscreet love doth present to their view. We understood 
yesternight of Chrysostom's death, and that he should be interred 
in this place, and therefore we omitted our intended journeys, both 
for curiosity and pity, and resolved to come and behold with our 
eyes that the relation whereof did so much grieve us in the hearing; 
and therefore we desire thee, discreet Ambrosio, both in reward of 
this our compassion, and also of the desire which springs in our 
breasts, to remedy this disaster, if it were possible; but chiefly I, for 
my part, request thee, that, omitting to burn these papers, thou wilt 
license me to take away some of them. And, saying so, without 
expecting the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand and took 
some of them that were next to him; which Ambrosio perceiving, 
said, 'I will consent, sir, for courtesy's sake, that you remain lord of 
those which you have seized upon; but to imagine that I would 
omit to burn these that rest were a very vain thought.' Vivaldo, 
who did long to see what the papers contained which he had gotten, 
did unfold presently one of them, which had this title, 'A Ditty of 
Despair.' Ambrosio overheard him, and said: 'That is the last paper 
which this unfortunate shepherd wrote; and because, sir, that you 


may see the terms to which his mishaps conducted him, I pray you 
to read it, but in such manner as you may be heard; for you shall 
have leisure enough to do it whilst the grave is a-digging.' 'I will do 
it with all my heart,' replied Vivaldo; and all those that were present 
having the like desire, they gathered about him, and he, reading it 
with a clear voice, pronounced it thus. 


Wherein Are Rehearsed the Despairing Verses of the Dead 
Shepherd. With Other Unexpected Accidents 

The Canzone of Chrysostom. 

Since cruel thou (I publish) dost desire, 

From tongue to tongue, and the one to the other pole. 

The efficacy of thy rigour sharp, 

I'll hell constrain to assist my soul's desire. 

And in my breast infuse a ton of dole. 

Whereon my voice, as it is wont, may harp, 

And labour, as I wish, at once to carp 

And tell my sorrows and thy murdering deeds; 

The dreadful voice and accents shall agree, 

And, with them, meet for greater torture be 

Lumps of my wretched bowels, which still bleeds. 

Then listen, and lend once attentive ear, 

Not well<onsorted tunes, but howling to hear. 

That from my bitter bosom's depth takes flight; 

And by constrained raving borne away. 

Issues forth from mine ease and thy despite. 


The lion's roaring, and the dreadful howls 
Of ravening wolf, and hissing terrible 
Of squammy serpent; and the fearful bleat 
Of some sad monster; of foretelling fowls. 
The pie's crackling, and rumour horrible 
Of the contending wind, as it doth beat 
The sea; and implacable bellowing, yet 
Of vanquish'd bull; and of the turtle sole 
The feeling mourning, and the doleful song 
Of the envious owl, with the dire plaints among 
Of all the infernal squadron full of dole, 
Sally with my lamenting soul around 
All mixed with so strange, unusual sound. 


As all the senses may confounded be; 
For my fierce torment, a new way exact, 
Wherein I may recount my misery. 


The doleful echoes of so great confusion 

Shall not resound o'er father Tagus' sands, 

Nor touch the olive-wat'ring Betis' ears. 

Of my dire pangs I'll only make effusion 

'Mongst those steep rocks, and hollow bottom lands. 

With mortified tongue, but living tears: 

Sometimes, in hidden dales, where nought appears, 

Or in unhaunted plains free from access; 

Or where the sun could ne'er intrude a beam; 

Amidst the venomous crew of beasts unclean, 

Whose wants, with bounty, the free plains redress; 

For, though among those vast and desert downs. 

The hollow echo indistinctly sounds 

Thy matchless rigour, and my cruel pain, 

Yet, by the privilege of my niggard fates. 

It will their force throughout the world proclaim. 


A disdain kills; and patience runs aground, 

By a suspicion either false or true; 

But jealousy, with greater rigour slays; 

A prolix absence doth our life confound. 

Against fear of oblivion to ensue. 

Firm hope of best success gives little ease. 

Inevitable death lurks in all these. 

But I (O unseen miracle!) do still live, 

Jealous, absent, disdain'd, and certain too 

Of the suspicions that my life undo! 

Drown'd in oblivion which my fire revives, 

And amongst all those pains I never scope 

Got, to behold the shadow once of hope: 

Nor thus despaired would I it allow; 

But 'cause I may more aggravate my moans. 

To live ever without it, here I vow. 

Can hope and fear, at once, in one consist? 
Or is it reason that it should be so? 
Seeing the cause more certain is of fear; 


If before me dire jealousy exist, 

Shall I deflect mine eyes? since it will show 

Itself by a thousand wounds in my soul there. 

Or, who will not the gates unto despair 

Wide open set, after that he hath spy'd 

Murd'ring disdain? and noted each suspicion 

To seeming truth transform'd? O sour conversion! 

Whilst verity by falsehood is belied! 

tyrant of love's state, fierce jealousy! 
With cruel chains these hands together tie. 
With stubborn cords couple them, rough disdainl 
But woe is me, with bloody victory. 

Your memory is, by my sufferance, slain! 


1 die, in fine, and 'cause I'll not expect 

In death or life for the least good success, 

I obstinate will rest in fantasy. 

And say he doth well, that doth death affect. 

And eke the soul most liberty possess, 

That is most thrall to love's old tyranny. 

And will affirm mine ever enemy. 

In her fair shrine, a fairer soul contains; 

And her oblivion from my fault to spring. 

And to excuse her wrongs will witness bring. 

That love by her in peace his state maintains. 

And with a hard knot, and this strange opinion 

I will accelerate the wretched summon, 

To which guided I am by her scorns rife. 

And offer to the air body and soul. 

Without hope or reward of future life. 


Thou that, by multiplying wrongs, doth show 

The reason forcing me to use violence 

Unto this loathsome life, grown to me hateful. 

Since now by signs notorious thou mayst know. 

From my heart's deepest wound, how willingly sense 

Doth sacrifice me to thy scorns ungrateful. 

If my deserts have seem'd to thee so bootful. 

As thy fair eyes clear heav'n should be o'ercast. 

And clouded at my death; yet do not so. 

For I'll no recompense take for the woe: 

By which, of my soul's spoils possess 'd thou wast: 

104 ^^^ QUIXOTE 

But rather, laughing at my funeral sad, 
Show how mine end begins to make thee glad 
But 'tis a folly to advise thee this, 
For I know, in my death's acceleration. 
Consists thy glory and thy chiefest bliss. 

Let Tantalus from the profoundest deeps 
Come, for it is high time now, with his thirst; 
And Sisyphus, with his oppressing stone; 
Let Tityus bring his raven that ne'er sleeps. 
And Ixion make no stay with wheel accurs'd, 
Nor the three sisters, ever lab'ring on. 
And let them all at once their mortal moan 
Translate into my breast, and lovely sound 
(If it may be a debt due to despair). 
And chant sad obsequies, with doleful air, 
Over a corse unworthy of the ground. 
And the three-faced infernal porter grim. 
With thousand monsters and chimeras dim, 
Relish the dolorous descant out amain; 
For greater pomp than this I think not fit 
That any dying lover should obtain. 

Despairing canzone, do not thou complain. 
When thou my sad society shall refrain; 
But rather, since the cause whence thou didst spring, 
By my misfortune, grows more fortunate, 
Ev'n in the grave, thou must shun sorrowing. 

Chrysostom's canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers, although 
the reader thereof affirmed that it was not conformable to the rela- 
tion that he had received of Marcela's virtue and care of herself; 
for in it Chrysostom did complain of jealousies, suspicions, and ab- 
sence, being all of them things that did prejudice Marcela's good 
fame. To this objection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very 
well the most hidden secrets of his friend) : 'You must understand, 
sir, to the end you may better satisfy your own doubt, that when 
the unfortunate shepherd wrote that canzone he was absent from 
Marcela, from whose presence he had wittingly withdrawn himself, 
to see if he could deface some part of his excessive passions, procured 


by absence; and as everything doth vex an absent lover, and every 
fear afflict him, so was Chrysostom likewise tormented by imagined 
jealousies and feared suspicions as much as if they were real and 
true. And with this remains the truth in her perfection and point 
of Marcela's virtue, who, excepting that she is cruel and somewhat 
arrogant and very disdainful, very envy itself neither ought, nor 
can, attaint her of the least defect.' 'You have reason,' quoth Vivaldo; 
and so, desiring to read another paper, he was interrupted by a 
marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered 
itself to their view; which was, that on the top of the rock wherein 
they made the grave, appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so fair 
that her beauty surpassed far the fame that was spread thereof. 
Such as had not beheld her before did look on her then with ad- 
miration and silence, and those which were wont to view her re- 
mained no less suspended than the others which never had seen her. 
But scarce had Ambrosio eyed her, when, with an ireful and dis- 
daining mind, he spake these words: 'Comest thou by chance, O 
fierce basilisk of these mountains! to see whether the wounds of 
this wretch will yet bleed at thy presence? or dost thou come to 
insult and vaunt in the tragical feats of thy stern nature? or to behold 
from that height, like another merciless Nero, the fire of inflamed 
Rome? or arrogantly to trample this infortunate carcase, as the 
ingrateful daughter did her father Tarquin's? Tell us quickly why 
thou comest, or what thou dost most desire? For, seeing I know 
that Chrysostom's thoughts never disobeyed thee in life, I will like- 
wise cause that all those his friends shall serve and reverence thee.' 
'I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends thou sayst,' 
quoth Marcela; 'but only to turn for mine honour, and give the 
world to understand how little reason have all those which make 
me the author either of their own pains or of Chrysostom's death; 
and therefore I desire all you that be here present to lend attention 
unto me, for I mean not to spend much time or words to persuade 
to the discreet so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made 
me beautiful, and that so much that my feature moves you to love 
almost whether you will or no; and for the affection you show unto 
me, you say, ay, and you affirm, that I ought to love you again. I 
know, by the natural instinct that Jove hath bestowed on me, that 


each fair thing is amiable; but I cannot conceive why, for the rea- 
son of being beloved, the party that is so beloved for her beauty 
should be bound to love her lover, although he be foul; and, seeing 
that foul things are worthy of hate, it is a bad argument to say, I 
love thee, because fair; and therefore thou must affect me, although 
uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occur equal on both 
sides, it follows not, therefore, that their desires should run one 
way; for all beauties do not enamour, for some do only delight the 
sight, and subject not the will; for if all beauties did enamour and 
subject together, men's wills would ever run confused and straying, 
without being able to make any election; for the beautiful subjects 
being infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite. And, as 
I have heard, true love brooks no division, and must needs be 
voluntary, and not enforced; which being so, as I presume it is, 
why would you have me subject my will forcibly, without any 
other obligation than that, that you say you love me? If not, tell 
me, if Heaven had made me foul, as it hath made me beautiful, 
could I justly complain of you because you affected me not? How 
much more, seeing you ought to consider that I did not choose 
the beauty I have! for, such as it is. Heaven bestowed it gratis, 
without my demanding or electing it. And even as the viper de- 
serves no blame for the poison she carries, although therewithal 
she kill, seeing it was bestowed on her by nature, so do I as little 
merit to be reprehended because beautiful; for beauty in an honest 
woman is like fire afar off, or a sharp-edged sword; for neither 
that burns nor this cuts any but such as come near them. Honour 
and virtue are the ornaments of the soul, without which the fairest 
body is not to be esteemed such; and if that honesty be one of the 
virtues that adorneth and beautifieth most the body and soul, why 
should she that is beloved, because fair, adventure the loss thereof, 
to answer his intention which only for his pleasure's sake labours 
that she may lose it, with all his force and industry? I was born 
free, and, because I might live freely, I made election of the solitude 
of the fields. The trees of these mountains are my companions, 
the clear water of these streams my mirrors. With the trees and 
waters I communicate my thoughts and beauty. I am a parted fire, 


and a sword laid aloof. Those whom I have enamoured with my 
sight, I have undeceived with my words. And if desires be sus- 
tained by hopes, I never having given any to Chrysostom, or to 
any other, it may well be said that he was rather slain by his own 
obstinacy than by my cruelty. And if I be charged that his thoughts 
were honest, and that I was therefore obliged to answer unto them, 
I say, that when in that very place where you make his sepulchre, 
he first broke his mind unto me, I told him that mine intention 
was to live in perpetual solitude, and that only the earth should 
gather the fruits of my solitariness and the sf)oils of my beauty; 
and if he would, after this my resolution, persist obstinately without 
all hope, and sail against the wind, what wonder is it that he should 
be drowned in the midst of the gulf of his rashness ? If I had enter- 
tained him, then were I false; if I had pleased him, then should 
I do against my better purposes and projects. He strove, being 
persuaded to the contrary; he despaired, ere he was hated. See, 
then, if it be reason that I bear the blame of his torment. Let him 
complain who hath been deceived; let him despair to whom his 
promised hopes have failed; let him confess it whom I shall ever 
call; let him vaunt whom I shall admit: but let him not call me 
cruel or a homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called, or ad- 
mitted. Heaven hath not yet ordained that I should love by destiny; 
and to think that I would do it by election may be excused. And let 
this general caveat serve every one of those which solicit me for his 
particular benefit. And let it be known, that if any shall hereafter 
die for my love, that he dies not jealous or unfortunate; for who- 
soever loves not any, breeds not in reason jealousy in any, nor 
should any resolutions to any be accounted disdainings. He that 
calls me a savage and a basilisk, let him shun me as a hurtful 
and prejudicial thing; he that calls me ungrateful, let him not serve 
me; he that's strange, let him not know me; he that's cruel, let 
him not follow me: for this savage, this basilisk, this ingrate, this 
cruel and strange one, will neither seek, serve, know, or pursue any 
of them. For if Chrysostom's impatience and headlong desire slew 
him, why should mine honest proceeding and care be inculped there- 
withal? If I preserve mine integrity in the society of these trees, 


why would any desire me to lose it, seeing every one covets to 
have the like himself, to converse the better among men? I have, 
as you all know, riches enough of mine own, and therefore do not 
covet other men's. I have a free condition, and I do not please to 
subject me. Neither do I love or hate any. I do not deceive this 
man, or solicit that other; nor do I jest with one, and pass the time 
with another. The honest conversation of the pastoras of these 
villages and the care of my goats, do entertain me. My desires are 
limited by these mountains; and if they do issue from hence, it is 
to contemplate the beauty of heaven — steps wherewithal the soul 
travels toward her first dwelling.' And, ending here, without desiring 
to hear any answer, she turned her back and entered into the thickest 
part of the wood that was there at hand, leaving all those that were 
present marvellously admired at her beauty and discretion. 

Some of the shepherds present, that were wounded by the power- 
ful beams of her beautiful eyes, made proffer to pursue her, without 
reaping any profit out of her manifest resolution made there in their 
hearing; which Don Quixote noting, and thinking that the use 
of this chivalry did jump fitly with that occasion, by succouring dis- 
tressed damsels, laying hand on the pommel of his sword, he said, 
in loud and intelligible words: 'Let no person, of whatsoever state 
or condition he be, presume to follow the fair Marcela, under 
pain of falling into my furious indignation. She hath shown, by 
clear and sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she had in Chrysos- 
tom's death, and how far she lives from meaning to condescend 
to the desires of any of her lovers; for which respect it is just that, 
instead of being pursued and persecuted, she be honoured and 
esteemed by all the good men of the world; for she shows in it, 
that it is only she alone that lives therein with honest intention.' 
Now, whether it was through Don Quixote's menaces, or whether 
because Ambrosio requested them to conclude with the obligation 
they owed to their good friend, none of the shepherds moved or 
departed from thence until, the grave being made and Chrysos- 
tom's papers burnt, they laid the body into it, with many tears of the 
beholders. They shut the sepulchre with a great stone, until a 
monument were wrought, which Ambrosio said he went to have 
made, with an epitaph to this sense: 


'Here, of a loving swain, 

The frozen carcase lies; 

Who was a heard likewise, 
And died through disdain. 
Stern rigour hath him slain, 

Of a coy fair ingrate. 

By whom love doth dilate 
Her tyranny amain.* 

They presently strewed on the grave many flowers and boughs, 
and everyone condoling a while with his friend Ambrosio, did 
afterward bid him farewell, and departed. The like did Vivaldo 
and his companion: and Don Quixote, bidding his host and the 
travellers adieu, they requested him to come with them to Seville, 
because it was a place so fit for the finding of adventures, as in 
every street and corner thereof are offered more than in any other 
place whatsoever. Don Quixote rendered them thanks for their 
advice and the good-will they seemed to have to gratify him, and 
said he neither ought nor would go to Seville until he had freed 
all those mountains of thieves and robbers, whereof, as fame ran, 
they were full. The travellers perceiving his good intention, would 
not importune him more; but, bidding him again farewell, they 
departed, and followed on their journey; in which they wanted 
not matter of discourse, as well of the history of Marcela and 
Chrysostom as of the follies of Don Quixote, who determined to 
go in the search of the shepherdess Marcela, and offer unto her all 
that he was able to do in her service. But it befel him not as he 
thought, as shall be rehearsed in the discourse of this true history; 
giving end here to the Second Part. 



Wherein Is Reheaksed the Unfortunate Adventure Which 
Happened to Don Quixote, by Encountering With Certain 
Yanguesian Carriers 

THE wise Cid Hamet Benengeli recounteth that, as soon as 
Don Quixote had taken leave of the goatherds, his hosts the 
night before, and of all those that were present at the burial 
of the shepherd Chrysostom, he and his squire did presently enter 
into the same wood into which they had seen the beautiful shep- 
herdess Marcela enter before. And, having travelled in it about the 
space of two hours without finding of her, they arrived in fine to 
a pleasant meadow, enriched with abundance of flourishing grass, 
near unto which runs a delightful and refreshing stream, which did 
invite, yea, constrain them thereby to pass over the heat of the day, 
which did then begin to enter with great fervour and vehemency. 
Don Quixote and Sancho alighted, and, leaving the ass and Rozi- 
nante to the spaciousness of these plains to feed on the plenty of 
grass that was there, they ransacked their wallet, where, without 
any ceremony, the master and man did eat, with good accord and 
fellowship, what they found therein. Sancho had neglected to tie 
Rozinante, sure that he knew him to be so sober and little wanton 
as all the mares of the pasture of Cordova could not make him to 
think the least sinister thought. But fortune did ordain, or rather 
the devil, who sleeps not at all hours, that a troop of Gallician 
mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers, did feed up and 
down in the same valley; which carriers are wont, with their beasts, 
to pass over the heats in places situated near unto grass and water, 
and that wherein Don Quixote happened to be was very fit for 
their purpose. It therefore befel that Rozinante took a certain desire 
to solace himself with the lady mares, and therefore, as soon as he 



had smelt them, abandoning his natural pace and custom, without 
taking leave of his master, he began a little swift trot, and went to 
communicate his necessities to them. But they, who, as it seemed, 
had more desire to feed than to solace them, entertained him with 
their heels and teeth in such sort as they broke all his girths, and left 
him in his naked hair, having overthrown the saddle. But that 
which surely grieved him most was, that the carriers, perceiving 
the violence that was offered by him to their mares, repaired presently 
to their succours, with clubs and truncheons, and did so belabour hira 
as they fairly laid him along. Now, in this season, Don Quixote 
and Sancho (which beheld the bombasting of Rozinante) ap- 
proached breathless; and Don Quixote said to Sancho, 'For as much 
as I can perceive, friend Sancho, these men are no knights, but base, 
rascally people of vile quality; I say it, because thou mayst help 
me to take due revenge for the outrage which they have done before 
our face to Rozinante.' 'What a devil' quoth Sancho, 'what revenge 
should we take, if these be more than twenty, and we but two, and 
peradventure but one and a half?' 'I am worth a hundred,' replied 
Don Quixote; and, without making any longer discourse, he set 
hand to his sword, and flew upon the Yanguesians; and Sancho 
Panza, moved by his lord's example, did the like; when, with the 
first blow, Don Quixote piercing a buff coat that one of them wore, 
wounded him grievously in the shoulder. The Yanguesians, seeing 
themselves so rudely handled by two men only, they being so many, 
ran to the stakes and truncheons of their carriage, and, hemming in 
their adversaries in the midst of them, they laid on them with ad- 
mirable speed and vehemency. True it is, that at the second peal 
they struck Sancho down to the ground; and the like happened 
to Don Quixote, his dexterity and courage being nothing available 
in that trance, and, his fate so ordaining, he fell just at his courser's 
feet, who had not yet gotten up; by which we may f)onder the fury 
wherewithal truncheons batter, being placed in wrathful and rustical 
fists. The carriers perceiving the evil they had committed, trussing 
up their loading with all possible speed, followed on their way, 
leaving both the adventures in a bad fashion, and a worse talent. 

The first that came to himself was Sancho Panza, who, seeing 
his lord near unto him, said, with a weak and pitiful voice, 'Sir 


Don Quixote I oh, sir Don Quixote I' 'What wouldst thou have, 
brother Sancho?' replied the knight, with the Hke effeminate and 
doleful tune. 'I would,' quoth Sancho, 'have of your worship a 
draught or two of the liquor of Feoblas, if you have any of it at 
hand; perhaps it is good to cure broken bones as well as it helps 
wounds.' 'What would we want, unhappy that I am!' replied Don 
Quixote, 'if I had it here; but I swear unto thee, Sancho Panza, by 
the faith of a knight-errant, that before two days pass (if fortune dis- 
pose not otherwise), 1 will have it in my power, or it shall hardly 
escape my hands.' 'I pray you,' quoth Sancho, 'within how many 
days, think you, shall we be able to stir our feet?' 'I can say of my- 
self,' quoth the crushed knight, 'that I cannot set a certain term to 
the days of our recovery; but I am in the fault of all, for I should 
not have drawn my sword against men that are not knights as well 
as I am; and therefore I believe that the god of battles hath per- 
mitted that this punishment should be given unto me, in pain of 
transgressing the laws of knighthood. Wherefore, brother Sancho, 
it is requisite that thou beest advertised of that which I shall say 
unto thee now, for it importeth both our goods very much; and is, 
that when thou beholdest that the like rascally rabble do us any 
wrong, do not wait till I set hand to my sword against them, for 
I will not do it in any sort; but draw thou thine, and chastise them 
at thy pleasure; and if any knights shall come to their assistance 
and succour, I shall know then how to defend thee, and offend 
them with all my force; for thou hast by this perceived, by a 
thousand signs and experiences, how far the valour of this mine 
invincible arm extendeth itself: — so arrogant remained the poor 
knight, through the victory he had gotten of the hardy Biscaine. 
But this advice of his lord seemed not so good to Sancho Panza 
as that he would omit to answer unto him, saying, 'Sir, I am a 
peaceable, quiet, and sober man, and can dissemble any injury, 
for I have wife and children to maintain and bring up; wherefore, 
let this likewise be an advice to you (seeing it cannot be a command- 
ment), that I will not set hand to my sword in any wise, be it 
against clown or knight; and that, from this time forward, I do 
pardon, before God, all the wrongs that they have done, or shall 
do unto me, whether they were, be, or shall be done by high or low 


person, rich or poor, gentleman or churl, without excepting any 
state or condition.' Which being heard by his lord, he said: 'I could 
wish to have breath enough that I might answer thee with a little 
more ease, or that the grief which 1 feel in this rib were assuaged 
ever so little, that I might, Panza, make thee understand the 
error wherein thou art. Come here, poor fool I if the gale of fortune, 
hitherto so contrary, do turn in our favour, swelling the sails of our 
desire in such sort as we may securely and without any hindrance 
arrive at the haven of any of those islands which I have promised 
unto thee, what would become of thee, if I, conquering it, did 
make thee lord thereof, seeing thou wouldst disable thyself, in 
respect thou art not a knight, nor desirest to be one, nor wouldst 
have valour or will to revenge thine injuries, or to defend thy lord- 
ship's? For thou must understand that, in the kingdoms and 
provinces newly conquered, the minds of the inhabitants are never 
so thoroughly appeased or wedded to the affection of their new lord, 
that it is not to be feared that they will work some novelty to alter 
things again, and turn, as men say, afresh to try fortune; and it is 
therefore requisite that the new possessor have understanding to 
govern, and valour to offend, and defend himself in any adventure 
whatsoever.' 'In this last that hath befallen us,' quoth Sancho, 'I 
would I had had that understanding and valour of which you 
speak; but I vow unto you, by the faith of a poor man, that I am 
now fitter for plaisters than discourses. I pray you try whether 
you can arise, and we will help Rozinante, although he deserves 
it not; for he was the principal cause of all these troubles. I would 
never have believed the like before of Rozinante, whom I ever held 
to be as chaste and peaceable a person as myself. In fine, they say 
well, that one must have a long time to come to the knowledge of 
bodies, and that there's nothing in this life secure. Who durst 
affirm that, after those mighty blows which you gave to that un- 
fortunate knight-errant, would succeed so in post, and as it were 
in your pursuit, this so furious a tempest of staves, that hath dis- 
charged itself on our shoulders?' 'Thine, Sancho,' replied Don 
Quixote, 'are perhaps accustomed to bear the like showers, but 
mine, nursed between cottons and hollands, it is most evident that 
they must feel the grief of this disgrace. And were it not that I 


imagine (but why do I say imagine?) I know certainly that all 
these incommodities are annexed to the exercise of arms, I would 
here die for very wrath and displeasure.' To this the squire answered: 
'Sir, seeing these disgraces are of the essence of knighthood, I pray 
you whether they succeed very often, or whether they have certain 
times limited wherein they befall? For methinks, within two ad- 
ventures more, we shall wholly remain disenabled for the third, if 
the gods in mercy do not succour us.' 

'Know, friend Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'that the life of 
knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and misfortunes; 
and it is also as well, in the next degree and power, to make them 
kings and emperors, as experience hath shown in sundry knights, of 
whose histories I have entire notice. And I could recount unto thee 
now (did the pain I suffer permit me) of some of them which have 
mounted to those high degrees which I have said, only by the valour 
of their arm; and the very same men found them, both before and 
after, in divers miseries and calamities. For the valorous Amadis of 
Gaul saw himself in the jxjwer of his mortal enemy, Arcalaus the 
enchanter, of whom the opinion runs infallible, that he gave unto 
him, being his prisoner, more than two hundred stripes with his 
horse-bridle, after he had tied him to a pillar in his base-court. 
And there is, moreover, a secret author of no httle credit, who says, 
that the Cavalier del Febo, being taken in a gin, like unto a snatch, 
that slipped under his feet in a certain castle, after the fall found 
himself in a deep dungeon under the earth, bound hands and feet; 
and there they gave unto him a clyster of snow-water and sand, 
which brought him almost to the end of his life; and were it not 
that he was succoured in that great distress by a wise man, his very 
great friend, it had gone ill with the poor knight. So that I may 
very well pass among so many worthy persons; for the dangers and 
disgraces they suffered were greater than those which we do now 
endure. For, Sancho, I would have thee to understand, that these 
wounds which are given to one with those instruments that are 
in one's hand, by chance, do not disgrace a man. And it is written 
in the laws of single combat, in express terms, that if the shoemaker 
strike another with the last which he hath in his hand, although it 
be certainly of wood, yet cannot it be said that he who was striken 
had the bastinado. I say this, to the end thou mayst not think, al- 


though we remain bruised in this last conflict, that therefore we be 
disgraced; for the arms which those men bore, and wherewithal they 
laboured us, were none other than their pack-staves, and, as far as I 
can remember, never a one of them had a tuck, sword, or dagger.' 
'They gave me no leisure,' answered Sancho, 'to look to them so 
nearly; for scarce had 1 laid hand on my truncheon, when they 
blessed my shoulders with their pins, in such sort as they wholly 
deprived me of my sight and the force of my feet together, striking 
me down on the place where 1 yet lie straught, and where the pain 
of the disgrace received by our cudgelling doth not so much pinch 
me as the grief of the blows, which shall remain as deeply imprinted 
in my memory as they do in my back.' 

'For all this, thou shalt understand, brother Panza,' replied Don 
Quixote, 'that there is no remembrance which time will not end, nor 
grief which death will not consume.' 'What greater misfortune,' 
quoth Sancho, 'can there be than that which only expecteth time 
and death to end and consimie it ? If this our disgrace were of that 
kind which might be cured by a pair or two of plaisters, it would 
not be so evil; but I begin to perceive that all the salves of an 
hospital will not suffice to bring them to any good terms.' 'Leave off, 
Sancho, and gather strength out of weakness,' said Don Quixote, 'for 
so will I likewise do; and let us see how doth Rozinante, for me- 
thinks that the least part of this mishap hath not fallen to his lot.' 
'You ought not to marvel at that,' quoth Sancho, 'seeing he is like- 
wise a knight-errant; that whereat I wonder is that mine ass remains 
there without payment, where we are come away without ribs.' 
'Fortune leaves always one door open in disasters,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'whereby to remedy them. I say it, because that little beast 
may supply Rozinante's want, by carrying off me from hence unto 
some castle, wherein I may be cured of my wounds. Nor do I hold 
this kind of riding dishonourable; for I remember to have read that 
the good old Silenus, tutor of the merry god of laughter, when he 
entered into the city of the hundred gates, rode very fairly mounted 
on a goodly ass.' 'It is like,' quoth Sancho, 'that he rode, as you 
say, upon an ass; but there is great difference betwixt riding and 
being cast athwart upon one like a sack of rubbish.* To this Don 
Quixote answered: 'The wounds that are received in battle do 
rather give honour than deprive men of it; wherefore, friend Panza, 


do not reply any more unto me, but, as I have said, arise as well as 
thou canst, and lay me as thou pleaseth upon thy beast, and let us 
depart from hence before the night overtake us in these deserts.' 
'Yet I have heard you say,' quoth Panza, 'that it was an ordinary 
custom of knights-errant to sleep in downs and deserts the most of 
the year, and that so to do they hold for very good hap.' 'That is,' 
said Don Quixote, 'when they have none other shift, or when they 
are in love; and this is so true as that there hath been a knight that 
hath dwelt on a rock, exposed to the sun and the shadow, and other 
annoyances of heaven, for the space of two years, without his lady's 
knowledge. And Amadis was one of that kind, when calling himself 
Beltenebros, he dwelt in the Poor Rock, nor do I know punctually 
eight years or eight months, for I do not remember the history 
well; let it suffice that there he dwelt doing of penance, for some 
disgust which I know not, that his lady, Oriana, did him. But, 
leaving that apart, Sancho, despatch and away before some other 
disgrace hapjjen, like that of Rozinante, to the ass.' 

'Even there lurks the devil,' quoth Sancho; and so, breathing 
thirty sobs and threescore sighs, and a hundred and twenty dis- 
contents and execrations against him that had brought him there, 
he arose, remaining bent in the midst of the way, like unto a 
Turkish bow, without being able to address himself; and, not- 
withstanding all this difficulty, he harnessed his ass (who had been 
also somewhat distracted by the overmuch liberty of that day), 
and after he hoisted up Rozinante, who, were he endowed with a 
tongue to complain, would certainly have borne his lord and Sancho 
company. In the end Sancho laid Don Quixote on the ass, and tied 
Rozinante unto him, and, leading the ass by the halter, travelled 
that way which he deemed might conduct him soonest toward the 
highway. And fortune, which guided his affairs from good to better, 
after he had travelled a little league, discovered it unto him, near 
unto which he saw an inn, which, in despite of him, and for Don 
Quixote's pleasure, must needs be a castle. Sancho contended that 
it was an inn, and his lord that it was not; and their controversy 
endured so long as they had leisure, before they could decide it, 
to arrive at the lodging; into which Sancho, without further verify- 
ing of the dispute, entered with all his loading. 


Of That Which Happened Unto the Ingenuous Knight Within 
THE Inn, Which He Supposed to Be a Castle 

THE innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid overthwart upon 
the ass, demanded of Sancho what disease he had. Sancho 
answered that it was nothing but a fall down from a rock, 
and that his ribs were thereby somewhat bruised. This innkeeper 
had a wife, not of the condition that those of that trade are wont 
to be; for she was of a charitable nature, and would grieve at the 
calamities of her neighbours, and did therefore presently occur to 
cure Don Quixote, causing her daughter, a very comely young 
maiden, to assist her to cure her guest. There likewise served in 
the inn an Asturian wench, who was broad-faced, flat-pated, saddle- 
nosed, blind of one eye, and the other almost out; true it is, that 
the comeliness of her body supplied all the other defects. She was 
not seven palms long from her feet unto her head; and her shoulders, 
which did somewhat burden her, made her look oftener to the 
ground than she would willingly. This beautiful piece did assist 
the young maiden, and both of them made a very bad bed for Don 
Quixote in an old wide chamber, which gave manifest tokens of 
itself that it had sometimes served many years only to keep chopped 
straw for horses; in which was also lodged a carrier, whose bed was 
made a little way off from Don Quixote's, which, though it was made 
of canvas and coverings of his mules, was much better than the 
knight's, that only contained four boards roughly planed, placed 
on two unequal tressels; a flock-bed, which in the thinness seemed 
rather a quilt, full of pellets, and had not they shown that they were 
wool, through certain breaches made by antiquity on the tick, 
a man would by the hardness rather take them to be stones; a pair 
of sheets made of the skins of targets; a coverlet, whose threads 
if a man would number, he should not lose one only of the account. 
In this ungracious bed did Don Quixote lie, and presently the 



hostess and her daughter anointed him all over, and Maritornes (for 
so the Asturian wench was called) did hold the candle. The hostess 
at the plaistering of him, perceiving him to be so bruised in sundry 
places, she said unto him that those signs rather seemed to proceed 
of blows than of a fall. 'They were not blows,' replied Sancho; 'but 
the rock had many sharp ends and knobs on it, whereof every one 
left behind it a token; and I desire you, good mistress,' quoth he, 
'to leave some flax behind, and there shall not want one that needeth 
the use of them; for, I assure you, my back doth likewise ache.' 
'If that be so,' quoth the hostess, 'it is likely that thou didst also 
fall.' 'I did not fall,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'but with the sudden 
affright that I took at my master's fall, my body doth so grieve 
me, as methinks I have been handsomely belaboured.' 'It may well 
happen as thou sayst,' quoth the hostess's daughter; 'for it hath 
befallen me sundry times to dream that I fell down from some 
high tower, and could never come to the ground; and when I 
awoke, I did find myself so troubled and broken, as if I had verily 
fallen.' 'There is the point, masters,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'that I, 
without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am at this 
hour, found myself to have very few less tokens and marks than my 
lord Don Quixote hath.' 'How is this gentleman called?' quoth 
Maritornes the Asturian. 'Don Quixote of the Mancha,' replied 
Sancho Panza; 'and he is a knight-errant, and one of the best and 
strongest that have been seen in the world these many ages.' 'What 
is that, a knight-errant?' quoth the wench. 'Art thou so young in 
the world that thou knowest it not?' answered Sancho Panza. 
'Know then, sister mine, that a knight-errant is a thing which, in 
two words, you see well cudgelled, and after becomes an emperor. 
To-day he is the most unfortunate creature of the world, and the 
most needy; and to-morrow he will have two or three crowns of 
kingdoms to bestow upon his squire.' 'If it be so,' quoth the hostess, 
'why, then, hast not thou gotten at least an earldom, seeing thou art 
this good knight his squire?' 'It is yet too soon,' replied Sancho; 
'for it is but a month since we began first to seek adventures, and we 
have not yet encountered any worthy of the name. And sometimes 
it befalls, that searching for one thing we encounter another. True 
it is that, if my lord Don Quixote recover of this wound or fall, and 


that I be not changed by it, I would not make an exchange of my 
hopes for the best title of Spain.' Don Quixote did very attentively 
listen unto all these discourses, and, sitting up in his bed as well as 
he could, taking his hostess by the hand, he said unto her: 'Believe 
me, beautiful lady, that you may count yourself fortunate for having 
harboured my person in this your castle, which is such, that if I do 
not praise it, it is because men say that proper praise stinks; but my 
squire will inform you what I am: only this I will say myself, that 
I will keep eternally written in my memory the service that you 
have done unto me, to be grateful unto you for it whilst I live. And 
I would it might please the highest heavens that love held me not 
so enthralled and subject to his laws as he doth, and to the eyes of 
that ungrateful fair whose name I secretly mutter, then should those 
of this beautiful damsel presently signiorise my liberty.' The hostess, 
her daughter, and the good Maritornes remained confounded, hear- 
ing the speech of our knight-errant, which they understood as well 
as if he had spoken Greek unto them; but yet they conceived that 
they were words of compliments and love, and as people unused to 
hear the like language, they beheld and admired him, and he seemed 
unto them a man of the other world; and so, returning him thanks, 
with tavernly phrase, for his large offers, they departed. And the 
Asturian Maritornes cured Sancho, who needed her help no less 
than his master. 

The carrier and she had agreed to pass the night together, and 
she had given unto him her word that, when the guests were quiet 
and her master sleeping, she would come unto him and satisfy his 
desire, as much as he pleased. And it is said of this good wench, 
that she never passed the like promise but that she performed it, 
although it were given in the midst of a wood, and without any 
witness; for she presumed to be of gentle blood, and yet she held 
it no disgrace to serve in an inn; for she was wont to affirm that 
disgraces and misfortunes brought her to that state. The hard, 
narrow, niggard, and counterfeit bed whereon Don Quixote lay was 
the first of the four, and next unto it was his squire's, that only con- 
tained a mat and a coverlet, and rather seemed to be of shorn canvas 
than wool. After these two beds followed that of the carrier, made, 
as we have said, of the pannels and furniture of two of his best 


mules, although they were twelve all in number, fair, fat, and 
goodly beasts; for he was one of the richest carriers of Arevalo, as 
the author of this history affirmeth, who maketh particular mention 
of him, because he knew him very well, and besides, some men say 
that he was somewhat akin unto him; omitting that Cid Mahamet 
Benengeli was a very exact historiographer, and most curious in all 
things, as may be gathered very well, seeing that those which are 
related being so minute and trivial, he would not overslip them in 

By which those grave historiographers may take example, which 
recount unto us matters so short and succinctly as they do scarce 
arrive to our knowledge, leaving the most substantial part of the 
works drowned in the ink-horn, either through negligence, malice, 
or ignorance. Many good fortunes betide the author of Tablante de 
Ricamonte, and him that wrote the book wherein are rehearsed the 
acts of the Count Tomillas: Lord! with what preciseness do they 
describe every circumstance. To conclude, I say that, after the carrier 
had visited his mules, and given unto them their second refreshing, 
he stretched himself in his coverlets, and expected the coming of the 
most exquisite Maritornes. Sancho was also, by this, plaistered and 
laid down in his bed, and though he desired to sleep, yet would not 
the grief of his ribs permit him. And Don Quixote, with the pain 
of his sides, lay with both his eyes open, like a hare. 

All the inn was drowned in silence, and there was no other light 
in it than that of a lamp, which hung lighting in the midst of the 
entry. This marvellous quietness, and the thoughts which always 
represented to our knight the memory of the successes which at every 
pace are recounted in books of knighthood (the principal authors 
of this mishap), called to his imagination one of the strangest follies 
that easily may be conjectured; which was, he imagined that he 
arrived to a famous castle (for, as we have said, all the inns wherein 
he lodged seemed unto him to be such), and that the innkeeper's 
daughter was the lord's daughter of the castle, who, overcome by 
his comeliness and valour, was enamoured of him, and had promised 
that she would come to solace with him for a good space, after her 
father and mother had gone to bed. And holding all this chimera 
and fiction, which he himself had built in his brain, for most firm 


and certain, he began to be vexed in mind, and to think on the 
dangerous trance, wherein his honesty was Uke to fall, and did firmly 
purpose in heart not to commit any disloyalty against his lady, 
Dulcinea of Toboso, although very Queen Genever, with her lady, 
Queintanonia, should come to solicit him. Whilst thus he lay think- 
ing of these follies, the hour approached (that was unlucky for him) 
wherein the Asturian wench should come, who entered into the 
chamber in search of her carrier, in her smock, barefooted, and her 
hair trussed up in a coif of fustian, with soft and wary steps. But 
she was scarce come to the door when Don Quixote felt her, and, 
arising and sitting up in his bed, in despite of his plaisters and with 
great grief of his ribs, he stretched forth his arms to receive his 
beautiful damsel, the Asturian, who, crouching and silently, went 
groping with her hands to find out her sweet heart, and encountered 
Don Quixote's arms, who presently seized very strongly upon one 
of her wrists, and, drawing her towards him (she daring not to 
speak a word,) he caused her to sit upon his bed's side, and presently 
groped her smock, and although it was of the strongest canvas, he 
thought it was most subtle and fine hoUand. She wore on her wrists 
certain bracelets of glass, which he esteemed to be precious oriental 
pearls. Her hair which was almost as rough as a horse-tail, he held 
to be wires of the glisteringest gold of Arabia, whose brightness did 
obscure that of the sun; and her breath, which certainly smelled 
like to stale salt-fish reserved from over night, seemed unto him a 
most redolent, aromatical, and sweet smell. And finally, he painted 
her in his fantasy of the same very form and manner as he had read 
in his books of knighthood, of a certain princess which came to visit 
a knight who was grievously wounded, being overcome by his love, 
embellished with all the ornaments that here we have recounted; 
and the blindness of this poor gallant was such, as neither the touch- 
ing, savour, or other things that accompanied the good damsel, 
could undeceive him, being such as were able to make any other, save 
a carrier, vomit up his bowels; but rather he made full account that 
he held the goddess of love between his arms, and, holding her still 
very fast, he began to court her, with a low and amorous voice, in 
this manner: 'I could wish to find myself in terms, most high and 
beautiful lady, to be able to recompense so great a favour as that 


which, with the presence of your matchless feature, you have shown 
unto me; but fortune (who is never weary of persecuting the good) 
hath pleased to lay me in this bed, wherein I lie so broken and 
bruised, that although I were desirous to satisfy your will, yet it is 
impossible; especially seeing to that impxassibility may be added a 
greater, to wit, the promised faith which 1 have given to the un- 
matchable Dulcinea of Toboso, the only lady of my most hidden 
thoughts; for did not this let me, do not hold me to be so senseless 
and mad a knight as to overslip so fortunate an occasion as this 
which your bounty hath offered to me.' 

Maritornes remained sweating, through anxiety, to see herself 
held so fast by Don Quixote, and, without either understanding or 
giving attention to his words, she laboured all that she could to free 
herself from him without speaking a word. The carrier, whose bad 
intention kept him still waking, did hear his lady from the time 
that she first entered into the room, and did attentively give ear to 
all Don Quixote's discourses; and, jealous that the Asturian should 
break promise with him for any other, he drew nearer unto Don 
Quixote's bed, and stood quiet to see whereunto those words which he 
could not understand tended; but viewing that the wench strove to 
depart, and Don Quixote laboured to withhold her, the jest seeming 
evil unto him, he up with his arm, and discharged so terrible a blow 
on the enamoured knight's jaws as he bathed all his mouth in blood; 
and, not content herewithal, he mounted upon the knight, and did 
tread on his ribs, and passed them all over with more than a trot. 

The bed, which was somewhat weak, and not very firm of foun- 
dation, being unable to suffer the addition of the carrier, fell down 
to the ground with so great a noise as it waked the innkeeper; who, 
presently suspecting that it was one of Maritornes' conflicts, be- 
cause she answered him not, having called her loudly, he forthwith 
arose, and, lighting of a lamp, he went towards the place where he 
heard the noise. The wench, jjerceiving that her master came, and 
that he was extreme choleric, did, all ashamed and troubled, run 
into Sancho Panza's bed, who slept all this while very soundly, and 
there crouched, and made herself as little as an egg. 

Her master entered, crying, "Whore, where art thou? I dare 
warrant that these are some of thy doings?' By this Sancho awaked, 


and, feeling that bulk lying almost wholly upon him, he thought 
it was the nightmare, and began to lay with his fists here and there 
about him very swiftly, and among others wrought Maritornes I 
know not how many blows; who, grieved for the pain she endured 
there, casting all honesty aside, gave Sancho the exchange of his 
blows so trimly as she made him to awake in despite of his sluggish- 
ness. And, finding himself to be so abused of an uncouth person, 
whom he could not behold, he arose and caught hold of Maritornes 
as well as he could, and they both began the best fight and pleasantest 
skirmish in the world. 

The carrier, perceiving by the light which the innkeeper brought 
in with him, the lamentable state of his mistress, abandoning Don 
Quixote, he instantly repaired to give her the succour that was req- 
uisite, which likewise the innkeeper did, but with another mean- 
ing; for he approached with intention to punish the wench, believing 
that she was infallibly the cause of all that harmony. And so, as 
men say, the cat to the rat, the rat to the cord, the cord to the post; 
so the carrier struck Sancho, Sancho the wench, she returned him 
again his liberality with interest, and the inn-keeper laid load uf)on 
his maid also; and all of them did mince it with such expedition, 
as there was no leisure at all allowed to any one of them for breath- 
ing. And the best of all was, that the innkeeper's lamp went out, and 
then, finding themselves in darkness, they belaboured one another 
so without compassion, and at once, as wheresoever the blow fell, 
it bruised the place pitifully. 

There lodged by chance that night in the inn one of the squadron 
of these which are called of the old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo; 
he likewise hearing the wonderful noise of the fight, laid hand on 
his rod of office and the tin box of his titles, and entered into the 
chamber without light, saying, 'Stand still to the officer of justice and 
to the holy brotherhood.' And, saying so, the first whom he met 
was the poor battered Don Quixote, who lay overthrown in his bed, 
stretched, with his face upward, without any feeling; and taking 
hold of his beard, he cried out incessantly, 'Help the justice!' But, 
seeing that he whom he held fast bowed neither hand nor foot, he 
presently thought that he was dead, and that those battaillants that 
fought so eagerly in the room had sla'.n him; wherefore he lifted his 

124 ^^N QUIXOTE 

voice and cried out loudly, saying, 'Shut the inn-door, and see that 
none escape; for here they have killed a man!' This word astonished 
all the combatants so much, as every one left the battle in the very 
terms wherein this voice had overtaken them. The innkeeper retired 
himself to his chamber, the carrier to his coverlets, the wench to her 
couch; and only the unfortunate Don Quixote and Sancho were not 
able to move themselves from the place wherein they lay. The officer 
of the Holy Brotherhood in this space letting slip poor Don Quixote's 
beard, went out for light to search and apprehend the delinquents; 
but he could not find any, for the innkeeper had purposely quenched 
the lamp as he retired to his bed; wherefore the officer was con- 
strained to repair to the chimney, where, with great difficulty, after 
he had spent a long while doing of it he at last lighted a candle. 


Wherein Are Rehearsed the Innumerable Misfortunes Which 
Don Quixote and His Good Squire Sancho Suffered in the 
Inn, Which He, to His Harm, Thought to Be a Castle 

BY this time Don Quixote was come to himself again out o£ 
. his trance, and, with the hke lamentable notes as that where- 
withal he had called his squire the day before, when he was 
overthrown in the vale of the pack-staves, he called to him, saying, 
'Friend Sancho, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend Sancho?' 
'What! I asleep? I renounce myself,' quoth Sancho, full of grief 
and despite, 'if I think not all the devils in hell have been visiting 
of me here this night!' 'Thou mayst certainly believe it,' replied 
Don Quixote; 'for either I know very little, or else this castle is 
enchanted. For I let thee to wit — but thou must first swear to keep 
secret that which I mean to tell thee now, until after my death." 
'So I swear,' quoth Sancho. 'I say it,' quoth Don Quixote, 'because 
I cannot abide to take away anybody's honour.' 'Why,' quoth Sancho 
again, 'I swear that I will conceal it until after your worship's days; 
and I pray God that I may discover it to-morrow.' 'Have I wrought 
thee such harm, Sancho,' replied the knight, 'as thou wouldst desire 
to see me end so soon?' 'It is not for that, sir,' quoth Sancho; 'but 
because I cannot abide to keep things long, lest they should rot 
in my custody.' 'Let it be for what thou pleasest,' said Don Quixote; 
'for I do trust greater matters than that to thy love and courtesy. 
And that I may rehearse it unto thee briefly, know that, a little while 
since, the lord of this castle's daughter came unto me, who is the 
most fair and beautiful damsel that can be found in a great part 
of the earth. What could I say unto thee of the ornaments of her 
person? what of her excellent wit? what of other secret things? 
which, that I may preserve the faith due unto my Lady Dulcinea of 
Toboso, I pass over in silence. I will only tell thee that Heaven, 
envious of the inestimable good that fortune had put in my hands; 



or perhaps (and that is most probable) this castle, as I have said, 
is enchanted; just at the time when we were in most sweet and 
amorous speech, I being not able to see or know from whence it 
came, there arrived a hand, joined to the arm of some mighty giant, 
and gave me such a blow on the jaws as they remain all bathed in 
blood, and did after so thump and bruise me as I feel myself worse 
now than yesterday, when the carriers, through Rozinante's mad- 
ness, did use us thou knowest how. By which I conjecture that the 
treasure of this damsel's beauty is kept by some enchanted Moor, and 
is not reserved for me.' 'Nor for me,' quoth Sancho; 'for I have 
been bombasted by more than four hundred Moors, which have 
hammered me in such sort as the bruising of the pack-staves was 
gilded bread and spice<akes in comparison of it. But, sir, I pray 
you tell me, how can you call this a good and rare adventure, seeing 
we remain so pitifully used after it? And yet your harms may be 
accounted less, in respect you have held, as you said, that incom- 
parable beauty between your arms. But I, what have I had other 
than the greatest blows that I shall ever have in my life? Unfor- 
tunate that I am, and the mother that bare me! that neither am 
an errant-knight, nor ever means to be any, and yet the greatest 
part of our mishaps still falls to my lot.' 'It seems that thou wast 
hkewise beaten,' replied Don Quixote. 'Evil befal my lineage!' 
quoth Sancho; 'have not I told you I was?' 'Be not grieved, friend,' 
replied the knight; 'for I will now compound the precious balsam, 
which will cure us in the twinkling of an eye.' 

The officer having by this time lighted his lamp, entpred into the 
room to see him whom he accounted to be dead; and as soon as 
Sancho saw him, seeing him come in in his shirt, his head wrapped 
up in a kerchief, the lamp in his hand, having withal a very evil- 
favoured countenance, he demanded of his lord, — 'Sir, is this by 
chance the enchanted Moor, that turns anew to torment us for 
somewhat that is yet unpunished?' 'He cannot be the Moor,' 
answered Don Quixote; 'for necromancers suffer not themselves to 
be seen by any.' 'If they suffer not themselves to be seen,' quoth 
Sancho, 'they suffer themselves at least to be felt; if not, let my 
shoulders bear witness.' 'So might mine also,' said Don Quixote; 
'but, notwithstanding, this is no sufficient argument to prove him 


whom we see to be the enchanted Moor.' As thus they discoursed, 
the officer arrived, and, finding them to commune in so peaceable 
and quiet manner, he rested admired. Yet Don Quixote lay with 
his face upward as he had left him, and was not able to stir himself, 
he was so beaten and beplaistered. The officer approaching, de- 
manded of him, 'Well, how dost thou, good fellow?' 'I would speak 
more mannerly,' quoth Don Quixote, 'if I were but such a one as 
thou art. Is it the custom of this country, you bottle-head! to talk 
after so rude a manner to knights-errant?' The other, impatient to 
see one of so vile presence use him with that bad language, could 
not endure it; but, lifting up the lamp, oil and all, gave Don Quixote 
such a blow on the pate with it as he broke his head in one or two 
places, and, leaving all in darkness behind him, departed presently 
out of the chamber. 'Without doubt,' quoth Sancho, seeing this 
accident, 'sir, that was the enchanted Moor; and I think he keepeth 
the treasure for others, and reserveth only for us fists and lamp- 
blows.' 'It is as thou sayst,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and therefore we 
are not to make account of these enchantments, or be wroth and 
angry at them; for, in respect that they are invisible and fantastical, 
we shall not find him on whom we may take revenge, though we 
labour ever so much to do it. Arise, therefore, Sancho, if thou beest 
able, and call to the constable of this fortress, and procure me some 
oil, wine, salt, and vinegar, that I make the wholesome balsam; for 
verily I believe that I do need it very much at this time, the blood 
runneth so fast out of the wound which the spirit gave me even now.' 
Sancho then got up, with grief enough of his bones, and went without 
Ught towards the innkeeper's, and encountered on the way the officer 
of the holy brotherhood, who stood barkening what did become of 
his enemy; to whom he said, 'Sir, whosoever thou beest, I desire 
thee, do us the favour and benefit to give me a little rosemary, oil, 
wine, and salt, to cure one of the best knights-errant that is in the 
earth, who lieth now in that bed, sorely wounded by the hands of an 
enchanted Moor that is in this inn.' When the officer heard him 
speak in that manner, he held him to be out of his wits; and because 
the dawning began, he opened the inn-door, and told unto the host 
that which Sancho demanded. The innkeeper presently provided 
all that he wanted, and Sancho carried it to his master, who held his 


head between both his hands, and complained much of the grief 
that the blow of his head caused, which did him no other hurt than 
to raise up two blisters somewhat great, and that which he supposed 
to be blood was only the humour which the anxiety and labour 
of mind he passed in this last dark adventure had made him to 

In resolution, Don Quixote took his simples, of which he made a 
compKJund, mixing them all together, and then boiling of them a 
good while, until they came (as he thought) to their perfection. 
He asked for a vial wherein he might lay this precious liquor; but, 
the inn being unable to afford him any such, he resolved at last to 
put it into a tin oil-pot, which the host did freely give him, and 
forthwith he said over the pot eighty paternosters, and as many aves, 
salves, and creeds, and accompanied every word with a cross, in 
form of benediction; at all which ceremonies, Sancho, the innkeeper, 
and the officer of the holy brotherhood were present; for the carrier 
went very soberly to dress and make ready his mules. 

The liquor being made, he himself would presently make experi- 
ence of the virtue of that precious balsam, as he did imagine it to 
be, and so did drink a good draught of the overplus that could not 
enter into his pot, being a quart or thereabouts; and scarce had he 
done it when he began to vomit so extremely as he left nothing uncast 
up in his stomach; and, through the pain and agitation caused by his 
vomits, he fell into a very abundant and great sweat, and therefore 
commanded himself to be well covered, and left alone to take his 
ease. Which was done forthwith and he slept three hours, and then, 
awaking, found himself so wonderfully eased and free from all 
bruising and pain, as he doubted not but that he was thoroughly 
whole; and therefore did verily persuade himself that he had hap- 
p>ened on the right manner of compounding the Balsam of Fierabras; 
and that, having that medicine, he might boldly from thenceforth 
undertake any ruins, battles, conflicts, or adventures, how dangerous 

Sancho Panza, who likewise attributed the sudden cure of his 
master to miracle, requested that it would please him to give him 
leave to sup up the remainder of the balsam which rested in the 
kettle, and was no small quantity; which Don Quixote granted; 


and he, lifting up between both hands, did, with a good faith and 
better ulent, quaff it off all, being little less than his master had 
drunk. The success, then, of the history is, that poor Sancho's 
stomach was not so delicate as his lord's, wherefore, before he could 
cast, he was tormented with so many cruel pangs, loathings, sweats, 
and dismays, as he did verily persuade himself that his last hour 
was come; and, perceiving himself to be so afflicted and troubled, 
he cursed the balsam, and the thief which had given it to him. Don 
Quixote, seeing of him in that pitiful taking, said: 'I believe, Sancho, 
all this evil befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed knight; for 
I persuade myself that this liquor cannot help any one that is not.' 
'If your worship knew that,' quoth Sancho, — 'evil befall me and all 
my lineage! — why did you therefore consent that I should taste it?' 

In this time the drench had made his operation, and the poor 
squire did so swift and vehemently discharge himself by both chan- 
nels, as neither his mat or canvas covering could serve after to any 
use. He sweat and sweat again, with such excessive swoonings, as 
not only himself, but likewise all the beholders, did verily deem that 
his life was ending. This storm and mishap endured about some 
two hours, after which he remained not cured as his master, but so 
weary and indisposed as he was not able to stand. 

But Don Quixote, who, as we have said, felt himself eased and 
cured, would presently depart to seek adventures, it seeming unto 
him that all the time which he abode there was no other than a 
depriving both of the world and needful people of his favour and 
assistance; and more, through the security and confidence that he 
had in his balsam. And carried thus away by this desire, he himself 
saddled his horse Rozinante, and did empannel his squire's beast, 
whom he likewise helped to apparel himself and to mount upon his 
ass; and presently, getting a-horseback, he rode over to a corner of 
the inn, and laid hand on a javelin that was there, to make it serve 
him instead of a lance. All the people that were in the inn stood 
beholding him, which were above twenty in number. 

The innkeeper's daughter did also look upon him, and he did 
never withdraw his eye from her, and would ever and anon breathe 
forth so doleful a sigh as if he had plucked it out of the bottom of 
his heart; which all the beholders took to proceed from the grief of 


his ribs, but especially such as had seen him plaistered the night 
before. And, being both mounted thus a-horseback, he called the 
innkeef)er, and said unto him, with a grave and staid voice: 'Many 
and great are the favours, sir constable, which I have received in this 
your castle, and do remain most obliged to gratify you for them all 
the days of my life. And if I may pay or recompense them by re- 
venging of you upon any proud miscreant that hath done you any 
wrongs, know that it is mine office to help the weak, to revenge 
the wronged, and to chastise traitors. Call therefore to memory, and 
if you find anything of this kind to commend to my correction, you 
need not but once to say it; for I do promise you, by the order of 
knighthood which I have received, to satisfy and apay you accord- 
ing to your own desire.' 

The innkeeper answered him again, with like gravity and staid- 
ness, saying, 'Sir knight, I shall not need your assistance when any 
wrong is done to me; for I know very well myself how to take the 
revenge that I shall think good, when the injury is offered. That only 
which I require is, that you defray the charges whereat you have been 
here in the inn this night, as well for the straw and barley given 
to your two horses, as also for both your beds.' 'This, then, is an 
inn?' quoth Don Quixote. 'That it is, and an honourable one too,' 
replied the innkeeper. 'Then have I hitherto lived in an error,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'for, in very good sooth, I took it till now to be 
a castle, and that no mean one neither. But since that it is no castle, 
but an inn, that which you may do for the present time is, to forgive 
me those expenses; for I cannot do aught against the custom of 
knights-errant; of all which I most certainly know (without ever hav- 
ing read until this present anything to the contrary) that they never 
paid for their lodging, or other thing, in any inn wheresoever they 
lay; for, by all law and right, any good entertainment that is given 
unto them is their due, in recompense of the insupportable travels 
they endure, seeking of adventures both day and night, in summer 
and winter, a-foot and a-horseback, with thirst and hunger, in heat 
and cold, being subject to all the distemperatures of heaven and all the 
discommodities of the earth.' 'AH that concerns me nothing,' repHed 
the innkeeper. 'Pay unto me my due, and leave these tales and 
knighthoods apart; for I care for nothing else but how I may come 


by mine own.' 'Thou art a naad and a bad host,' quoth Don 
Quixote. And, saying so, he spurred Rozinante, and, flourishing 
with his javelin, he issued out of the inn in despite of them all, and, 
without looking behind him to see once whether his squire followed, 
he rode a good way off from it. 

The innkeeper, seeing he departed without satisfying him, came 
to Sancho Panza to get his money of him, who answered that, since 
his lord would not pay, he would hkewise give nothing; for being, 
as he was, squire to a knight-errant, the very same rules and reason 
that exempted his master from payments in inns and taverns ought 
also to serve and be understood as well of him. The innkeeper grew 
wroth at these words, and threatened him that, if he did not pay 
him speedily, he would recover it in manner that would grieve 
him. Sancho replied, swearing by the order of knighthood which 
his lord had received, that he would not pay one denier, though it 
cost him his life; for the good and ancient customs of knights-errant 
should never, through his default, be infringed; nor should their 
squires which are yet to come into the world ever complain on him, 
or upbraid him for transgressing or breaking so just a duty. But 
his bad fortune ordained that there were at the very time in the 
same inn four clothiers of Segovia, and three point-makers of the 
stews of Cordova, and two neighbours of the market of Seville, all 
pleasant folk, well-minded, malicious, and playsome; all which, 
pricked and in a manner moved all at one time, and by the very 
same spirit, came near to Sancho, and, pulling him down off his ass, 
one of them ran in for the innkeeper's coverlet, and, casting him into 
it, they looked up, and, seeing the house was somewhat too low for 
their intended business, they determined to go into the base-court, 
which was overhead only limited by heaven; and then, Sancho being 
laid in the midst of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft and 
sport themselves with him, in the manner they were wont to use 
dogs at Shrovetide. 

The outcries of the miserable betossed squire were so many and so 
loud as they arrived at last to his lord's hearing, who, standing 
awhile to listen attentively what it was, believed that some new 
adventure did approach, until he perceived at last that he which 
cried was his squire; wherefore, turning the reins, he made towards 


the inn with a loathsome gallop, and, finding it shut, he rode all 
about it to see whether he might enter into it. But scarce was he 
arrived at the walls of the base-court, which were not very high, 
when he perceived the foul play that was used toward his squire; 
for he saw him descend and ascend into the air again, with such 
grace and agility, that, did his choler permit, I certainly persuade 
myself, he would have burst for laughter. He assayed to mount the 
wall from his horse, but he was so bruised and broken as he could 
not do so much as alight from his back; wherefore, from his back, 
he used such reproachful and vile language to those which tossed 
Sancho, as it is impossible to lay them down in writing. And, not- 
withstanding all his scornful speech, yet did not they cease from 
their laughter and labour; nor the flying Sancho from his com- 
plaints, now and then meddled with threats, now and then with 
entreaties; but availed very little, nor could prevail, until they were 
constrained by weariness to give him over. Then did they bring 
him his ass again, and, helping him up upon it, they lapf)ed him in 
his mantle; and the compassionate Maritornes, beholding him so 
afflicted and o'erlaboured, thought it needful to help him to a 
draught of water, and so brought it him from the well, because the 
water thereof was coolest. Sancho took the pot, and, laying it to his 
Hps, he abstained from drinking by his lord's persuasion, who cried to 
him aloud, saying, 'Son Sancho, drink not water; drink it not, son; 
for it will kill thee. Behold, I have here with me the most holy 
balsam' (and showed him the oil-f)ot of the drenches he had com- 
pounded) ; 'for, with only two drops that thou drinkest, thou shall, 
without all doubt, remain whole and sound.' At those words, 
Sancho, looking behind him, answered his master, with a louder 
voice : 'Have you forgotten so soon how that I am no knight, or do 
you desire that I vomit the remnant of the poor bowels that remain 
in me since yesternight? Keep your liquor for yourself, in the 
devil's name, and permit me to live in peace.' And the conclusion 
of this speech and his beginning to drink was done all in one 
instant; but, finding at the first draught that it was water, he would 
not taste it any more, but requested Maritornes that she would give 
him some wine, which she did straight with a very good will, and 
likewise paid for it out of her own purse; for in effect it is written 


of her, that though she followed that trade, yet had she some shadows 
and lineaments in her of Christianity. As soon as Sancho had 
drunken, he visited his ass's ribs with his heels twice or thrice; and, 
the inn being opened, he issued out of it, very glad that he had paid 
nothing, and gotten his desire, although it were to the cost of his 
ordinary sureties, to wit, his shoulders. Yet did the innkeeper remain 
possessed of his wallets, as a payment for that he owed him; but 
Sancho was so distracted when he departed as he never missed 
them. After he departed, the innkeeper thought to have shut up the 
inn-door again; but the gentlemen-tossers would not permit, being 
such folk that, if Don Quixote were verily one of the knights of the 
Round Table, yet would not they esteem him two chips. 


Wherein Are Rehearsed the Discourses Passed Between Sancho 
Panza and His Lord, Don Quixote, With Other Adventures 
Worthy the Recital 

SANCHO arrived to his master all wan and dismayed, inso- 
much as he was scarce able to spur on his beast. When Don 
Quixote beheld him in that case, he said to him: 'Now do I 
wholly jiersuade myself, friend Sancho, that that castle or inn is 
doubtless enchanted; for those which made pastime with thee in so 
cruel manner, what else could they be but spirits, or people of another 
world? which I do the rather believe, because I saw that, whilst I 
stood at the barrier of the yard, beholding the acts of thy sad 
tragedy, I was not in any wise able either to mount it, or alight from 
Rozinante; for, as I say, I think they held me then enchanted. For 
I vow to thee, by mine honour, that if I could have either mounted 
or alighted, I would have taken such vengeance on those lewd and 
treacherous caitiffs as they should remember the jest for ever, 
though I had therefore adventured to transgress the laws of knight- 
hood; which, as I have ofttimes said unto thee, permitteth not any 
knight to lay hands on one that is not knighted, if it be not in de- 
fence of his proper life and person, and that in case of great and 
urgent necessity.' 'So would I also have revenged myself,' quoth 
Sancho, 'if I might, were they knights or no knights; but I could 
not: and yet. I do infallibly believe that those which took their 
pleasure with me were neither ghosts nor enchanted men, as you 
say, but men of flesh and bones as we are; and all of them, as I heard 
them called whilst they tossed me, had proper names, for one was 
termed Peter Martinez, and another Tenorio Herriander, and I 
heard also the innkeeper called John Palameque the deaf; so that, 
for your inability of not leaping over the barriers of the yard, or 
alighting off your horse, was only enchantments in you. Whereby 
I do clearly collect thus much, that these adventures which we go 



in search of will bring us at last to so many disventures as we shall 
not be able to know which is our right foot. And that which we 
might do best, according to my little understanding, were to return 
us again to our village, now that it is reaping-time, and look to our 
goods, omitting to leap thus, as they say, out o£ the frying-pan 
into the fire.' 

'How little dost thou know, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'what 
appertaineth to chivalry! Peace, and have patience, for a day will 
come wherein thou shalt see with thine own eyes how honourable it 
is to follow this exercise. If not, tell me what greater content may 
there be in this world, or what pleasure can equal that of winning 
a battle, and of triumphing over one's enemy? None, without doubt.' 
'I think it be so,' quoth Sancho, 'although I do not know it; only 
this I know, that, since we became knights-errant, or that you are 
one (for there is no reason why I should count myself in so honour- 
able a number), we never overcame any battle, if it was not that of 
the Biscaine, and you came even out of the very same with half your 
ear and beaver less; and ever after that time we have had nothing but 
cudgels and more cudgels, blows and more blows; I carrying with 
me besides, of overplus, the tossing in the blanket; and that, by 
reason it was done to me by enchanted persons, I cannot be revenged, 
and by consequence shall not know that true gust and delight that is 
taken by vanquishing mine enemy, whereof you spake even now.' 
'That is it which grieves me, as it should thee also, Sancho,' quoth 
Don Quixote. 'But I will procure hereafter to get a sword made with 
such art, that whosoever shall wear it, no kind of enchantment 
shall hurt him; and perhaps fortune will present me the very same 
which belonged to Amadis, when he called himself "the knight 
of the burning sword," which was one of the best that ever knight 
had in this world; for besides the virtue that I told, it did also cut 
like a razor; and no armour, were it ever so strong or enchanted, 
could stand before it.' 'I am so fortunate,' quoth Sancho, 'that when 
this befel, and that you found such a sword, it would only serve 
and be beneficial, and stand in stead, such as are dubbed knights, 
as doth your balsam; whilst the poor squires are crammed full with 
sorrows.' 'Fear not that, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for fortune 
will deal with thee more liberally than so.' 


In these discourses Don Quixote and his squire rode; when Don 
Quixote, perceiving a great and thick dust to arise in the way 
wherein he travelled, turning to Sancho, said, 'This is, Sancho, the 
day wherein shall be manifest the good which fortune hath reserved 
for me. This is the day wherein the force of mine arm must be 
shown as much as in any other whatsoever; and in it I will do such 
feats as shall for ever remain recorded in the books of fame. Dost 
thou see, Sancho, the dust which ariseth there? Know that it is 
caused by a mighty army, and sundry and innumerable nations, 
which come marching there.' 'If that be so,' quoth Sancho, 'then 
must there be two armies; for on this other side is raised as great 
a dust.' Don Quixote turned back to behold it, and seeing it was so 
indeed, he was marvellous glad, thinking that they were doubtlessly 
two armies, which came to fight one with another in the midst of 
that spacious plain; for he had his fantasy ever replenished with 
these battles, enchantments, successes, ravings, loves, and challenges 
which are rehearsed in books of knighthood, and all that ever he 
sp)oke, thought, or did, was addressed and applied to the like things. 
And the dust which he had seen was raised by two great flocks of 
sheep, that came through the same field by two different ways, 
and could not be discerned, by reason of the dust, until they were 
very near. Don Quixote did affirm that they were two armies with 
so very good earnest as Sancho believed it, and demanded of him, 
'Sir, what then shall we two do?' 'What shall we do,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'but assist the needful and weaker side? For thou shalt 
know, Sancho, that he who comes towards us is the great emperor 
Alifamfaron, lord of the great island of Trapobana; the other, who 
marcheth at our back, is his enemy, the king of the Garamantes, 
Pentapolin of the naked arm, so called because he still entereth in 
battle with his right arm naked.' 'I pray you, good sir,' quoth Sancho, 
'to tell me why these two princes hate one another so much?' 'They 
are enemies,' replied Don Quixote, 'because that this Alifamfaron 
is a furious pagan, and is enamoured of Pentapolin's daughter, who 
is a very beautiful and gracious princess, and, moreover, a Chris- 
tian; and her father refuseth to give her to the pagan king, until first 
he abandon Mahomet's false sect, and become one of his religion.' 
'By my beard,' quoth Sancho, 'Pentapolin hath reason, and I will 


help him all that I may.' 'By doing so,' quoth Don Quixote, 'thou 
performest thy duty, for it is not requisite that one be a knight to 
the end he may enter into such battles.' 'I do apprehend that myself,' 
quoth Sancho, 'very well; but where shall we leave this ass in the 
meantime, that we may be sure to find him again after the conflict? 
— for I think it is not the custom to enter into battle mounted on 
such a beast.' 'It is true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'that which thou 
mayst do is to leave him to his adventures, and care not whether he 
be lost or found; for we shall have so many horses, after coming 
out of this battle victors, that very Rozinante himself is in danger to 
be changed for another. But be attentive; for I mean to describe 
unto thee the principal knights of both the armies; and to the end 
thou mayst the better see and note all things, let us retire ourselves 
there to that little hillock, from whence both armies may easily be 

They did so; and, standing on the top of a hill, from whence they 
might have seen both the flocks, which Don Quixote called an army, 
very well, if the clouds of dust had not hindered it and blinded their 
sight; yet, notwithstanding, our knight seeing in conceit that which 
he really did not see at all, began to say, with a loud voice, — 

'That knight which thou seest there with the yellow armour, 
who bears in his shield a lion, crowned, crouching at a damsel's feet, 
is the valorous Laurcalio, lord of the silver bridge. The other, 
whose arms are powdered with flowers of gold, and bears in an azure 
field three crowns of silver, is the dreaded Micocolembo, great duke 
of Quirocia. The other, limbed like a giant, that standeth at his right 
hand, is the undaunted Brandabarbaray of Boliche, lord of the three 
Arabias, and comes armed with a serpent's skin, bearing for his 
shield, as is reported, one of the gates of the temple which Samson 
at his death overthrew to be revenged of his enemies. But turn thine 
eyes to this other side, and thou shalt see first of all, and in the front 
of this other army, the ever victor and never vanquished Timonel 
of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes armed with arms 
parted into blue, green, white, and yellow quarters, and bears in his 
shield, in a field of tawny, a cat of gold, with a letter that says Miau, 
which is the beginning of his lady's name, which is, as the rejxjrt 
runs, the peerless Miaulina, daughter to Duke Alfeniquen of 


Algarve. The other, that burdens and oppresseth the back of that 
mighty courser, whose armour is as white as snow, and also his 
shield without any device, is a new knight of France, called Pierres 
Papin, lord of the barony of Utrique. The other, that beats his horse's 
sides with his armed heels, and bears the arms of pure azure, is the 
mighty Duke of Nerbia Espartafilardo of the wood, who bears for 
his device a harrow, with a motto that says, "So trails my fortune." ' 

And thus he proceeded forward, naming many knights of the one 
and the other squadron, even as he had imagined them, and attri- 
buted to each one his arms, his colours, imprese, and mottoes, sud- 
denly borne away by the imagination of his wonderful distraction; 
and, without stammering, he proceeded, saying, — 

'This first squadron containeth folk of many nations: in it are 
those which taste the sweet waters of famous Xante; the moun- 
tainous men that tread the Masilical fields; those that do sift the 
most pure and rare gold of Arabia Felix; those that possessed the 
famous and delightful banks of clear Termodonte; those that let 
blood, many and sundry ways the golden Pactolus; the Numides, 
unstedfast in their promise; the Persians, famous for archers; the 
Parthes and Medes, that fight flying; the Arabs, inconstant in their 
dwellings; the Scythians, as cruel as white; the Ethiopians, of bored 
lips; and other infinite nations, whose faces I know and behold, 
although I have forgotten their denominations. In that other army 
come those that taste the crystalline streams of the olive-bearing 
Betis; those that dip and f)olish their faces with the liquor of the 
ever-rich and golden Tagus; those that possess the profitable fluent 
of divine Genii; those that trample the Tartesian fields, so abundant 
in pasture; those that recreate themselves in the Elysian fields of 
Xerez; the rich Manchegans, crowned with ruddy ears of corn; 
those apparelled with iron, the ancient relics of the Gothish blood; 
those that bathe themselves in Pesverga, renowned for the smooth- 
ness of his current; those that feed their flocks in the vast fields of 
the wreathing Guadiana, so celebrated for his hidden course; those 
that tremble through the cold of the bushy Pirens, and the lofty 
Apennines; finally, all those that Europe in itself containeth.' 

Good God! how many provinces repeated he at that time! and 
how many nations did he name, giving to every one of them, with 


marvellous celerity and briefness, their proper attributes, being swal- 
lowed up and engulfed in those things which he had read in his 
lying books! Sancho Panza stood suspended at his speech, and 
spoke not a word, but only would now and then turn his head, 
to see whether he could mark those knights and giants which his 
lord had named; and, by reason he could not discover any, he said, 
'Sir, 1 give to the devil any man, giant, or knight, of all those you 
said, that appeareth; at least, I cannot discern them. Perhaps all is 
but enchantment, Uke that of the ghosts of yesternight.' 'How sayst 
thou so?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Dost not thou hear the horses neigh, 
the trumpets sound, and the noise of the drums?' 'I hear nothing 
else,' said Sancho, 'but the great bleating of many sheep.' And so it 
was, indeed; for by this time the two flocks did approach them very 
near. 'The fear that thou conceivest, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'maketh thee that thou canst neither hear nor see aright; for one of 
the effects of fear is to trouble the senses, and make things appear 
otherwise than they are; and, seeing thou fearest so much, retire 
thyself out of the way; for I alone am sufficient to give the victory 
to that part which I shall assist.' And, having ended his speech, he 
set spurs to Rozinante, and, setting his lance in the rest, he flung 
down from the hillock like a thunderbolt. Sancho cried to him as 
loud as he could, saying, 'Return, good sir Don Quixote! for I vow 
unto God, that all those which you go to charge are but sheep and 
muttons; return, I say. Alas that ever I was born! what madness is 
this? Look; for there is neither giant nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, 
nor shields parted nor whole, nor pure azures nor devihsh. What is 
it you do? wretch that I am!' For all this Don Quixote did not 
return, but rather rode, saying with a loud voice, 'On, on, knights! 
all you that serve and march under the banners of the valorous 
emperor Pentapolin of the naked arm; follow me, all of you, and you 
shall see how easily I will revenge him on his enemy, Alifamfaron 
of Trapobana.' And, saying so, he entered into the midst of the 
flock of sheep, and began to lance them with such courage and fury 
as if he did in good earnest encounter his mortal enemies. 

The shepherds that came with the flock, cried to him to leave off; 
but, seeing their words took no effect, they unloosed their slings, and 
began to salute his pate with stones as great as one's Bst. But Don 


Quixote made no account of their stones, and did fling up and down 
among the sheep, saying, 'Where art thou, proud AHfamfaron? 
where art thou? Come to me; for I am but one knight alone, who 
desire to prove my force with thee man to man, and deprive thee 
of thy life, in pain of the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin, 
the Garamante.' At that instant a stone gave him such a blow on 
one of his sides, as did bury two of his ribs in his body. He beholding 
himself so ill dight, did presently believe that he was either slain or 
sorely wounded; and, remembering himself of his liquor, he took 
out his oil-pot, and set it to his mouth to drink; but ere he could 
take as much as he thought requisite to cure his hurts, there cometh 
another almond, which struck him so full upon the hand and oil- 
pot, as it broke it into pieces, and carried away with it besides three 
or four of his cheek teeth, and did moreover bruise very sorely two 
of his fingers. Such was the first and the second blow, as the poor 
knight was constrained to fall down off his horse. And the shep- 
herds arriving, did verily believe they had slain him; and therefore, 
gathering their flock together with all sp)eed, and carrying away 
their dead muttons, which were more than seven, they went away 
without verifying the matter any further. 

Sancho remained all this while on the height, beholding his mas- 
ter's follies, pulling the hairs of his beard for very despair, and cursed 
the hour and the moment wherein he first knew him; but, seeing 
him overthrown to the earth, and the shepherds fled away, he came 
down to him, and found him in very bad taking, yet had he not 
quite lost the use of his senses; to whom he said, 'Did not I bid 
you, sir knight, return, and told you that you went not to invade 
an army of men, but a flock of sheep?' 'That thief, the wise man 
who is mine adversary,' quoth Don Quixote, 'can counterfeit and 
make men to seem such, or vanish away, as he pleaseth; for, Sancho, 
thou oughtest to know that it is a very easy thing for those kind of 
men to make us seem what they please, and this malign that perse- 
cuteth me, envying the glory which he saw I was like to acquire 
in this battle, hath converted the enemy's squadrons into sheep. 
And if thou wilt not believe me, Sancho, yet do one thing for my 
sake, that thou mayst remove thine error, and perceive the truth 
which I affirm : get up on thine ass, and follow them fair and softly 


aloof, and, thou shalt see that, as soon as they are parted any dis- 
tance £rom hence, they will turn to their first form, and, leaving to 
be sheep, will become men, as right and straight as I painted them 
to thee at the first. But go not now, for I have need of thy help and 
assistance; draw nearer to me, and see how many cheek teeth and 
others I want, for methinks there is not one left in my mouth.' 
With that, Sancho approached so near that he laid almost his eyes 
on his master's mouth; and it was just at the time that the balsam 
had now wrought his effect in Don Quixote his stomach, and at the 
very season that Sancho went about to look into his mouth, he 
disgorged all that he had in his stomach, with as great violence as 
it had been shot out of a musket, just in his compassive squire's 
beard. 'O holy Mother Mary!' quoth Sancho, 'what is this that 
hath befallen me? The pxxjr man is mortally wounded without 
doubt; for he vomiteth up blood at his mouth.' But, looking a little 
nearer to it, he perceived in the colour and smell that it was not 
blood, but the balsam of his master's oil-bottle; whereat he instantly 
took such a loathing, that his stomach likewise turned, and he 
vomited out his very bowels almost, all in his master's face. And 
so they both remained like pearls. Soon after, Sancho ran to his 
ass to take somewhat to clear himself, and to cure his lord, out of 
his wallet, which when he found wanting, he was ready to run 
out of his wits. There he began anew to curse himself, and made a 
firm resolution in mind that he would leave his master and turn 
to his country again, although he were sure both to lose his wages 
and the hope of government of the promised island. 

By this Don Quixote arose, and, setting his left hand to his mouth, 
that the rest of his teeth might not fall out, he caught hold on the 
reins of Rozinante's bridle with the other, who had never stirred 
from his master (such was his loyalty and good nature), he went 
towards his squire, that leaned upon his ass, with his hand under 
his cheek, like one pensative and malcontent. And Don Quixote, 
seeing of him in that guise, with such signs of sadness, said unto 
him: 'Know Sancho, that one man is not more than another, if he 
do not more than another. All these storms that fall on us are argu- 
ments that the time will wax calm very soon, and that things will 
have better success hereafter; for it is not possible that either good or 


ill be durable. And hence we may collect that, our misfortunes 
having lasted so long, our fortune and weal must be likewise near; 
and therefore thou oughtest not thus to afflict thyself for the disgraces 
that befal me, seeing no part of them fall to thy lot.' 'How not?' 
quoth Sancho. 'Was he whom they tossed yesterday in the coverlet 
by fortune, any other man's son than my father's? and the wallet 
that I want to-day, with all my provision, was it any other's than 
mine own?' 'What! dost thou want thy wallet, Sancho?' quoth 
Don Quixote. 'Ay, that I do,' quoth he. 'In that manner,' replied 
Don Quixote, 'we have nothing left us to eat today.' 'That would be 
so,' quoth Sancho, 'if we could not find among these fields the herbs 
which I have heard you say you know, wherewithal such unlucky 
knights-errant as you are wont to supply like needs.' 'For all that,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'I would rather have now a quarter of a loaf, 
or a cake, and two pilchard's heads, than all the herbs that Dioscor- 
ides describeth, although they came glossed by Doctor Laguna 
himself. But yet, for all that, get upon thy beast, Sancho the good, 
and follow me; for God, who is the provider for all creatures, will 
not fail us; and principally, seeing we do a work so greatly to His 
service as we do, seeing He doth not abandon the little flies of the 
air, nor the wormlings of the earth, nor the spawnlings of the water; 
and He is so merciful that He maketh His sun shine on the good 
and the evil, and rains on sinners and just men.' 'You were much 
fitter,' quoth Sancho, 'to be a preacher than a knight-errant.' 
'Knights-errant knew, and ought to know, somewhat of all things,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'for there hath been a knight-errant, in times 
past, who would make a sermon or discourse in the midst of a camp 
royal with as good grace as if he were graduated in the university 
of Paris; by which we may gather that the lance never dulled the 
pen, nor the pen the lance.' 'Well, then,' quoth Sancho, 'let it be as 
you have said, and let us depart hence, and procure to find a lodging 
for this night, where, I pray God, may be no coverlets, and tossers, 
nor spirits, nor enchanted Moors; for if there be, I'll bestow the flock 
and the hook on the devil.' 'Demand that of God, son Sancho,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'and lead me where thou pleasest; for I will leave 
the election of our lodging to thy choice for this time. Yet, I pray 
thee, give me thy hand, and feel how many cheek teeth, or others. 


I want in this right side of the upper jaw; for there I feel most pain.' 
Sancho put in his finger, and whilst he felt him, demanded, 'How 
many cheek teeth were you accustomed to have on this side?' 'Four,' 
quoth he, 'besides the hindermost; all of them very whole and 
sound.' 'See well what you say, sir,' quoth Sancho. 'I say four,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'if they were not five; for I never in my life 
drew or lost any tooth, nor hath any fallen or been worm-eaten or 
marred by any rheum.' 'Well, then,' quoth Sancho, 'you have in 
this nether part but two cheek teeth and a half; and in the upper 
neither a half, nor any; for all there is as plain as the palm of my 
hand.' 'Unfortunate IT quoth Don Quixote, hearing the sorrowful 
news that his squire told unto him, 'for I had rather lose one of 
my arms, so it were not that of my sword; for, Sancho, thou must 
wit, that a mouth without cheek teeth is Hke a mill without a mill- 
stone; and a tooth is much more to be esteemed than a diamond. 
But we which profess the rigorous laws of arms are subject to all 
these disasters; wherefore mount, gende friend, and give the way; 
for I will follow thee what pace thou pleasest.' Sancho obeyed, and 
rode the way where he thought he might find lodging, without 
leaving the highway, which was there very much beaten. And, going 
thus by little and little (for Don Quixote his pain of his jaws did 
not suffer him rest, or make overmuch haste), Sancho, to entertain 
him and divert his thought by saying some things, began to aboard 
him in the form we mean to rehearse in the chapter ensuing. 


Of the Discreet Discourse Passed Between Sancho and His 
Lord; with the Adventure Succeeding of a Dead Body; and 
Other Notable Occurrences 

'"M RETHINKS, good sir, that all the mishaps that befel us 
1% /I these days past, are, without any doubt, punishment of 
Jb. T -1. the sin you committed against the order of knighthood, by 
not performing the oath you swore, not to eat bread on table<loths, 
nor to sport with the queen, with all the rest which ensueth, and 
you vowed to accomplish, until you had won the helmet of Malan- 
drino, or I know not how the Moor is called, for I have forgotten his 
name.' 'Thou sayst right, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but, to 
tell the truth, indeed I did wholly forget it; and thou mayst likewise 
think certainly, that because thou didst not remember it to me in 
time, that of the coverlet was inflicted as a punishment on thee. But 
I will make amends; for we have also manners of reconciliation for 
all things in the order of knighthood.' 'Why, did I by chance swear 
anything?' quoth Sancho. 'It little imports,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'that thou hast not sworn; let it suffice that I know thou art not very 
clear from the fault of an accessory; and therefore, at all adventures, 
it will not be ill to provide a remedy.' 'If it be so,' quoth Sancho, 
'beware you do not forget this again, as you did that of the oath; 
for if you should, perhaps those spirits will take again a fancy to 
solace themselves with me, and peradventure with you yourself, if 
they see you obstinate.' 

Being in these and other such discourses, the night overtook them 
in the way, before they could discover any lodgings, and that which 
was worst of all they were almost famished with hunger; for, by 
the loss of their wallets, they lost at once both their provision and 
warder-house; and, to accomplish wholly this disgrace, there suc- 
ceeded a certain adventure, which certainly happened as we lay it 
down, without any addition in the world, and was this. The night 



did shut up with some darkness, yet notwithstanding they travelled 
on still, Sancho believing that, since that was the highway, there 
must be within a league or two, in all reason, some inn. Travelling 
therefore, as I have said, in a dark night, the squire being hungry, 
and the master having a good stomach, they saw coming towards 
them in the very way they travelled a great multitude of lights, 
resembling nothing so well as wandering stars. Sancho, beholding 
them, was struck into a wonderful amazement, and his lord was 
not much better. The one drew his ass's halter, the other held his 
horse, and both of them stood still, beholding attentively what that 
might be; and they jjerceived that the lights drew still nearer unto 
them, and the more they approached, they appjeared the greater. 
At the sight Sancho did tremble, like one infected by the savour of 
quicksilver; and Don Quixote's hair stood up like bristles, who, 
animating himself a litde, said : 'Sancho, this must be, questionless, 
a great and most dangerous adventure, wherein it is requisite that I 
show all my valour and strength.' 'Unfortunate I!' quoth Sancho; 
'if by chance this adventure were of ghosts, as it seemeth to me that 
it is, where will there be ribs to suffer it?' 'Be they never so great 
ghosts,' said Don Quixote, 'I will not consent that they touch one 
hair of thy garments: for if they jested with thee the other time, it 
was because I could not leap over the walls of the yard; but now we 
are in plain field, where I may brandish my sword as I please.' 
'And if they enchant and benumb you, as they did the other time,' 
quoth Sancho, 'what will it then avail us to be in open field or no?' 
'For all that,' replied Don Quixote, 'I pray thee, Sancho, be of good 
courage; for experience shall show thee how great my valour is.' 
'I will, and please God,' quoth Sancho. And so, departing some- 
what out of the way, they began again to view earnestly what that 
of the travelling lights might be; and after a very little space they 
espied many white things, whose dreadful visions did in that very 
instant abate Sancho Panza his courage, and now began to chatter 
with his teeth like one that had the cold of a quartan; and when 
they did distinctly perceive what it was, then did his beating and 
chattering of teeth increase: for they discovered about some twenty, 
all covered with white, a-horseback, with tapers lighted in their 
hands; after which followed a litter covered over with black, and 


then ensued other six a-horseback, attired in mourning, and like- 
wise their mules, even to the very ground; for they perceived that 
they were not horses by the quietness of their pace. The white folk 
rode murmuring somewhat among themselves, with a low and com- 
passive voice; which strange vision, at such an hour, and in places 
not inhabited, was very sufficient to strike fear into Sancho's heart, 
and even in his master's, if it had been any other than Don Quixote; 
but Sancho tumbled here and there, being quite overthrown with 
terror. The contrary happened to his lord, to whom in that same 
hour his imagination represented unto him most lively, the ad- 
venture wherein he was to be such a one as he ofttimes had read in 
his books of chivalry; for it figured unto him that the litter was a 
bier, wherein was carried some grievously wounded or dead knight, 
whose revenge was only reserved for him. And, without making any 
other discourse, he set his lance in the rest, seated himself surely 
in his saddle, and put himself in the midst of the way by which 
the white folk must forcibly pass, with great spirit and courage. 
And when he saw them draw near, he said, with a loud voice, 
'Stand, sir knight, whosoever you be, and render me account what 
you are, from whence you come, where you go, and what that is 
which you carry in that bier; for, according as you show, either you 
have done to others or others to you some injury; and it is con- 
venient and needful that I know it, either to chastise you for the 
ill you have committed, or else to revenge you of the wrong which 
you have suffered.' 'We are in haste,' quoth one of the white men, 
'and the inn is far off, and therefore cannot expect to give so full a 
relation as you request'; and with that, spurring his mule, passed 
forward. Don Quixote, highly disdaining at the answer, took him by 
the bridle, and held him, saying, 'Stay, proud knight, and be better- 
mannered another time, and give me account of that which I de- 
manded; if not, I defy you all to mortal battle.' The mule whereon 
the white man rode was somewhat fearful and skittish; and, being 
taken thus rudely by the bridle, she took such a fright, that, rising 
up on her hinder legs, she unhorsed her rider. One of the lackeys 
that came with them, seeing him fallen, began to revile Don Quixote, 
who, being by this thoroughly enraged, without any more ado, put- 
ting his lance in the rest, ran upon one of the mourners, and threw 


him to the ground very sore wounded. And, turning upon the rest, 
it was a thing worthy the noting with what dexterity he did assault, 
break upon them, and put them all to flight; and it seemed none 
other but that Rozinante had gotten then wings, he bestirred him- 
self so nimbly and courageously. 

All those white men were fearful people, and unarmed, and 
therefore fled away from the skirmish in a trice, and began to tra- 
verse that field with their tapers burning, that they seemed to be 
maskers that used to run up and down in nights of Jove and recrea- 
tion. The mourners likewise were so lapped up and muffled by their 
mourning weeds, as they could scarce stir them; so that Don Quixote 
did, without any danger of his f)erson, give them all the bastinado, 
and caused them to forsake their rooms whether they would or no; 
for all of them did verily think that he was no man, but a devil of 
hell, that met them to take away the dead body which they carried 
in the litter. All this did Sancho behold, marvellously admiring at 
his master's boldness, which made him say to himself, 'My master 
is infallibly as strong and valiant as he said.' 

There lay on the ground by him whom his mule had overthrown, 
a wax taper still burning, by whose light Don Quixote perceived 
him, and, coming over to him, he laid the point of his lance upon 
his face, saying, that he should render himself, or else he would slay 
him. To which the other answered: 'I am already rendered more 
than enough, seeing I cannot stir me out of the place, for one of my 
legs is broken. And if you be a Christian, I desire you not to kill 
me; for therein you would commit a great sacrilege, I being a licen- 
tiate, and have received the first orders.' 'Well, then,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'what devil brought thee hither, being a Churchman?' 
'Who, sir,' replied the overthrown, 'but my misfortune?' 'Yet doth 
a greater threaten thee,' said Don Quixote, 'if thou dost not satisfy 
me in all that which I first demanded of thee.' 'You shall easily be 
satisfied,' quoth the licentiate, 'and therefore you shall wit that, 
although first of all I said I was a licentiate, I am none but a bachelor, 
and am called Alonso Lopez, born at Alcovendas; and I came from 
the city of Baeza, with eleven other priests, which are those that fled 
away with the tap)ers. We travel towards Segovia, accompanying the 
dead body that lies in the litter, of a certain gentleman who died in 


Baeza, and was there deposited for a while, and now, as I say, we 
carry his bones to his place of burial, which is Segovia, the place of 
his birth.' 'And who killed him?' quoth Don Quixote. 'God,' quoth 
the bachelor, 'with certain pestilential fevers that he took.* 'In that 
manner,' quoth'Don Quixote, 'our Lord hath delivered me from the 
pains I would have taken to revenge his death, if any other had slain 
him. He having killed him that did, there is no other remedy but 
silence, and to lift up the shoulders; for the same I must myself 
have done, if He were likewise pleased to slay me. And I would 
have your reverence to understand that I am a knight of the Mancha, 
called Don Quixote; and mine office and exercise is, to go through- 
out the world righting of wrongs and undoing of injuries.' 'I can- 
not understand how that can be, of righting wrongs,' quoth the 
bachelor, 'seeing you have made me, who was right before, now very 
crooked by breaking of my leg, which can never be righted again 
as long as I live; and the injury which you have undone in me, is 
none other but to leave me so injured as I shall remain injured for 
ever. And it was very great disventure to have encountered with 
you that go about to seek adventures.' 'All things,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'succeed not of one fashion. The hurt was, Master Bachelor 
Alonso Lopez, that you travelled thus by night covered with those 
surphces, with burning tapers, and covered with weeds of dole, so 
that you appeared most properly some bad thing, and of the other 
world; and so I could not omit to fulfil my duty by assaulting you, 
which I would have done although I verily knew you to be the 
satans themselves of hell; for, for such I judged and accounted you 
ever till now.' 

'Then, since my bad fortune hath so disposed it,' quoth the bache- 
lor, 'I desire you, good sir knight-errant (who hath given me so 
evil an errand) that you will help me to get up from under this mule, 
who holds still my leg betwixt the stirrup and saddle.' 'I would have 
stayed talking until tomorrow morning,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and 
why did you expect so long to declare your grief to me?' He 
presently called for Sancho Panza to come over; but he had little 
mind to do, for he was otherwise employed ransacking of a sumpter- 
mule, which those good folk brought with them, well furnished 
with belly-ware. Sancho made a bag of his cassock, and, catching 


all that he might or could contain, he laid it on his beast, and then 
presently after repaired to his master, and helped to deliver the good 
bachelor from the oppression of his mule; and, mounting him again 
on it, he gave him his taper; and Don Quixote bade him to follow 
his fellows, of whom he should desire pardon, in his name, for the 
wrong he had done them; for it lay not in his hands to have done 
the contrary. Sancho said to him also: 'If those gentlemen would by 
chance know who the valorous knight is that hath used them thus, 
you may say unto them that he is the famous Don Quixote of 
Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' 

With this the bachelor departed, and Don Quixote demanded of 
Sancho what had moved him to call him the Knight of the Ill- 
favoured Face, more at that time than at any other. 'I will tell you 
that,' quoth Sancho: 'I stood beholding of you a pretty while by the 
taper light which that unlucky man carrieth, and truly you have one 
of the evil-favouredest countenances of late that ever I saw, which 
either proceedeth of your being tired after this battle, or else through 
the loss of your teeth.' 'That is not the reason,' said Don Quixote; 
'but rather, it hath seemed fit to the wise man, to whose charge is left 
the writing of my history, that I take some appellative name, as 
all the other knights of yore have done; for one called himself the 
Knight of the Burning Sword; another that of the Unicorn; this, 
him of the Phoenix; the other, that of the Damsels; another, the 
Knight of the Griffin; and some other, the Knight of Death; and 
by these names and devices they were known throughout the com- 
pass of the earth. And so I say, that the wise man whom I men- 
tioned set in thy mind and tongue the thought to call me the Knight 
of the Ill-favoured Face, as I mean to call myself from henceforth; 
and that the name may become me better, I will, upon the first 
occasion, cause to be painted in my shield a most ill-favoured coun- 
tenance.' 'You need not,' quoth Sancho, 'spend so much time and 
money in having the like countenance painted; but that which you 
may more easily do is to discover your own and look directly on 
those that behold you; and I will warrant you, that without any 
more ado, or new painting in your shield, they will call you "him of 
the ill-favoured face." And let this be said in jest, that hunger and 
the want of your teeth have given you, as I have said, so ill-favoured 


a face, as you may well excuse all other heavy portraitures.' Don 
Quixote laughed at his squire's conceit, and yet, nevertheless, he 
purposed to call himself by that name as soon as ever he should 
have commodity to paint his shield and buckler. 

And after a pause he said to Sancho: 'I believe I am excommuni- 
cated for having laid violent hands upon a consecrated thing, "fuxta 
illud. siquts suadente diabolo," etc.; although I am certain I laid not 
my hands upon him, but only this javehn; and besides, I did not in 
any way suspect that I offended priests or Churchmen, which I do 
respect and honour as a Catholic and faithful Christian; but rather, 
that they were shadows and spirits of the other world. And if the 
worst happened, I remember well that which befel the Cid Ruy 
Diaz, when he broke that other king's ambassador's chair before 
the fxjfje's holiness, for which he excommunicated him; and yet, 
for all that, the good Roderick Vivar behaved himself that day like 
an honourable and valiant knight.' 

About this time the bachelor departed, as is said, without speaking 
a word, and Don Quixote would fain have seen whether the corpse 
that came in the litter was bones or no; but Sancho would not 
permit him, saying, 'Sir, you have finished this perilous adventure 
most with your safety of any one of those I have seen. This people, 
although overcome and scattered, might perhaps fall in the con- 
sideration that he who hath overcome them is but one person alone, 
and, growing ashamed thereof, would perhaps join and unite them- 
selves, and turn upon us, and give us enough business to do. The ass 
is in good pUght according to my desire, and the mountain at hand, 
and hunger oppresseth us; therefore, we have nothing else to do 
at this time but retire ourselves with a good pace, and, as it is said, 
"To the grave with the dead, and them that live to the bread.'" 
And, pricking on his ass, he requested his master to follow him; who, 
seeing that Sancho spoke not without reason, he spurred after him 
without replying; and, having travelled a little way between two 
small mountains, they found a large and hidden valley, where they 
alighted; and Sancho lightening his beast, and lying both along 
upon the green grass, holpen by the sauce of hunger, they broke 
their fasts, dined, ate their beaver and supper all at one time; satis- 
fying their appetites with more than one dish of cold meat, which 


the dead gentleman's chaplains (which knew how to make much 
of themselves) had brought for their provision. But here succeeded 
another discommodity, which Sancho accounted not as the least, and 
was, that they had no wine to drink; no, nor so much as a drop of 
water to rinse their mouths; and, being scorched with drought, 
Sancho, perceiving the field where they were full of thick and green 
grass, said that which shall ensue in the chapter following. 


Of a Wonderful Adventure, Achieved with Less Hazard Than 
Ever Any Other Knight Did Any, by the Valorous Don 
Quixote of the Mancha 

*~W"T is not possible, my lord, but that these green herbs do argue 
I that near unto this place must be some fountain or stream that 
JL watereth them, and therefore, I pray you, let us go a little 
farther, and we shall meet that which may mitigate the terrible 
thirst that afflicts us, which sets us, questionless, in more pain than 
did our hunger.' This counsel was allowed by Don Quixote; and 
therefore, leading Rozinante by the bridle, and Sancho his ass by 
the halter, after laying up the reversion of their supper, they set on 
through the plain, only guided by their guess, for the night was so 
dark as they could not see a jot. And scarce had they travelled two 
hundred paces, when they heard a great noise of water, as if it fell 
headlong from some great and steep rock. The noise did cheer 
them very much, and standing to hear from whence it sounded, 
they heard unawares another noise, which watered all the content 
they conceived before, specially in Sancho, who, as I have noted, 
was naturally very fearful and of little spirit. They heard, I say, 
certain blows struck with propxartion, with a kind of rattling of irons 
and chains, which, accompanied by the furious sound of the water, 
might strike terror into any other heart but Don Quixote's. 

The night, as we said, was dark, and they happened to enter in 
among certain tall and lofty trees, whose leaves, moved by a soft 
gale of wind, made a fearful and still noise; so that the solitude, 
situation, darkness, and the noise of the water, and trembling of the 
leaves concurring, did breed horror and affright; but specially seeing 
that the blows never ceased, the wind slept not, nor the morning 
approached, whereunto may be added, that they knew not the place 
where they were. But Don Quixote, accompanied with his valiant 
heart, leaped on Rozinante, and embracing his buckler, brandished 



his lance, and said: 'Friend Sancho, I would have thee know that I 
was born, by the disposition of Heaven, in this our age of iron, to 
resuscitate in it that of gold, or the golden world, as it is called. I 
am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and valorous 
feats. I say again, that I am he which shall set up again those of the 
Round Table, the Twelve Peers of France, and the Nine Worthies. 
I am he who shall cause the acts to be forgotten of those Platires, 
Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Phebuses, Belianises, with 
all the crew of the famous knights-errant of times past, doing in this 
wherein I live, such great and wonderful feats of arms as shall 
obscure the bravest that ever they achieved. Thou notest well, 
faithful and loyal squire, the darkness of this night, the strange 
silence, the deaf and confused trembling of these trees, the dreadful 
noise of that water in whose search we come, which seems to throw 
itself headlong down from the steep mountains of the moon; the 
inceasable blows which do still wound our ears; all which together, 
and every one apart, are able to strike terror, fear, and amazement 
into the very mind of Mars; how much more in his that ic not accus- 
tomed to the like chances and adventures ? Yet all this which I have 
depainted to thee are inciters and rousers of my mind, which now 
causeth my heart almost to burst in my breast, with the desire it hath 
to try this adventure, how difficult soever it shows itself. Where- 
fore, tie my horse's girths a little straiter; and farewell! Here in this 
place thou mayst expect me three days and no more. And if I shall 
not return in that space, thou mayst go back to our village, and 
from thence (for my sake) to Toboso, where thou shak say to my 
incomparable Lady Dulcinea, that her captive knight died by at- 
tempting things that might make him worthy to be called hers.' 
When Sancho heard his lord speak these words, he began to 
weep, with the greatest compassion of the world, and say unto him, 
'Sir, I see no reason why you should undertake this fearful adventure. 
It is now night, and nobody can f)erceive us; we may very well cross 
the way, and apart from ourselves danger, although we should 
therefore want drink these three days. And, seeing none behold us, 
there will be much less any one to take notice of our cowardice; 
the rather because I heard ofttimes the curate of our village, whom 
you know very well, preach, "that he which seeks the danger. 

154 ^^^ QUIXOTE 

perisheth therein"; so that it is not good to tempt God, undertaking 
such a huge affair, out of which you cannot escape but by miracle; 
and let those which Heaven hath already wrought for you suffice, 
in delivering you from being tossed in a coverlet, as I was, and 
bringing you away a victor, free and safe, from among so many 
enemies as accompanied the dead man. And when all this shall not 
move or soften your hard heart, let this move it, to think and cer- 
tainly beheve, that scarce shall you depart from this place, when 
through very fear I shall give up my soul to him that pleaseth to 
take it. I left my country, wife, and children to come and serve you, 
hoping thereby to be worth more, and not less; but, as covetousness 
breaks the sack, so hath it also torn my hopes, seeing when they 
were most pregnant and lively to obtain that unlucky and accursed 
island, which you promised me so often, I see that, in exchange and 
pay thereof, you mean to forsake me here in a desert, out of all 
frequentation. For God's sake, do not me such a wrong, my lord; 
and if you will not wholly desist from your purpose, yet defer it at 
least till the morning; for as my little skill that I learned when I was 
a shepherd, telleth me, the dawning is not three hours off; for the 
mouth of the fish is over the head, and maketh midnight in the line 
of the left arm.' 'How canst thou, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'see where is the line, or that mouth, or that tail of which you 
speakest, seeing the night is so dark that one star alone appeareth 
not?' 'That is true,* quoth Sancho; 'but fear hath eyes which can 
see things under the ground, and much more in the skies. And 
besides, we may gather, by good discourse, that the day is not far 
off.' 'Let it be as little of? as it lists,' quoth Don Quixote, 'it shall 
never be recorded of me that either tears or prayers could ever 
dissuade me from performing the duty of a knight; and therefore, 
good Sancho, hold thy peace; for God, who hath inspired me to 
attempt this unseen and fearful adventure, will have an eye to my 
weal, and also to comfort thy sorrow. And that thou hast therefore 
to do is to make strait my girths, and remain here; for I will return 
here shortly, either alive or dead.' 

Sancho, perceiving his lord's last resolution, and how little his 
tears, counsels, or prayers could avail, resolved to profit himself a 
little of his wit, and make him if he could to expect until day; and 


so, when he did fasten the girths, he softly, without being felt, tied 
his ass's halter to both Rozinante's legs so fast, that when Don 
Quixote thought to depart, he could not, for that his horse could not 
go a step, but leaping. Sancho, seeing the good success of his guile, 
said, 'Behold, sir, how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, hath 
ordained that Rozinante should not go a step; and if you will be 
still contending, and spurring, and striking him, you will do nothing 
but enrage fortune, and, as the proverb says, but "spurn against the 
prick." ' Don Quixote grew wood at this, and yet the more he 
spurred him he was the less able to go; wherefore, without perceiving 
the cause of his horse's stay, he resolved at last to be quiet, and 
expect either till the morning or else till Rozinante would please to 
depart, believing verily that the impediment came of some other 
cause, and not from Sancho; and therefore said unto him, 'Since it 
is so, Sancho, that Rozinante cannot stir him, I am content to tarry 
till the dawning, although her tardiness cost me some tears.' 'You 
shall have no cause to weep,' replied Sancho; 'for I will entertain 
you telling you of histories until it be day, if you will not alight and 
take a nap upon these green herbs, as knights-errant are wont, that 
you may be the fresher and better able to-morrow to attempt that 
monstrous adventure which you exjject.' 'What dost thou call 
alighting, or sleeping?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Am I peradventure 
one of those knights that repose in time of danger? Sleep thou, who 
wast born to sleep, or do what thou please; for I will do that which 
I shall see fittest for my pretence.' 'Good sir, be not angry,' quoth 
Sancho; 'for I did not speak with that intention.' And so, drawing 
near unto him, he set one of his hands on the pommel of the saddle, 
and the other hinder in such sort that he rested embracing his 
lord's left thigh, not daring to depart from thence the breadth of a 
finger, such was the fear he had of those blows, which all the while 
did sound without ceasing. 

Then Don Quixote commanded him to tell some tale to pass 
away the time, as he had promised; and Sancho said he would, if 
the fear of that which he heard would suffer him. 'Yet,' quoth he, 
'for all this I will encourage myself to tell you one, whereon, if I 
can hit aright, and that I be not interrupted, is the best history that 
ever you heard; and be you attentive, for now I begin. It was that 


it was, the good that shall befall be for us all, and the harm for 
him that searches it. And you must be advertised, good sir, that 
the beginning that ancient men gave to their tales was not of or- 
dinary things, and it was a sentence of Cato, the Roman Conrozin, 
which says, "And the harm be for him that searches it," which is as 
fit for this place as a ring for a linger, to the end that you may be 
quiet, and not to go seek your own harm to any place, but that we 
turn us another way, for nobody compelleth us to follow this, where 
so many fears do surprise us.' 'Prosecute this tale, Sancho,' said 
Don Quixote, 'and leave the charge of the way we must go to me.' 
'I say then,' quoth Sancho, 'that in a village of Estremadura there 
was a shepherd, I would say a goatherd; and as I say of my tale, 
this goatherd was called Lop)e Ruyz, and this Lope Ruyz was 
enamoured on a shepherdess who was called Torralva, the which 
shepherdess called Torralva was daughter to a rich herdman, and 
this rich herdman — ' 'If thou tellest thy tale, Sancho, after that 
manner,' quoth Don Quixote, 'repeating everything twice that thou 
sayst, thou wilt not end it these two days: tell it succinctly, and like 
one of judgment, or else say nothing.' 'Of the very same fashion that 
I tell are all tales told in my country, and I know not how to tell it 
any other way, nor is it reason that you should ask of me to make 
new customs.' 'Tell it as thou pleasest,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for 
since fortune will not otherwise but that I must hear thee, go for- 
ward.' 'So that, my dear sir of my soul,' quoth Sancho, 'that, as I 
have said already, this shepherd was in love with Torralva the 
shepherdess, who was a round wench, scornful, and drew somewhat 
near to a man, for she had mochachoes; for methinks I see her now 
before my face.' 'Belike, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'thou knewest 
her?' 'I did not know her,' quoth Sancho, 'but he that told me the 
tale said it was so certain and true, that I might, when I told it to 
any other, very well swear and affirm that I had seen it all myself. 
So that, days passing and days coming, the devil, who sleeps not, 
and that troubles all, wrought in such sort, as the love that the shep- 
herd bore to the shepherdess turned into man-slaughter and ill-will; 
and the cause was, according to bad tongues, a certain quantity of 
little jealousies that she gave him, such as they passed the line, and 
came to the forbidden. And the shepherd did hate her so much 


afterward, that he was content to leave all that country, because he 
would not see her, and go where his eyes should never look upon 
her. Torralva, that saw herself disdained by Lope, did presently 
love him better than ever she did before.' 'That is a natural condi- 
tion of women,' quoth Don Quixote, 'to disdain those that love them, 
and to affect those which hate them. Pass forward, Sancho.' 'It 
happened,' quoth Sancho, 'that the shepherd set his purpose in execu- 
tion, and, gathering up his goats, he travelled through the fields of 
Estremadura, to pass into the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, which 
knew it well, followed him afoot and bare-legged, afar off, with a 
pilgrim's staff in her hand, and a wallet hanging at her neck, where 
they say that she carried a piece of a looking-glass, and another of a 
comb, and I know not what little bottles of changes for her face. 
But let her carry what she carries, for I will not put myself now to 
verify that; only I'll say, that they say, that the shepherd arrived with 
his goats to pass over the river Guadiana, which in that season was 
swollen very much, and overflowed the banks; and at the side where 
he came there was neither boat nor bark, nor any to pass himself 
or his goats over the river; for which he was very much grieved, 
because he saw that Torralva came very near, and she would trouble 
him very much with her prayers and tears. But he went so long 
looking up and down, that he spied a fisher, who had so little a boat 
as it could only hold one man and a goat at once, and for all that 
he spake and agreed with him to pass himself and three hundred 
goats that he had over the river. The fisherman entered into the 
boat, and carried over one goat; he returned, and passed over an- 
other, and turned back again, and passed over another. Keep you, 
sir, good account of the goats that the fisherman ferries over; for if 
one only be forgotten, the tale will end, and it will not be possible 
to tell one word more of it. Follow on, then, and I say that the 
landing-place on the other side was very dirty and slippery, which 
made the fisherman spend much time coming to and fro; yet, for 
all that, he turned for another goat, and another, and another.' 

'Make account,' quoth Don Quixote, that thou hast passed them 
all over; for otherwise thou wilt not make an end of passing them in 
a whole year's space.' 'How many,' said Sancho, 'are already passed 
over?' 'What a devil know I.'' said Don Quixote. 'See there that 


which I said,' quoth Sancho, 'that you should keep good account. 
By Jove, the tale is ended, therefore; for there is no passing forward.' 
'How can that be?' said Don Quixote. 'Is it so greatly of the essence 
of this history to know the goats that are passed so exactly and dis- 
tinctly that if one of the number be missed thou canst not follow on 
with thy tale?' 'No, sir, in no sort,' said Sancho; 'for as soon as I 
demanded of you to tell me how many goats passed over, and that 
you answered me you knew not, in that very instant it went from me 
out of my memory all that was to be told, and in faith it was of 
great virtue and content.' 'So, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'the 
tale is ended?' 'It is as certainly ended as is my mother,' quoth 
Sancho. 'Surely,' replied Don Quixote, 'thou hast recounted one 
of the rarest tales or histories that any one of the world could 
think upon, and that such a manner of telling or finishing a tale 
was never yet seen, or shall be seen again; although I never ex- 
pected any other thing from thy good discourse. But I do not 
greatly marvel, for perhaps those senseless strokes have troubled 
thine understanding.' 'AH that may be,' said Sancho; 'but I know, 
in the discourse of my tale, there is no more to be said, but that 
there it ends, where the error of counting the goats that were 
wafted over the river begins.' 'Let it end in a good hour where 
it lists,' answered Don Quixote, 'and let us try whether Rozinante 
can yet stir himself.' Then did he turn again to give him the 
spurs, and he to leap as he did at the first and rest anew, being 
unable to do other, he was so well shackled. 

It happened about this time, that, either through the cold of the 
morning, or that Sancho had eaten at supper some lenitive meats, 
or that it was a thing natural (and that is most credible), he had 
a desire to do that which others could not do for him; but such 
was the fear that entered into his heart as he dared not depart 
from his lord the breadth of a straw, and to think to leave that 
which he had desired undone was also impossible; therefore, his 
resolution in that perplexed exigent (be it spoken with pardon) 
was this: he loosed his right hand, wherewithal he held fast the 
hinder part of the saddle, and therewithal very softly, and without 
any noise, he untied the cod-piece point wherewithal his breeches 
were only supported, which, that being let slip, did presently 


fall down about his legs like a pair of bolts; after this, lifting up his 
shirt the best he could, he exposed his buttocks to the air, which 
were not the least. This being done, which, as he thought, was 
the chiefest thing requisite to issue out of that terrible anguish 
and plunge, he was suddenly troubled with a greater, to wit, that he 
knew not how to disburden himself without making a noise; which 
to avoid, first he shut his teeth close, hfted up his shoulders, and 
gathered up his breath as much as he might; yet, notwithstanding 
all these diligences, he was so unfortunate, that he made a little 
noise at the end, much different from that which made him so 
fearful. Don Quixote heard it, and said, 'What noise is that, Sancho?' 
'I know it not, sir,' quoth he; 'I think it be some new thing for 
adventures; or rather, disventures never begin with a litde.' Then 
turned he once again to try his hap, and it succeeded so well 
that, without making any rumour or noise but that which he did 
at the first, he found himself free of the loading that troubled him 
so much. 

But Don Quixote having the sense of smelling as perfect as that 
of his hearing, and Sancho stood so near, or rather joined to him, 
as the vapours did ascend upward, almost by a direct line, he could 
not excuse himself but that some of them must needs touch his nose. 
And scarce had they arrived, but that he occurred to the usual 
remedy, and stopped it very well between his fingers, and then 
said with a snaffling voice, 'Methinks, Sancho, that thou art much 
afraid.' 'I am indeed,' replied Sancho; 'but wherein, I pray you, do 
you perceive it now more than ever?' 'In that thou smellest now 
more than ever,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and that not of amber.' 'It 
may be so,' quoth Sancho; 'yet the fault is not mine, but yours, 
which bring me, at such unseasonable hours, through so desolate and 
fearful places.' 'I pray thee, friend, retire thyself two or three steps 
back,' quoth Don Quixote, holding his fingers still upon his nose, 
'and from henceforth have more care of thy person, and of the respect 
thou owest to mine; for I see the overmuch familiarity that I use 
with thee hath engendered this contempt.' 'I dare wager,' quoth 
Sancho, 'that you think I have done somewhat with my person 
that I ought not.' 'Friend Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'it is the 
worse to stir it thus.' And thus, in these and such Hke conversation, 


the master and the man passed over the night. And Sancho, seeing 
that the morning approach, he loosed Rozinante very warily, and 
tied up his hose. Rozinante, feeling himself (although he was not 
naturally very courageous), he seemed to rejoice, and began to 
beat the ground with his hoofs; for (by his leave) he could never 
yet curvet. Don Quixote, seeing that Rozinante could now stir, 
accounted it to be a good sign, and an encouragement of him to 
attempt that timorous adventure. 

By this Aurora did display her purple mantle over the face of 
heaven, and everything appeared distinctly, which made Don 
Quixote perceive that he was among a number of tall chestnut- 
trees, which commonly make a great shadow. He heard likewise 
those incessable strokes, but could not espy the cause of them; where- 
fore, giving Rozinante presently the spur, and turning back again 
to Sancho, to bid him farewell, he commanded him to stay for him 
there three days at the longest, and that, if he returned not after 
that space, he should make full account that Jove was pleased he 
should end his days in that dangerous adventure. He repeated to 
him again the embassage and errand he should carry in his behalf 
to his Lady Dulcinea; and that, touching the reward of his services, 
he should not fear anything; for he had left his testament, made 
before he departed from his village, where he should find himself 
gratified touching all that which pertained to his hire, according 
to the rate of the time he had served; but if God would bring 
him off from that adventure safe and sound, and without danger, 
he might fully account to receive the promised island. 

Here Sancho began anew to weep, hearing again the pitiful dis- 
courses of his good lord, and determined not to abandon him 
until the last trance and end of that affair; and out of these tears 
and honourable resolution of Sancho, the author of this history 
collects, that it is like he was well born, or at the very least an old 
Christian, whose grief did move his master a little, but not so much 
as he should show the least argument of weakness; but rather, dis- 
sembling it the best he could, he followed on his way towards the 
way of the water, and that where the strokes were heard. Sancho 
followed him afoot, leading, as he was wont, his ass by the halter, 
who was the inseparable fellow of his prosperous or adverse fortunes. 


And having travelled a good space among these chestnut and 
shady trees, they came out into a little plain that stood at the foot 
of certain steep rocks, from whose tops did precipitate itself a 
great fall of water. There were at the foot of those rocks certain 
houses, so ill made as they rather seemed ruins of buildings than 
houses; from whence, as they perceived, did issue the fearful rumour 
and noise of the strokes, which yet continued. 

Rozinante at this dreadful noise did start, and being made quiet 
by his lord, Don Quixote did by little and little draw near to the 
houses, recommending himself on the way most devoutly to his 
Lady Dulcinea, and also to Jove, desiring him that he would not 
forget him. Sancho never departed from his lord's side, and stretched 
out his neck and eyes as far as he might through Rozinante his 
legs, to see if he could perceive that which held him so fearful 
and suspended. And after they had travelled about a hundred 
paces more, at the doubling of a point of a mountain, they saw 
the very cause patent and open (for there could be none other) of 
that so hideous and fearful a noise that had kept them all the night 
so doubtful and affrighted, and was (O reader! if thou wilt not take 
it in bad part) six iron maces that fulled cloth, which, with their 
interchangeable blows, did form that marvellous noise. 

When Don Quixote saw what it was, he waxed mute and all 
ashamed. Sancho beheld him, and saw that he hung his head on his 
breast with tokens that he was somewhat ashamed. Don Quixote 
looked also on his squire, and saw his cheeks swollen with laughter, 
giving withal evident signs that he was in danger to burst if he 
vented not that passion; whereat all Don Quixote's melancholy little 
prevailing, he could not, beholding Sancho, but laugh also himself. 
And when Sancho saw his master begin the play, he let slip the 
prisoner in such violent manner, to press his sides hardly with both 
his hands to save himself from bursting. Four times he ended, 
and other four he renewed his laughter, with as great impulse and 
force as at the first; whereat Don Quixote was wonderfully enraged, 
but chiefly hearing him say in gibing manner, 'I would have thee 
know, friend Sancho, that I was born, by the disposition of Heaven, 
in this our age of iron, to renew in it that of gold, or the golden 
world. I am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and 


valorous feats.' And in this sort he went repeating all or the 
greatest part of the words Don Quixote had said the first time that 
they heard the timorous blows. Don Quixote perceiving that Sancho 
mocked him, grew so ashamed and angry withal, that, lifting up the 
end of his lance, he gave him two such blows on the back, as if he 
had received them on his pate, would have freed his master from 
paying him any wages, if it were not to his heirs. Sancho, seeing 
that he gained so ill earnest by his jests, fearing that his master 
should go onward with it, he said unto him, with very great sub- 
mission, 'Pacify yourself, good sir; for, by Jove, I did but jest.' 'But 
why dost thou jest? I tell thee I do not jest,' quoth Don Quixote. 
'Come here, master merry-man; thinkest thou that, as those are 
iron maces to full cloth, if they were some other dangerous ad- 
venture, that I have not shown resolution enough to undertake and 
finish it? Am I by chance obliged, being, as I am, a knight, to 
know and distinguish noises, and perceive which are of a fulling- 
mill, or no? And more it might (as it is true), that I never saw 
any before, as thou hast done, base villain that thou art! born and 
brought up among the hke: if not, make thou that these six maces 
be converted into giants, and cast them in my beard one by one, or 
all together; and when I do not turn all their heels up, then mock 
me as much as thou pleasest.' 

'No more, good sir,' quoth Sancho; 'for I confess I have been 
somewhat too laughsome. But tell me, I pray you, now that we 
are in peace, as God shall deliver you out of all adventures that 
may befall you, as whole and sound as He hath done out of this, 
hath the not great fear we were in been a good subject of laughter, 
and a thing worthy the telling? — at least I; for of you I am certain 
that you do not yet know what fear or terror is.' 'I do not deny,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'but that which befel us is worthy of laughter; 
yet ought it not to be recounted, forasmuch as all persons are not 
so discreet as to know how to discern one thing from another, and 
set everything in his right point.* 'You know, at leastwise,' quoth 
Sancho, 'how to set your javelin in his point when, pointing at 
my pate, you hit me on the shoulders, thanks be to God, and to 
the diligence I put in going aside. But farewell it, for all will away 
in the bucking; and I have heard old folk say "that man loves thee 


well who makes thee to weep." And besides, great lords are wont, 
after a bad word which they say to one of their serving-men, to 
bestow on him presently a pair of hose. But I know not yet what 
they are wont to give them after blows, if it be not that knights- 
errant give, after the bastinado, islands, or kingdoms on the con- 
tinent.' 'The die might run so favourably,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'as all thou hast said might come to pass; and therefore pardon 
what is done, since thou art discreet, and knowest that a man's first 
motions are not in his hand. And be advertised of one thing from 
henceforward (to the end to abstain, and carry thyself more 
respectfully in thy over-much liberty of speech with me), that in 
as many books of chivalry as I have read, which are infinite, I 
never found that any squire spoke so much with his lord as thou 
dost with thine; which, in good sooth, I do attribute to thy great 
indiscretion and mine; thine, in respecting me so little; mine, in 
not making myself to be more regarded. Was not Gandalin, 
Amadis de Gaul's squire, earl of the Firm Island? And yet it is 
read of him, that he spoke to his lord with his cap in his hand, his 
head bowed, and his body bended (more Turcesco). What, then, 
shall we say of Gasabel, Don Galaor's squire, who was so silent, as to 
declare us the excellency thereof, his name is but once ref)eated in 
all that so great and authentic a history? Of all which my words, 
Sancho, thou must infer, that thou must make difference between 
the master and the man, the lord and his serving-man, the knight 
and his squire: so that from this day forward we must proceed 
with more respect, not letting the clew run so much; for after 
what way soever I grow angry with thee, it will be bad for the 
pitcher. The rewards and benefits that I have promised thee will 
come in their time; and if they do not, thy wages cannot be lost, as 
I have already said to thee.' 

'You say very well,' quoth Sancho; 'but fain would I learn (in case 
that the time of rewards came not, and that I must of necessity 
trust to my wages) how much a knight-errant's squire did gain in 
times past? or if they did agree for months, or by days, as mason's 
men?' 'I do not think,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that they went by the 
hire, but only trusted to their lord's courtesy. And if I have assigned 
wages to thee in my sealed testament, which I left at home, it was 


to prevent the worst; because I know not yet what success chivalry 
may have in these our so miserable times, and I would not have 
my soul suffer in the other world for such a minuity as is thy wages; 
for thou must understand that in this world there is no state so 
dangerous as that of knights-errant.' 'That is most true,' replied 
Sancho, 'seeing the only sound of the maces of a fulling-mill could 
trouble and disquiet the heart of so vaUant a knight as you are. 
But you may be sure that I will not hereafter once unfold my lips 
to jest at your doings, but only to honour you as my master and 
natural lord.' 'By doing so,' replied Don Quixote, 'thou shalt live 
on the face of the earth; for, next to our parents, we are bound 
to respect our masters as if they were our fathers.' 


Of the High Adventure and Rich Winning of the Helmet of 
Mambrino, with Other Successes Which Befel the In- 
vincible Knight 

IT began about this time to rain, and Sancho would fain have 
entered into the fulling-mills; but Don Quixote had conceived 
such hate against them for the jest recounted, as he would 
in no wise come near them; but, turning his way on the right 
hand, he fell into a highway, as much beaten as that wherein they 
rode the day before. Within a while after, Don Quixote espied 
one a-horseback, that bore on his head somewhat that glistered 
like gold; and scarce had he seen him, when he turned to Sancho, 
and said, 'Methinks, Sancho, that there's no proverb that is not 
true; for they are all sentences taken out of experience itself, which 
is the universal mother of sciences! and specially that proverb that 
says, "Where one door is shut, another is opened." I say this be- 
cause, if fortune did shut yesternight the door that we searched, 
deceiving us in the adventure of the iron maces, it lays us now 
wide open the door that may address us to a better and more cer- 
tain adventure, whereon, if I cannot make a good entry, the fall 
shall be mine, without being able to attribute it to the little knowl- 
edge of the fulling-maces, or the darkness of the night; which I 
affirm because, if I be not deceived, there comes one towards us 
that wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, for which I made 
the oath.' 'See well what you say, sir, and better what you do,' quoth 
Sancho; 'for I would not wish that this were new maces, to 
batter us and our understanding.' 'The devil take thee for a man!' 
replied Don Quixote; 'what difference is there betwixt a helmet 
and fulling-maces?' 'I know not,' quoth Sancho; 'but if I could 
speak as much now as I was wont, perhaps I would give you such 
reasons as you yourself should see how much you are deceived in 
that you speak.' 'How may I be deceived in that I say, scrupulous 



traitor?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Tell me, seest thou not that knight 
which comes riding towards us on a dapple-grey horse, with a 
helmet of gold on his head?' 'That which I see and find out to be 
so,' answered Sancho, 'is none other than a man on a grey ass like 
mine own, and brings on his head somewhat that shines.' 'Why, 
that is Mambrino's helmet,' quoth Don Quixote. 'Stand aside, and 
leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without sf)eech, to 
cut off delays, I will conclude this adventure, and remain with the 
helmet as mine own which I have so much desired.' 'I will have 
care to stand off; but I turn again to say, that I pray God that it 
be a purchase of gold, and not fulling-mills.' 'I have already said 
unto thee that thou do not make any more mention, no, not in 
thought, of those maces; for if thou dost,' said Don Quixote, 'I vow, 
I say no more, that I will batter thy soul.' Here Sancho, fearing lest 
his master would accomplish the vow which he had thrown out 
as round as a bowl, held his f)eace. 

This, therefore, is the truth of the history of the helmet, horse, 
and knight, which Don Quixote saw. There was in that commark 
two villages, the one so little as it had neither shop nor barber, but 
the greater, that was near unto it, was furnished of one; and he 
therefore did serve the little village when they had any occasion, 
as now it befell that therein lay one sick, and must be let blood, 
and another that desired to trim his beard; for which purpose the 
barber came, bringing with him a brazen basin. And as he travelled, 
it by chance began to rain, and therefore clapped his basin on his 
head to save his hat from staining, because it belike was a new one; 
and the basin being clean scoured, glistered half a league off. He 
rode on a grey ass, as Sancho said, and that was the reason why Don 
Quixote took him to be a dapple-grey steed, a knight, and a helmet 
of gold; for he did, with all facility, apply everything which he saw 
to his raving chivalry and ill-errant thoughts. And when he saw 
that the poor knight drew near, without settling himself to com- 
mune with him, he inrested his javelin low on the thigh, and ran 
with all the force Rozinante might, thinking to strike him through 
and through; and, drawing near unto him, without stopping his 
horse, he cried, 'Defend thyself, caitiff! or else render unto me will- 
ingly that which is my due by all reason.' 


The barber, who so without fearing or surmising any such thing, 
saw that fantasy and spirit came upon him, had no other remedy, 
to avoid the blow of the lance, but to fall off his ass to the ground; 
and scarce had he touched the earth, when rising up again as light 
as a deer, he ran away so swiftly through the plain as the wind 
could scarce overtake him, leaving behind him on the ground his 
basin; wherewithal Don Quixote rested content, and said that 
pagan which lost it was discreet, and did imitate the castor, who 
seeing himself hotly pursued by the hunters, which tears and cuts 
away that with his teeth for which he knows by natural instinct 
he is followed. 

Then he commanded Sancho to take up the helmet; who, lifting 
it, said, 'The basin is a good one, by God, and is as well worth a real 
of eight as a marvedi.' And, giving it to his lord, he presently set it 
on his head, turning about every way to see whether he could get 
the beaver; and, seeing he could not find it, he said, 'The pagan 
for whom this famous helmet was first forged had doubtlessly a 
very great head; and that which grieves me principally is that this 
helmet wants the one half.' 

When Sancho heard him call the basin a helmet, he could not 
contain his laughter; but presently remembering of his master's 
choler, he checked it in the midst. 'Why dost thou laugh, Sancho?' 
quoth Don Quixote. 'I laugh,' said he, 'to think on the great head 
the pagan owner of this helmet had; for it is for all the world like 
a barber's basin.' 'Know Sancho, that I imagine,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'that this famous piece of this enchanted helmet did fall, by some 
strange accident, into some one's hands that knew not the worth 
thereof, and seeing it was of pure gold, without knowing what he 
did, I think he hath molten the half, to profit himself therewithal, 
and made of the other half this, which seems a barber's basin, as 
thou sayst: but be it what it list, to me who knows well what it is, 
his transmutation makes no matter; for I will dress it in the first 
town where 1 shall find a smith, as that which the God of Forges 
made for the God of War shall not surpass, no, nor come near it; 
and in the meanwhile I will wear it as I may, for something is better 
than nothing; and more, seeing it may very well defend me from 
the blow of a stone.' 'That's true,' quoth Sancho, 'if it be not thrown 


out of a sling, such as that of the battle of the two armies, when 
they blessed your worship's cheek teeth, and broke the bottle wherein 
you carried the most blessed drench which made me vomit up my 
guts.' 'I do not much care for the loss of it, Sancho,' quoth Don 
Quixote; 'for, as thou knowest, I have the recipe in memory.' 'So 
have I likewise,' quoth Sancho; 'but if ever I make it or taste it 
again in my life, I pray God that here may be mine end: how much 
more, I never mean to thrust myself into any occasion wherein I 
should have need of it; for I mean, with all my five senses, to keep 
myself from hurting any, or being hurt. Of being once again tossed 
in a coverlet, I say nothing; for such disgraces can hardly be pre- 
vented, and if they befall, there is no other remedy but patience, and 
to lift up the shoulders, keep in the breath, shut the eyes, and suffer 
ourselves to be borne where fortune and the coverlet pleaseth.' 

'Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, hearing 
him say so; 'for thou never forgettest the injuries that are once 
done to thee: know that it is the duty of noble and generous minds 
not to make any account of toys. What leg hast thou brought away 
lame, what rib broken, or what head hurt, that thou canst not yet 
forget that jest.? For the thing being well examined, it was none 
other than a jest or pastime; for if 1 did not take it to be such, I 
had returned by this to that place, and done more harm in thy 
revenge than that which the Greeks did for the rape of Helen: 
who, if she were in these times, or my Dulcinea in hers, she might 
be sure she should never have gained so much fame for beauty as 
she did.' And, saying so, he pierced the sky with a sigh. 'Then,' 
said Sancho, 'let it pass for a jest, since the revenge cannot pass in 
earnest; but I know well the quality both of the jest and earnest, 
and also that they shall never fall out of my memory, as they will 
never out of my shoulders. But, leaving this apart, what shall we 
do with this dapple-grey steed, that looks so like a grey ass, which 
that Martin left behind, whom you overthrew, who, according as 
he laid feet on the dust and made haste, he minds not to come back 
for him again; and, by my beard, the grey beast is a good one.' 'I 
am not accustomed,' quoth Don Quixote, 'to ransack and spoil 
those whom I overcome; nor is it the practice of chivalry to take 
their horses and let them go afoot, if that it befall [not] the victor 


to lose in the conflict his own; for in such a case it is lawful to take 
that of the vanquished as won in fair war. So that, Sancho, leave 
that horse, or ass, or what else thou pleasest to call it; for when his 
owner sees us departed, he will return again for it.' 'God knows,' 
quoth Sancho, 'whether it will be good or no for me to take him, 
or at least change for mine own, which, methinks, is not so good. 
Truly the laws of knighthood are strait, since they extend not 
themselves to license the exchange of one ass for another. And 1 
would know whether they permit at least to exchange the one harness 
for another?' 'In that I am not very sure,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'and as a case of doubt (until I be better informed), I say that thou 
exchange them, if by chance thy need be extreme.' 'So extreme,' 
quoth Sancho, 'that if they were for mine own very person, I could 
not need them more.' And presently, enabled by the license, he 
made mutatio caparum, and set forth his beast like a hundred 

This being done, they broke their fast with the relics of the spoils 
they had made in the camp of sumpter-horse, and drank of the 
mills' streams, without once turning to look on them (so much 
they abhorred them for the marvellous terror they had strucken 
them in); and having by their repast cut away all choleric and 
melancholic humours, they followed on the way which Rozinante 
pleased to lead them, who was the depository of his master's will, 
and also of the ass's, who followed him always wheresoever he 
went, in good amity and company: for all this, they returned to 
the highway, wherein they travelled at random, without any certain 
deliberation which way to go. And as they thus travelled, Sancho 
said to his lord, 'Sir, will you give me leave to commune a little 
with you? for, since you have imposed upon me that sharp com- 
mandment of silence more than four things have rotted in my 
stomach; and one thing that I have now upwn the tip of my tongue, 
I would not wish for anything that it should miscarry.' 'Say it,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'and be brief in thy reasons; for none is de- 
lightful if it be prolix.' 'I say then,' quoth Sancho, 'that I have been 
these later days considering how little is gained by following these 
adventures that you do through these deserts and cross-ways, where, 
though you overcome and finish the most dangerous, yet no man 


sees or knows them, and so they shall remain in perpetual silence, 
both to your prejudice and that of the fame which they deserve. 
And therefore, methinks, it were better (still exf>ecting your better 
judgment herein), that we went to serve some emperor or other 
great prince that maketh war, in whose service you might show 
the valour of your person, your marvellous force, and wonderful 
judgment; which being perceived by the lord whom we shall 
serve, he must perforce reward us, every one according to his 
deserts; and in such a place will not want one to record your noble 
acts for a perpetual memory. Of mine I say nothing, seeing they 
must not transgress the squire-like limits; although I dare avouch 
that, if any notice be taken in chivalry of the feats of squires, mine 
shall not fall away betwixt the lines.' 

'Sancho, thou sayst not ill,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but before such 
a thing come to pass, it is requisite to spend some time up and 
down the world, as in probation, seeking of adventures, to the end 
that, by achieving some, a man may acquire such fame and renown, 
as when he goes to the court of any great monarch, he be there 
already known by his works; and that he shall scarcely be per- 
ceived to enter at the gates by the boys of that city, when they 
all will follow and environ him, crying out aloud. This is the 
Knight of the Sun, or the Serpent, or of some other device under 
which he hath achieved strange adventures. "This is he," will they 
say, "who overcame in single fight the huge giant Brocabruno of 
the invincible strength; he that disenchanted the great Sophy of 
Persia, of the large enchantment wherein he had lain almost nine 
hundred years." So that they will thus go proclaiming his acts 
from hand to hand; and presently the king of that kingdom, 
moved by the great bruit of the boys and other people, will stand 
at the windows of his palace to see what it is; and as soon as he 
shall eye the knight, knowing him by his arms, or by the imprese 
of his shield, he must necessarily say, "Up! go all of you, my knights, 
as many of you as are in court, forth, to receive the flower of 
chivalry, which comes there." At whose command they all will 
sally, and he himself will come down to the midst of the stairs, and 
will embrace him most straitly, and will give him the peace, kiss- 
ing him on the cheek; and presently will carry him by the hand 


to the queen's chamber, where the knight shall find her accompanied 
by the princess her daughter, which must be one of the fairest and 
debonaire damsels that can be found throughout the vast compass 
of the earth. After this will presently and in a trice succeed, that 
she will cast her eye on the knight, and he on her, and each of 
them shall seem to the other no human creature, but an angel; and 
then, without knowing how, or how not, they shall remain captive 
and entangled in the inextricable amorous net, and with great care 
in their minds, because they know not how they shall speak to 
discover the anguish and feeling. From thence the king will carry 
him, without doubt, to some quarter of his palace richly hanged; 
where, having taken off his arms, they will bring him a rich mantle 
of scarlet, furred with ermines, to wear; and if he seemed well be- 
fore, being armed, he shall now look as well, or better, out of them. 
The night being come, he shall sup with the king, queen, and 
princess, where he shall never take his eye off her, beholding un- 
awares of those that stand present, and she will do the like with 
as much discretion; for, as I have said, she is a very discreet damsel. 
The tables shall be taken up; there shall enter, unexf>ectedly, in at 
the hall, an ill-favoured little dwarf, with a fair lady that comes be- 
hind the dwarf between two giants, with a certain adventure, 
wrought by a most ancient wise man, and that he who shall end it 
shall be held for the best knight of the world. Presently the king 
will command all those that are present to prove it, which they do, 
but none of them can finish it but only the new-come knight, to 
the great proof of his fame; whereat the princess will remain very 
glad, and will be very joyful, and well apaid, because she hath 
setded her thoughts in so high a place. And the best of it is, that 
this king, or prince, or what else he is, hath a very great war with 
another as mighty as he; and the knight his guest doth ask him 
(after he hath been in the court a few days) license to go and serve 
him in that war. The king will give it with a very good will, and 
the knight will kiss his hands courteously for the favour he doth 
him therein. And that night he will take leave of his lady, the 
princess, by some window of a garden that looks into her bed- 
chamber, by the which he hath spoken to her ofttimes before, — 
being a great means and help thereto, a certain damsel which the 


princess trusts very much. He sighs, and she will fall in a swoon, 
and the damsel will bring water to bring her to herself again; she 
will be also full of care because the morning draws near, and she 
would not have them discovered by any, for her lady's honour. 
Finally, the princess will return to herself, and will give out her 
beautiful hands at the window to the knight, who will kiss them a 
thousand and a thousand times, and will bathe them all in tears. 
There it will remain agreed between them two the means that they 
will use to acquaint one another with their good or bad successes; 
and the princess will pray him to stay away as little time as he may; 
which he shall promise unto her, with many oaths and protestations. 
Then will he turn again to kiss her hands, and take his leave of her 
with such feeling, that there will want but little to end his life in 
the place. He goes from thence to his chamber, and casts himself 
upon his bed; but he shall not be able to sleep a nap for sorrow 
of his departure. He will after get up very early, and will go 
to take leave of the king, the queen, and princess. They tell him 
(having taken leave of the first two) that the princess is ill at ease, 
and that she cannot be visited: the knight thinks that it is for grief 
of his departure, and the which tidings lanceth him anew to the 
bottom of his heart, whereby he will be almost constrained to give 
manifest tokens of his grief. The damsel that is privy to their loves 
will be present, and must note all that passeth, and go after to tell 
it to her mistress, who receives her with tears, and says unto her, 
that one of the greatest afflictions she hath is, that she doth not 
know who is her knight, or whether he be of blood royal or no. 
Her damsel will assure her again, that so great bounty, beauty, and 
valour as is in her knight could not find place but in a great and 
royal subject. The careful princess will comfort herself with this 
hope, and labour to be cheerful, lest she should give occasion to her 
parents to suspect any sinister thing of her; and within two days 
again she will come out in public. By this the knight is departed: 
he fights in the war, and overcomes the king's enemy; he wins many 
cities, and triumphs for many battles; he returns to the court; he 
visits his lady, and speaks to her at the accustomed place; he agreeth 
with her to demand her of the king for his wife, in reward of his 
services; whereunto the king will not consent, because he knows 
not what he is; but for all this, either by carrying her away, or by 


some other manner, the princess becomes his wife, and he accounts 
himself therefore very fortunate, because it was after known that 
the same knight is son to a very valorous king, of I know not what 
country; for I beheve it is not in all the map. The father dies, and 
the princess doth inherit the kingdom; and thus, in two words, our 
knight is become a king. Here in this place enters presently the 
commodity to reward his squire, and all those that help)ed him to 
ascend to so high an estate. He marries his squire with one of the 
princess's damsels, which shall doubtless be the very same that was 
acquainted with his love, who is some principal duke's daughter.' 
'That's it I seek for,' quoth Sancho, 'and all will go right; there- 
fore I will leave to that, for every whit of it which you said will 
happen to yourself, without missing a jot, calling yourself, the 
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' 'Never doubt it, Sancho,' quoth 
Don Quixote; 'for even in the very same manner, and by the same 
steps that I have recounted here, knights-errant do ascend, and have 
ascended, to be kings and emperors. This only is expedient, that 
we inquire what king among the Christians or heathens makes war 
and hath a fair daughter: but we shall have time enough to bethink 
that, since, as I have said, we must first acquire fame in other places, 
before we go to the court. Also I want another thing, that put case 
that we find a Christian or pagan king that hath wars and a fair 
daughter, and that I have gained incredible fame throughout the 
wide world, yet cannot I tell how I might find that I am descended 
from kings, or that I am at the least cousin-german removed of an 
emperor; for the king will not give me his daughter until this be 
first very well proved, though my works deserve it never so much; 
so that I fear to lose, through this defect, that which mine own hath 
merited so well. True it is that I am a gentleman of a known 
house of propriety and possession; and perhaps the wise man that 
shall write my history will so beautify my kindred and descent, that 
he will find me to be the fifth or sixth descent from a king. For thou 
must understand, Sancho, that there are two manners of lineages in 
the world: some that derive their pedigree from princes and mon- 
archs, whom time hath by little and little diminished and consumed, 
and ended in a point like pyramids; others, that took their begin- 
ning from base people, and ascend from degree unto degree, until 
they become at last great lords. So that all the difference is, that 


some were that which they are not now, and others are that which 
they were not; and it might be that I am of those, and, after good 
examination, my beginning might be found to have been famous 
and glorious, wherewithal the king, my father-in-law, ought to be 
content, whosoever he were; and when he were not, yet shall the 
princess love me in such sort, that she shall, in despite of her father's 
teeth, admit me for her lord and spxiuse, although she knew me to 
be the son of a water-bearer. And if not, here in this place may 
quader well the carrying of her away perforce, and carrying of her 
where best I liked; for either time or death must needs end her 
father's displeasure.' 

'Here comes well to pass that,' [said] Sancho, 'which some 
damned fellows are wont to say, "Seek not to get that with a good 
will which thou mayst take perforce"; although it were better said, 
"The leap of a shrub is more worth than good men's entreaties." 
I say it to this purpose, that if the king, your father-in-law, will not 
condescend to give unto you the princess, my mistress, then there's 
no more to be done, but, as you say, to steal her away and carry 
her to another place; but all the harm is that, in the meanwhile that 
composition is unmade, and you possess not quietly your kingdom, 
the poor squire may whistle for any benefit or pleasure you are able 
to do him, if it be not that the damsel of whom you spoke even 
now run away with her lady, and that he pass away his misfortunes 
now and then with her, until Heaven ordain some other thing; for 
I do think that his lord may give her unto him presently, if ^e 
please to be his lawful spouse.' 'There's none that can deprive thee 
of that,' quoth Don Quixote. 'Why, so that this may befall,' quoth 
Sancho, 'there's no more but to commend ourselves to God, and let 
fortune run where it may best address us.' 'God bring it so to pass,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'as I desire, and thou hast need of, Sancho; 
and let him be a wretch that accounts himself one.' 'Let him be so,' 
quoth Sancho; 'for I am an old Christian, and to be an earl there 
is no more requisite.' 'Ay, and 'tis more than enough,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'for that purpose; and though thou wert not, it made not 
much matter; for I, being a king, may give thee nobiUty, without 
either buying of it, or serving me with nothing; for, in creating 
thee an earl, lo! thereby thou art a gendeman. And, let men say 



what they please, they must, in good faith, call thee "right honour- 
able," although it grieve them never so much.' 'And think you,' 
quoth Sancho, 'that 1 would not authorise my litado?' 'Thou must 
say dictado, or dignity,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and not litado, for that's 
a barbarous word.' 'Let it be so,' quoth Sancho Panza. 'I say that 
I would accommodate all very well; for I was once the warner of a 
confratriety, and the warner's gown became me so well that every 
one said I had a presence fit for the provost of the same: then how 
much more when I shall set on my shoulders the royal robe of a 
duke, or be apparelled with gold and pearls, after the custom of 
strange earls? I do verily beUeve that men will come a hundred 
leagues to see me.' 'Thou wilt seem very well,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'but thou must shave that beard very often; for as thou hast it now, 
so bushy, knit, and unhandsome, if thou shavest it not with a razor 
at the least every other day, men will know that thou art as far from 
gentility as a musket can carry.' 'What more is there to be done,' 
quoth Sancho, 'than to take a barber and keep him hired in my 
house? yea, and if it be necessary, he shall ride after me, as if he 
were a master of horse to some nobleman.' 'How knowest thou,* 
quoth Don Quixote, 'that noblemen have their masters of horses 
riding after them?' 'Some few years ago I was a month in the 
court, and there I saw that a young litde lord rode by for his pleas- 
ure; they said he was a great grandee; there followed him still 
a-horseback a certain man, turning every way that he went, so as 
he verily seemed to be his horse's tail. I then demanded the cause 
why that man did not ride by the other's side, but still did follow 
him so. They answered me that he was master of his horses, and 
that the grandees were accustomed to carry such men after them,' 
'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and thou mayst carry thy 
barber in that manner after thee; for customs came not all together, 
nor were not invented at once; and thou mayst be the first earl that 
carried his barber after him: and I do assure thee that it is an office 
of more trust to trim a man's beard than to saddle a horse.' 'Let 
that of the barber rest to my charge,' quoth Sancho, 'and that of 
procuring to be a king, and of creating me an earl, to yours.' 'It shall 
be so,' quoth Don Quixote. And thus, lifting up his eyes, he saw 
that which shall be recounted in the chapter following. 


Of the Liberty Don Quixote Gave to Many Wretches, Who 
Were A-Carrying Perforce to a Place They Desired Not 

CID HAMET BENENGELI, an Arabic and Manchegan 
author, recounts, in this most grave, lofty, divine, sweet 
conceited history, that, after these discourses passed between 
Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza, which we have laid 
down in the last chapter, Don Quixote, lifting up his eyes, saw that 
there came in the very same way wherein they rode, about some 
twelve men in a company on foot, inserted like bead-stones in a 
great chain of iron, that was tied about their necks, and every one 
of them had manacles besides on their hands. There came to con- 
duct them two on horseback and two others afoot: the horsemen 
had firelock pieces; those that came afoot, darts and swords. And 
as soon as Sancho saw them, he said : 'This is a chain of galley-slaves, 
people forced by the king to go to the galleys.' 'Howl people forced?' 
demanded Don Quixote; 'is it possible that the king will force 
anybody?' 'I say not so,' answered Sancho, 'but that it is people 
which are condemned, for their offences, to serve the king in the 
galleys perforce.' 'In resolution,' replied Don Quixote, 'howsoever 
it be, this folk, although they be conducted, go perforce, and not 
willingly.' 'That's so,' quoth Sancho. 'Then, if that be so, here 
falls in justly the execution of my function, to wit, the dissolving 
of violences and outrages, and the succouring of the afflicted and 
needful.' 'I pray you, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'to consider that the justice, 
who represents the king himself, doth wrong or violence to nobody, 
but only doth chastise them for their committed crimes.' 

By this the chain of slaves arrived, and Don Quixote, with very 
courteous terms, requested those that went in their guard, that they 
would please to inform him of the cause wherefore they carried 
that people away in that manner. One of the guardians a-horseback 
answered that they were slaves condemned by his majesty to the 



galleys, and there was no more to be said, neither ought he to desire 
any further knowledge. 'For all that,' replied Don Quixote, 'I would 
fain learn of every one of them in particular the cause of his dis- 
grace.' And to this did add other such and so courteous words, to 
move them to tell him what he desired, as the other guardian 
a-horseback said, 'Although we carry here the register and testi- 
mony of the condemnations of every one of these wretches, yet this 
is no time to hold them here long, or take out the processes to read : 
draw you nearer, and demand it of themselves: for they may tell it 
an they please, and I know they will; for they are men that take 
delight both in acting and relating knaveries.' 

With this license, which Don Quixote himself would have taken 
although they had not given it him, he came to the chain, and de- 
manded of the first for what offence he went in so ill a guise. He 
answered that his offence was no other than for being in love; for 
which cause only he went in that manner. 'For that, and no more?' 
replied Don Quixote. 'Well, if enamoured folk be cast into the 
galleys, I might have been rowing there a good many days ago.' 
'My love was not such as you conjecture,' quoth the slave; 'for mine 
was that I loved so much a basket well heaped with fine linen, as 
I did embrace it so straitly, that if the justice had not taken it away 
from me by force, I would not have forsaken it to this hour by my 
good-will. All was done in flagrante; there was no leisure to give 
me torment; the cause was concluded, my shoulders accommodated 
with a hundred, and, for a supplement, three prizes of garrupes, 
and the work was ended.' 'What are garrupes?' quoth Don Quixote. 
'Garrupes are galleys,' replied the slave, who was a young man of 
some four-and-twenty years old, and said he was born in Piedrahita. 

Don Quixote demanded of the second his cause of offence, who 
would answer nothing, he went so sad and melancholy. But the first 
answered for him, and said, 'Sir, this man goes for a canary-bird, 
I mean for a musician and singer.' 'Is it possible,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'that musicians and singers are likewise sent to the gal- 
leys?' 'Yes, sir,' quoth the slave; 'for there's nothing worse than to 
sing in anguish.' 'Rather,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I have heard say 
that he which sings doth affright and chase away his harms.' 'Here 
it is quite contrary,' quoth the slave; 'for he that sings once weeps 


all his life after.' 'I do not understand it,' said Don Quixote. But 
one of the guardians said to him, 'Sir knight, to sing in anguish is 
said, among this f)eople, non sancta, to confess upwn the rack. They 
gave this poor wretch the torture, and he confessed his delight that 
he was a quartrezo, that is, a stealer of beasts; and because he hath 
confessed, he is likewise condemned to the galleys for six years, with 
an amen of two hundred blows, which he bears already with him 
on his shoulders. And he goes always thus sad and pensative, be- 
cause the other thieves that remain behind, and also those which 
go here, do abuse, despise, and scorn him for confessing, and not 
having a courage to say Non; for, they say, a No hath as many letters 
as a Yea, and that a delinquent is very fortunate when his life or his 
death only depends of his own tongue, and not of witnesses or 
proofs: and, in mine opinion, they have very great reason.' 'I like- 
wise think the same,' quoth Don Quixote. 

And, passing to the third, he demanded that which he had done 
of the rest, who answered him out of hand, and that pleasantly: 
'I go to the Lady Garrupes for five years, because I wanted ten 
ducats.' 'I will give twenty with all my heart to free thee from that 
misfortune,' quoth Don Quixote. 'That,' quoth the slave, 'would 
be like one that hath money in the midst of the gulf, and yet dies 
for hunger because he can get no meat to buy for it. I say this, be- 
cause if I had those twenty ducats which your worship's hberality 
offers me, in due season I would have so anointed with them the 
notary's pen, and whetted my lawyer's wit so well, that I might 
to-day see myself in the midst of the market of Cocodover of Toledo, 
and not in this way trailed thus like a greyhound. But God is great; 
patience, and this is enough.' 

Don Quixote went after to the fourth, who was a man of vener- 
able presence, with a long white beard which reached to his bosom; 
who, hearing himself demanded the cause why he came there, 
began to weep, and answered not a word. But the fifth slave lent 
him a tongue, and said, 'This honest man goes to the galleys for 
four years, after he had walked the ordinary apparelled in pomp 
and a-horseback.' 'That is,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'as I take, after he 
was carried about to the shame and public view of the people.' 'You 
are in the right,' quoth the slave; 'and the crime for which he is 


condemned to this pain was, for being a broker of the ear, eye, and 
of all the body too; for in effect I mean that this gentleman goeth 
for a bawd, and hkewise for having a little smack and entrance in 
witchcraft.' 'If that smack and insight in witchcraft were not added,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'he merited not to go and row in the galleys 
for being a pure bawd, but rather deserved to govern and be their 
general; for the office of a bawd is not like every other ordinary 
office, but rather of great discretion, and most necessary in any 
commonwealth well governed, and should not be practised but 
by people well born; and ought, besides, to have a veedor and 
examinator of them, as are of all other trades, and a certain ap- 
pointed number of men known, as are of the other brokers of the 
exchange. And in this manner many harms that are done might 
be excused, because this trade and office is practised by indiscreet 
people of little understanding; such as are women of little more 
or less; young pages and jesters of few years' standing, and of less 
experience, which in the most urgent occasions, and when they 
should contrive a thing artificially, the crumbs freeze in their mouths 
and fists, and they know not which is their right hand. Fain would 
I pass forward and give reasons why it is convenient to make choice 
of those which ought in the commonwealth to practise this so 
necessary an office; but the place and season is not fit for it; one day 
I will say it to those which may provide and remedy it: only I say 
now, that the assumpt or addition of a witch hath deprived me of 
the compassion I should otherwise have to see those grey hairs and 
venerable face in such distress for being a bawd: although I know 
very well that no sorcery in the world can move or force the will, 
as some ignorant persons think (for our will is a free power, and 
there's no herb or charm can constrain it) ; that which certain simple 
women or cozening companions make, are some mixtures and 
poisons, wherewithal they cause men run mad, and in the mean- 
while persuade us that they have force to make one love well, being 
(as I have said) a thing most impossible to constrain the will.' 'That 
is true,' quoth the old man; 'and I protest, sir, that I am wholly inno- 
cent of the imputation of witchcraft. As for being a bawd, I could 
not deny it; but yet I never thought that I did ill therein; for all 
mine intention was, that ail the world should dis{X)rt them, and 


live together in concord and quietness, without griefs or quarrels. 
But this by good desire availed me but little to hinder my going 
there, from whence I have no hope ever to return, my years do so 
burden me, and also the stone, which lets me not rest an instant.* 
And, saying this, he turned again to his lamentations as at the first; 
and Sancho took such compassion on him, as, setting his hand into 
his bosom, he drew out a couple of shillings and gave it him as an 

From him Don Quixote passed to another, and demanded his 
fault; who answered with no less, but with much more pleasantness 
than the former: 'I go here because I have jested somewhat too much 
with two cousins-german of mine own, and with two other sisters, 
which were none of mine own; finally, I jested so much with them 
all, that thence resulted the increase of my kindred so intricately, as 
there is no casuist that can well resolve it. All was proved by me; 
I wanted favour, I had no money, and was in danger to lose my 
head; finally, I was condemned for six years to the galleys. I con- 
sented it, as a punishment of my fault; I am young, and let my life 
but hold out a while longer, and all will go well. And if you, sir 
knight, carry anything to succour us poor folk, God will reward 
you it in heaven, and we will have care here on earth to desire God, 
in our daily prayers for your life and health, that it be as long and 
as good as your countenance deserves.' He that said this went in 
the habit of a student, and one of the guard told him that he was a 
great talker and a very good Latinist. 

After all these came a man of some thirty years old, of very comely 
personage, save only that when he looked he seemed to thrust the 
one eye into the other. He was differently tied from the rest, for 
he carried about his leg so long a chain, that it tired all the rest of 
his body; and he had besides two iron rings about his neck, the one 
of the chain, and the other of that kind which are called a 'keep- 
friend,' or the 'foot of a friend,' from whence descended two irons 
unto his middle, out of which did stick two manacles, wherein his 
hands were locked up with a great hanging lock, so as he could 
neither set his hands to his mouth, nor bend down his head towards 
his hands. Don Quixote demanded why he was so loaded with iron 
more than the rest. The guard answered, because he alone had 


committed more faults than all together, and was a more desperate 
knave; and that, although they carried him tied in that sort, yet 
went they not sure of him, but feared he would make an escape. 
'What faults can he have so grievous,' quoth Don Quixote, 'since 
he hath only deserved to be sent to the galleys?' 'He goeth,' replied 
the guard, 'to them for ten years, which is equivalent to a civil 
death: never strive to know more, but that this man is the notorious 
Gines of Passamonte, who is otherwise called Ginesilio of Parapilla.' 
'Master commissary,' quoth the slave, hearing him say so, 'go fair 
and softly, and run not thus dilating of names and surnames. I am 
called Gines, and not Ginesilio; and Passamonte is my surname, and 
not Parapilla, as you say; and let every one turn about him, and he 
shall not do little.' 'Speak with less swelling,' quoth the commissary, 
'sir thief-of-more-than-the-mark, if you will not have me to make 
you hold your peace maugre your teeth.' 'It seems well,' quoth the 
slave, 'that a man is carried as pleaseth God; but one day somebody 
shall know whether I be called Ginesilio of Parapilla.' 'Why, do 
not they call thee so, cozener?' quoth the guard. 'They do,' said 
Gines; 'but I will make that they shall not call me so, or I will fleece 
them there where I mutter under my teeth. Sir knight, if you have 
anything to bestow on us, give it us now, and begone, in the name 
of God; for you do tire us with your too<urious search of knowing 
other men's lives: and if you would know mine, you shall under- 
stand that I am Gines of Passamonte, whose life is written' (show- 
ing his hand) 'by these two fingers.' 'He says true,' quoth the 
commissary; 'for he himself hath penned his own history so well 
as there is nothing more to be desired, and leaves the book pawned 
in the prison for two hundred reals.' 'And likewise means to re- 
deem it,' quoth Gines, 'though it were in for as many ducats.' 

'Is it so good a work?' said Don Quixote. 'It is so good,' replied 
Gines, 'that it quite puts down Lazarillo de Tormes, and as many 
others as are written or shall be written of that kind; for that which 
I dare affirm to you is, that it treats of true accidents, and those so 
delightful that no like invention can be compared to them.' 'And 
how is the book entitled?' quoth Don Quixote. 'It is called,' said 
he, 'The Life of Gines of Passamonte.' 'And is it yet ended?' said 
the knight. 'How can it be finished,' replied he, 'my life being not 


yet ended, since all that is written is from the hour of my birth until 
that instant that I was sent this last time to the galleys?' 'Why, then, 
belike you were there once before?' quoth Don Quixote. 'To serve 
God and the king I have been in there another time four years, and 
I know already how the biscuit and provant agree with my stomach,' 
quoth Gines, 'nor doth it grieve me very much to return unto them; 
for there I shall have leisure to finish my book, and I have many 
things yet to say; and in the galleys of Spain there is more resting- 
time than is requisite for that business, although I shall not need 
much time to pen what is yet unwritten; for I can, if need were, 
say it all by rote.' 'Thou seemest to be ingenious,' quoth Don 
Quixote. 'And unfortunate withal,' quoth Gines; 'for mishaps do 
still persecute the best wits.' 'They persecute knaves,' quoth the 
commissary. 'I have already sp)oken to master commissary,' quoth 
Passamonte, 'to go fair and softly; for the lords did not give you that 
rod to the end you should abuse us wretches that go here, but rather 
to guide and carry us where his majesty hath commanded; if not, 
by the life of — 'Tis enough that perhaps one day may come to light 
the sports that were made in the inn; and let all the world peace 
and live well, and sp)eak better; for this is now too great a digres- 
sion.' The commissary held up his rod to strike Passamonte in 
answer of his threats; but Don Quixote put himself between them, 
and entreated him not to use him hardly, seeing it was not much 
that one who carried his hands so tied should have his tongue some- 
what free; and then, turning himself towards the slaves, he said: 

'I have gathered out of all that which you have said, dear breth- 
ren, that although they punish you for your faults, yet that the pains 
you go to suffer do not very well please you, and that you march 
toward them with a very ill will, and wholly constrained, and that 
perhaps the Uttle courage this fellow had on the rack, the want of 
money that the other had, the small favour that a third enjoyed, and 
finally, the wretched sentence of the judge, and the not executing 
that justice that was on your sides, have been cause of your misery. 
All which doth present itself to my memory in such sort, as it 
{jersuadeth, yea, and enforceth me, to effect that for you for which 
Heaven sent me into the world, and made me profess that order 
of knighthood which I follow, and that vow which I made therein to 


favour and assist the needful, and those that are oppressed by others 
more potent. But, forasmuch as I know that it is one of the parts of 
prudence not to do that by foul means which may be accomplished 
by fair, I will entreat those gentlemen, your guardians and com- 
missary, they will please to loose and let you depart peaceably; for 
there will not want others to serve the king in better occasions; for 
it seems to me a rigorous manner of proceeding to make slaves of 
them whom God and nature created free. How much more, good 
sirs of the guard,' added Don Quixote, 'seeing these poor men 
have never committed any offence against you? Let them answer 
for their sins in the other world: there is a God in heaven who is 
not negligent in punishing the evil nor rewarding the good; and it 
is no wise decent that honourable men should be the executioners 
of other men, seeing they cannot gain or lose much thereby. I 
demand this of you in this peaceable, quiet manner, to the end that, 
if you accomplish my request, I may have occasion to yield you 
thanks; and if you will not do it wiUingly, then shall this lance and 
this sword, guided by the invincible valour of mine arm, force you 
to it.' 

'This is a pleasant doting,' answered the commissary, 'and an 
excellent jest wherewithal you have finished your large reasoning. 
Would you, good sir knight, have us leave unto you those the king 
forceth, as if we had authority to let them go, or you to command 
us to do it? Go on your way in a good hour, gentle sir, and setde 
the basin you bear on your head somewhat righter, and search not 
thus whether the cat hath three feet.' 'Thou art a cat, and a rat, 
and a knave!' quoth Don Quixote. And so, with word and deed at 
once, he assaulted him so suddenly as, without giving him leisure to 
defend himself, he struck him down to the earth very sore wounded 
with a blow of his lance; and as fortune would, this was he that 
had the firelock piece. The rest of the guard remained astonished 
at the unexpected accident; but at last returning to themselves, the 
horsemen set hand to their swords, and the footmen to their cbrts, 
and all of them set upon Don Quixote, who expected them very 
quietly. And doubtlessly he would have been in danger, if the 
slaves perceiving the occasion offered to be so fit to recover liberty, 
had not procured it by breaking the chain wherein they were linked. 


The hurly-burly was such as the guards now began to run to hinder 
the slaves from untieing themselves, now to offend Don Quixote 
who assaulted them; so that they could do nothing available to keep 
their prisoners. Sancho, for his part, helped to loose Gines of 
Passamonte, who was the first that leaped free into the field without 
clog, and setting upon the overthrown commissary, he disarmed 
him of his sword and piece, and now aiming at the one and then 
at the other with it, without discharging, made all the guards to 
abandon the field, as well for fear of Passamonte's piece as also to 
shun the marvellous showers of stones that the slaves, now delivered, 
poured on them. Sancho grew marvellous sad at this success; for 
he suspected that those which fled away would go and give notice 
of the violence committed to the Holy Brotherhood, which would 
presently issue in troops to search the delinquents; and said as much 
to his lord, requesting him to depart presently from thence, and 
embosk himself in the mountain, which was very near. 'AH is well,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'I know now what is fit to be done.' And so, 
calling together all the slaves that were in a tumult, and had stripped 
the commissary naked, they came all about him to hear what he 
commanded; to whom he said: 

'It is the part of people well born to gratify and acknowledge the 
benefits they receive, ingratitude being one of the sins that most 
offendeth the Highest. I say it, sirs, to this end, because you have, 
by manifest trial, seen that which you have received at my hand, 
in reward whereof I desire, and it is my will, that all of you, loaden 
with that chain from which I even now freed your necks, go pres- 
ently to the city of Toboso, and there present yourselves before the 
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, and recount unto her that her Knight of 
the Ill-favoured Face sends you there to remember his service to 
her; and relate unto her at large the manner of your freedom, all 
you that have had such noble fortune; and this being done, you may 
after go where you please.' 

Gines de Passamonte answered for all the rest, saying, 'That 
which you demand, good sir, our releaser, is most impossible to be 
performed, by reason that we cannot go all together through these 
ways, but alone and divided, procuring each of us to hide himself 
in the bowels of the earth, to the end we may not be found by the 


Holy Brotherhood, which will doubtlessly set out to search for us. 
That, therefore, which you may and ought to do in this exigent is, 
to change this service and homage of the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso 
into a certain number of ave-maries and creeds, which we will say 
for your intention; and this is a thing that may be accomplished 
by night or by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to 
think that we will return again to take up our chains, or set our- 
selves in the way of Toboso, is as hard as to make us believe that 
it is now night, it being yet scarce ten of the clock in the morning; 
and to demand such a thing of us is as likely as to seek for pears of 
the elm-tree.' 'I swear by such a one,' quoth Don Quixote, thor- 
oughly enraged, 'sir son of a whore, Don Ginesilio of Parapilla, or 
howsoever you are called, that thou shalt go thyself alone, with thy 
tail between thy legs, and bear all the chain in thy neck.' Passa- 
monte, who was by nature very choleric, knowing assuredly that 
Don Quixote was not very wise (seeing he had attempted such a 
desjjerate act as to seek to give them liberty), seeing himself thus 
abused, winked on his companions, and, going a little aside, they 
sent such a shower of stones on Don Quixote, as he had no leisure 
to cover himself with his buckler; and poor Rozinante made no 
more account of the spur than if his sides were made of brass. 
Sancho ran behind his ass, and by his means sheltered himself from 
the cloud and shower of stones that rained upon both. And Don 
Quixote could not cover himself so well, but that a number of 
stones struck him in the body with so great force as they overthrew 
him at last to the ground; and scarce was he fallen when the student 
leapt upon him and took the basin off his head, and gave him three 
or four blows with it on the shoulders, and after struck it so oft about 
the ground as he almost broke it in pieces. They took from him like- 
wise a cassock which he wore upon his armour, and thought also to 
take away his stockings, but that they were hindered by his greaves. 
From Sancho they took away his cassock, and left him in his hair; 
and, dividing all the spoils of the battle among themselves, they 
departed every one by the way he pleased, troubled with greater 
care how to escape from the Holy Brotherhood which they feared, 
than to load themselves with the iron chain, and go and present 
themselves before the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. The ass and 


Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, remained alone: the ass stood 
pensive, with his head hanging downwards, shaking now and then 
his ears, thinking that the storm of stones was not yet past, but that 
they still buzzed by his head; Rozinante lay overthrown by his 
master, who was likewise struck down by another blow of a stone; 
Sancho, in fear of the bullets of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don 
Quixote, most discontent to see himself so misused by those very 
same to whom he had done so much good. 


Of That Which Befel the Famous Don Quixote in Sierra 
MoRENA Which Was One of the Most Rare Adventures That 
IN This or Any Other so Authentic a History Is Recounted 

DON QUIXOTE, seeing himself in so ill plight, said to his 
squire, 'Sancho, I have heard say ofttimes, that to do good 
to men unthankful is to cast water into the sea. If I had 
believed what thou saidst to me, I might well have prevented all 
this grief; but now that is past, patience, and be wiser another time.' 
'You will take warning as much by this,' quoth Sancho, 'as I am a 
Turk. But since you say that if you had believed me you had 
avoided this grief, believe me now, and you shall eschew a greater; 
for you must wit that no knighthood nor chivalry is of any authority 
with the Holy Brotherhood; for it cares not two farthings for all 
the knights-errant in the world; and know that, methinks, I hear 
their arrows buzz about mine ears already.' 'Sancho, thou art a 
natural coward,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but, because thou mayst not 
say that I am obstinate, and that I never follow thine advice, I will 
take thy counsel this time, and convey myself from that fury which 
now thou fearest so much : but it shall be on a condition — that thou 
never tell, alive nor dying, to any mortal creature, that I retired or 
withdrew myself out of this danger for fear, but only to satisfy thy 
requests; for if thou sayst any other thing thou shalt belie me most 
falsely, and even from this very time till that, and from thence 
until now, I give thee the lie herein; and I say thou liest, and shalt 
lie, as ofttimes as thou sayst or dost think the contrary. And do not 
reply to me, for in only thinking that I withdraw myself out of any 
peril, but principally this, which seems to carry with it some shadow 
of fear; I am about to remain and expect here alone, not only for 
the Holy Brotherhood, which thou namest and fearest, but also for 
the brethren of the Twelve Tribes, for the seven Maccabees, for 
Castor and Pollux, and for all the other brothers and brotherhoods 



in the world.' 'Sir,' answered Sancho, 'to retire is not to fly, and to 
expect is wisdom, when the danger exceedeth all hope; and it is 
the part of a wise man to keep himself safe to-day for to-morrow, 
and not to adventure himself wholly in one day. And know that, 
although I be but a rude clown, yet do I, for all that, understand 
somewhat of that which men call good government; and therefore 
do not repent yourself for following mine advice, but mount on 
Rozinante if you be able, if not I will help you, and come after 
me; for my mind gives me that we shall now have more use of legs 
than hands.' 

Don Quixote leaped on his horse without replying a word, and 
Sancho guiding him on his ass, they both entered into that part of 
Sierra Morena that was near unto them. Sancho had a secret design 
to cross over it all, and issue at Viso or Almodovar del Campw, and 
in the meantime to hide themselves for some days among those 
craggy and intricate rocks, to the end they might not be found by 
the Holy Brotherhood, if it did make after them. And he was the 
more encouraged to do this, because he saw their provision, which 
he carried on his ass, had escaped safely out of the skirmish of the 
galley-slaves; a thing which he accounted to be a miracle, consider- 
ing the diligence that the slaves had used to search and carry away 
all things with them. They arrived that night into the very midst 
and bowels of the mountain, and there Sancho thought it fittest to 
spend that night, yea, and some other few days also, at least as long 
as their victuals endured; and with this resolution they took up 
their lodging among a number of cork-trees that grew between two 
rocks. But fatal chance, which, according to the opinion of those 
that have not the light of faith, guideth, directeth, and compoundeth 
all as it liketh, ordained that that famous cozener and thief, Gines 
de Passamonte, who was before delivered out of chains by Don 
Quixote's force and folly, persuaded through fear he conceived of 
the Holy Brotherhood (whom he had just cause to fear), resolved 
to hide himself likewise in that mountain; and his fortune and fears 
led him just to the place where it had first addressed Don Quixote 
and his squire, just at such time as he might perceive them, and 
they both at that instant fallen asleep. And as evil men are ever- 
more ungrateful, and that necessity forceth a man to attempt that 


which it urgeth, and likewise that the present redress prevents the 
expectation of a future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor gra- 
cious, resolved to steal away Sancho his ass, making no account of 
Rozinante, as a thing neither saleable nor pawnable. Sancho slept 
soundly, and so he stole his beast, and was before morning so far 
off from thence, as he feared not to be found. 

Aurora sallied forth at last to refresh the earth, and affright 
Sancho with a most sorrowful accident, for he presently missed his 
ass; and so, seeing himself deprived of him, he began the most sad 
and doleful lamentation of the world, in such sort as he awaked 
Don Quixote with his outcries, who heard that he said thus: 'O 
child of my bowels, born in mine own house, the sport of my 
children, the comfort of my wife, and the envy of my neighbours, 
the ease of my burdens, and finally, the sustainer of half of my 
person! for, with six-and-twenty marvedis that I gained daily by 
thee, I did defray half of mine expenses!' Don Quixote, who heard 
the plaint, and knew also the cause, did comfort Sancho with the 
best words he could devise, and desired him to have patience, prom- 
ising to give a letter of exchange, to the end that they of his house 
might deliver him three asses of five which he had left at home. 

Sancho comforted himself again with this promise, and dried up 
his tears, moderated his sighs, and gave his lord thanks for so great 
a favour; and as they entered in farther among those mountains we 
cannot recount the joy of our knight, to whom those places seemed 
most accommodate to achieve the adventures he searched for. They 
reduced to his memory the marvellous accidents that had befallen 
knights-errant in like solitudes and deserts, and he rode so over- 
whelmed and transported by these thoughts as he remembered 
nothing else: nor Sancho had any other care (after he was out of 
fear to be taken) but how to fill his belly with some of the relics 
which yet remained of the clerical spoils; and so he followed his 
lord, taking now and then out of a basket (which Rozinante car- 
ried for want of the ass) some meat, lining therewithal his paunch; 
and, whilst he went thus employed, he would not have given a mite 
to encounter any other adventure, how honourable soever. 

But whilst he was thus busied, he espied his master labouring to 
take up with the point of his javelin some bulk or other that lay 


on the ground, and went towards him to see whether he needed 
his help, just at the season that he lifted up a saddle-cushion and a 
portmanteau fast to it, which were half rotten, or rather wholly 
rotted, by the weather; yet they weighed so much that Sancho's 
assistance was requisite to take them up: and straight his lord com- 
manded him to see what was in the wallet. Sancho obeyed with 
expedition, and although it was shut with a chain and hanging 
lock, yet by the parts which were torn he saw what was within, to 
wit, four fine holland shirts, and other linens both curious and 
clean, and moreover, a handkerchief, wherein was a good quantity 
of gold; which he perceiving, said, 'Blessed be Heaven, which hath 
once presented to us a beneficial adventure!' 

And, searching for more, he found a tablet very costly bound. 
This Don Quixote took of him, commanding him to keep the gold 
with himself; for which rich favour Sancho did presently kiss his 
hands; and, after taking all the linen, he clapped it up in the bag 
of their victuals. 

Don Quixote having noted all these things, said, 'Methinks, Sancho 
(and it cannot be possible any other), that some traveller having 
left his way, passed through this mountain, and being encountered 
by thieves, they slew him, and buried him in this secret place.' 'It 
cannot be so,' answered Sancho; 'for, if they were thieves, they 
would not have left this money behind them.' 'Thou sayst true,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'and therefore I cannot conjecture what it 
might be: but stay a while, we will see whether there be anything 
written in these tablets by which we may vent and find out that 
which I desire.' 

Then he opened it, and the first thing that he found written in it, 
as it were a first draft, but done with a very fair character, was a 
sonnet, which he read aloud, that Sancho might also hear it, and 
was this which ensues: 

'Or Love of understanding quite is void: 

Or he abounds in cruelty, or my pain 
The occasion equals not; for which I bide 

The torments dire he maketh me sustain. 
But if Love be a god, I dare maintain 

He nought ignores; and reason aye decides 


Gods should not cruel be: then who ordains 

This pain I worship, which my heart divides? 
Filis! I err, if thou I say it is; 

For so great ill and good cannot consist. 
Nor doth this wrack from Heaven befall, but yet 

That shortly I must die can no way miss. 
For the evil whose cause is hardly well exprest. 

By miracle alone true cure may get.' 

'Nothing can be learned by that verse,' quoth Sancho, 'if by that 
hilo, or thread, which is said there, you gather not where lies the 
rest of the clue.' 'What hilo is here?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Me- 
thought,' quoth Sancho, 'that you read hilo there.' 'I did not, but 
Fili,' said Don Quixote, 'which is, without doubt, the name of the 
lady on whom the author of this sonnet complains, who in good 
truth seems to be a reasonable good poet, or else I know but little 
of that art.' 

'Why, then,' quoth Sancho, 'belike you do also understand poetry?' 
'That I do, and more than thou thinkest,' quoth Don Quixote, 'as 
thou shalt see when thou shalt carry a letter from me to my Lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verse from the one end to the other; 
for I would thou shouldst know, Sancho, that all, or the greater 
number of knights-errant, in times past, were great versifiers and 
musicians; for these two qualities, or graces, as I may better term 
them, are annexed to amorous knights-adventurers. True it is that 
the verses of the ancient knights are not so adorned with words as 
they are rich in conceits.' 

'I pray you, read more,' quoth Sancho; 'for perhaps you may find 
somewhat that may satisfy.' Then Don Quixote turned the leaf, 
and said, 'This is prose, and seems to be a letter.' 'What, sir, a mis- 
sive letter?' quoth Sancho. 'No; but rather of love, according to 
the beginning,' quoth Don Quixote. 'I pray you, therefore,' quoth 
Sancho, 'read it loud enough; for I take great delight in these things 
of love.' 'I am content,' quoth Don Quixote: and, reading it loudly, 
as Sancho had requested, it said as ensueth: 

'Thy false promise, and my certain misfortune, do carry me to 
such a place, as from thence thou shalt sooner receive news of my 
death than reasons of my just complaints. Thou hast disdained me, 
O ingrate! for one that hath more, but not for one that is worth 


more than I am; but if virtue were a treasure of estimation, I would 
not emulate other men's fortunes, nor weep thus for mine own mis- 
fortunes. That which thy beauty erected, thy works have over- 
thrown; by it 1 deemed thee to be an angel, and by these I certainly 
know thee to be but a woman. Rest in peace, O causer of my war! 
and let Heaven work so that thy spouse's deceits remain still con- 
cealed, to the end thou mayst not repent what thou didst, and I be 
constrained to take revenge of that I desire not.' 

Having read the letter, Don Quixote said: 'We can collect less by 
this than by the verses what the author is, other than that he is some 
disdained lover.' And so, passing over all the book, he found other 
verses and letters, of which he could read some, others not at all; 
but the sum of them all were accusations, plaints, and mistrusts, 
pleasures, griefs, favours, and disdains, some solemnised, others 
deplored. And whilst Don Quixote passed over the book, Sancho 
passed over the malet, without leaving a corner of it or the cushion 
unsearched, or a seam unripped, nor a lock of wool uncarded, to 
the end that nothing might remain behind for want of diligence, 
or carelessness — the found gold, which passed a hundred crowns, 
had stirred in him such a greediness to have more. And though he 
got no more than that which he found at the first, yet did he account 
his flights in the coverlet, his vomiting of the drench, the benedic- 
tions of the pack-staves, the blows of the carrier, the loss of his 
wallet, the robbing of his cassock, and all the hunger, thirst, and 
weariness that he had passed in the service of his good lord and 
master, for well employed; accounting himself to be more than 
well paid by the gifts received of the money they found. The Knight 
of the Ill-favoured Face was the while possessed with a marvellous 
desire to know who was the owner of the malet, conjecturing, by 
the sonnet and letter, the gold and linen, that the enamoured was 
some man of worth, whom the disdain and rigour of his lady had 
conducted to some desperate terms. But by reason that nobody 
app)eared through that inhabitable and desert place by whom he 
might be informed, he thought on it no more, but only rode on, 
without choosing any other way than that which pleased Rozinante 
to travel (who took the plainest and easiest to pass through), having 


Still an imagination that there could not want some strange adven- 
ture amidst that forest. 

And as he rode on with this conceit, he saw a man on the top of 
a little mountain that stood just before his face, leap from rock to 
rock and tuff to tuff with wonderful dexterity; and, as he thought, 
he was naked; had a black and thick beard, the hairs many and 
confusedly mingled; his feet and legs bare; his thighs were covered 
with a pair of hose, which seemed to be of murrey velvet, but were 
so torn that they discovered his flesh in many places; his head was 
likewise bare: and although he passed by with the haste we have 
recounted, yet did the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face note all these 
particulars; and although he endeavoured, yet could not he follow 
him; for it was not in Rozinante's power, in that weak state wherein 
he was, to travel so swiftly among those rocks, chiefly being 
naturally very slow and phlegmatic. 

Don Quixote, after espying him, did instantly imagine him to be 
the owner of the cushion and malet, and therefore resolved to go 
in his search, although he should spend a whole year therein among 
those mountains; and commanded Sancho to go about the one side 
of the mountain, and he would go the other. 'And,' quoth he, 'it 
may befall that, by using this diligence, we may encounter with that 
man which vanished so suddenly out of our sight.' 

'I cannot do so,' quoth Sancho; 'for that, in parting one step from 
you, fear presently so assaults me with a thousand visions and 
aflrightments; and let this serve you hereafter for a warning, to 
the end you may not henceforth part me the black of a nail from 
your presence.' 'It shall be so,' answered the Knight of the Ill- 
favoured Face; 'and I am very glad that thou dost thus build upon 
my valour, the which shall never fail thee, although thou didst want 
thy very soul: and, therefore, follow me by little and little, or as 
thou mayst, and make of thine eyes two lanterns; for we will give 
a turn about this little rock, and perhaps we may meet with this man 
whom we saw even now, who doubtlessly can be none other than 
the owner of our booty.' 

To which Sancho replied: 'It were much better not to find him; 
for if we should meet him, and he were by chance the owner of 


this money, it is most evident that I must restore it to him; and 
therefore it is better, without using this unprofitable dihgence, to 
let me possess it bona fide, until the true lord shall appear, by some 
way less curious and diligent; which, perhaps, may fall at such a 
time as it shall be all spent; and in that case I am free from all 
processes by privilege of the king.' 

'Thou deceivest thyself, Sancho, therein,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for, 
seeing we are fallen already into suspicion of the owner, we are 
bound to search and restore it to him; and when we would not 
seek him out, yet the vehement presumption that we have of it hath 
made us possessors mala fide, and renders us as culpable as if he 
whom we surmise were verily the true lord. So that, friend Sancho, 
be not grieved to seek him, in resjject of the grief whereof thou 
shalt free me if he be found.' And, saying so, spurred Rozinante; 
and Sancho followed after afoot, animated by the hope of the young 
asses his master had promised unto him. And having compassed a 
part of the mountain, they found a little stream, wherein lay dead, 
and half devoured by dogs and crows, a mule saddled and bridled, 
all which confirmed more in them the suspicion that he which fled 
away was owner of the mule and cushion. And as they looked 
on it, they heard a whistle much like unto that which shepherds use 
as they keep their flocks; and presently appeared at their left hand a 
great number of goats, after whom the goatherd that kept them, 
who was an aged man, followed on the top of the mountain. And 
Don Quixote cried to him, requesting him to come down to them; 
who answered them again as loudly, demanding of them who had 
brought them to those deserts, rarely trodden by any other than 
goats, wolves, or other savage beasts which frequented those moun- 
tains. Sancho answered him, that if he would descend where they 
were, they would give him account thereof. 

With that the shepherd came down, and, arriving to the place 
where Don Quixote was, he said: 'I dare wager that you look on the 
hired mule which lies dead there in that bottom; well, in good faith, 
he hath lain in that very place these six months. Say, I pray you, 
have not you met in the way with the master thereof?' 'We have 
encountered nobody but a cushion and a litde malet, which we found 
not very far off from hence.' 'I did likewise find the same,' replied 


the goatherd, 'but I would never take it up nor approach to it, fear- 
ful of some misdemeanour, or that I should be hereafter demanded 
for it as for a stealth; for the devil is crafty, and now and then some- 
thing ariseth, even from under a man's feet, whereat he stumbles 
and falls, without knowing how or how not.' 

'That is the very same I say,' quoth Sancho; 'for I likewise found 
it, but would not approach it the cast of a stone. There I have left 
it, and there it remains as it was; for I would not have a dog with a 
bell.' 'Tell me, good fellow,' quoth Don Quixote, 'dost thou know 
who is the owner of all these things?' 

'That which I can say,' answered the goatherd, 'is that, about some 
six months past, little more or less, there arrived at a certain sheep- 
fold, some three leagues off, a young gentleman of comely personage 
and presence, mounted on that very mule which lies dead there, 
and with the same cushion and malet which you say you met but 
touched not. He demanded of us which was the most hidden and 
inaccessible part of the mountain. And we told him that this 
wherein we are now: and it is true; for if you did enter but half a 
league farther, perhaps you would not find the way out again so 
readily; and I do greatly marvel how you could find the way 
hither itself, for there is neither highway nor path that may address 
any to this place. I say, then, that the young man, as soon as he 
heard our answer, he turned the bridle, and travelled towards the 
place we showed to him, leaving us all with very great liking of 
his comehness, and marvelled at his demand and sf)eed, wherewith 
he departed and made towards the mountain; and after that time 
we did not see him a good many of days, until by chance one of our 
shepherds came by with our provision of victuals; to whom he drew 
near, without speaking a word, and spurned and beat him, well- 
favouredly, and after went to the ass which carried our victuals, and 
taking away all the bread and cheese that was there, he fled into the 
mountain with wonderful speed. 

'When we heard of this, some of us goatherds, we went to search 
for him, and spent therein almost two days in the most solitary places 
of this mountain, and in the end found him lurking in the hollow 
part of a very tall and great corktree; who, as soon as he perceived 
us, came forth to meet us with great staidness. His apparel was all 


torn; his visage disfigured, and toasted with the sun in such manner 
as we could scarce know him, if it were not that his attire, although 
rent, by the notice we had of it, did give us to understand that he 
was the man for whom we sought. He saluted us courteously, and 
in brief and very good reasons, he said, that we ought not to marvel 
seeing him go in that manner, for that it behoved to do so, that he 
might accomplish a certain penance enjoined to him, for the many 
sins he had committed. We prayed him to tell us what he was; but 
we could never persuade him to do it. We requested him likewise, 
that whensoever he had any need of meat (without which he could 
not live) he should tell us where we might find him, and we would 
bring it to him with great love and diligence; and that if he also 
did not like of this motion, that he would at leastwise come and 
ask it, and not take it violently, as he had done before, from our 
shepherds. He thanked us very much for our offer, and entreated 
pardon of the assaults passed, and promised to ask it from thence- 
forward for God's sake, without giving annoyance to any one. And, 
touching his dwelling or place of abode, he said that he had none 
other than that where the night overtook him, and ended his dis- 
course with so feeling laments, that we might well be accounted 
stones which heard him if therein we had not kept him company, 
considering the state wherein we had seen him first, and that 
wherein now he was; for, as I said, he was a very comely and gra- 
cious young man, and showed, by his courteous and orderly speech, 
that he was well born, and a court-like person; for, though we 
were all clowns such as did hear him, his gentility was such as 
could make itself known, even to rudeness itself. And being in the 
best of his discourse he stopped and grew silent, fixing his eyes on 
the ground a good while; wherein we likewise stood still suspended, 
expecting in what that distraction would end, with no little com- 
passion to behold it; for we easily perceived that some accident of 
madness had surprised him, by his staring and beholding the earth 
so fixedly, without once moving the eyelid, and other times by the 
shutting of them, the biting of his lips, and bending of his brows. 
But very speedily after, he made us certain thereof himself; for, rising 
from the ground (whereon he had thrown himself a little before) 
with great fury, he set upon him that sat next unto him, with 


such courage and rage, that if we had not taken him away he would 
have slain him with blows and bites; and he did all this, saying, 
"O treacherous Fernando! here, here thou shalt pay me the injury 
that thou didst me; these hands shall rend out the heart, in which 
do harbour and are heaped all evils together, but principally fraud 
and deceit." And to these he added other words, all addressed to 
the dispraise of that Fernando, and to attach him of treason and 

'We took from him at last, not without difficulty, our fellow; and 
he, without saying a word, departed from us, embushing himself 
presently among the bushes and brambles, leaving us wholly dis- 
abled to follow him in those rough and unhaunted places. By this 
we gathered that his madness comes to him at times, and that some 
one, called Fernando, had done some ill work of such weight, as 
the terms show, to which it hath brought him. All which hath after 
been yet confirmed as often (which were many times) as he came 
out to the fields, sometimes to demand meat of the shepherds, and 
other times to take it of them perforce; for when he is taken with 
this fit of madness, although the shepherds do offer him meat will- 
ingly, yet will not he receive, unless he take it with buffets; and 
when he is in his right sense, he asks it for God's sake, with courtesy 
and humanity, and renders many thanks, and that not without tears. 
And in very truth, sirs, I say unto you,' quoth the goatherd, 'that I 
and four others, whereof two are my men, other two my friends, 
resolved yesterday to search until we found him, and being found, 
either by force or fair means, we will carry him to the town of 
Almodovar, which is but eight leagues from hence, and there will 
we have him cured, if his disease may be holpen; or at least we shall 
learn wh.nt he is, when he turns to his wits, and whether he hath 
any friends to whom notice of his misfortune may be given. This is, 
sirs, all that I can say concerning that of which you demand of me; 
and you shall understand that the owner of those things which you 
saw in the way, is the very same whom you saw pass by you so 
naked and nimble'; — for Don Quixote had told him by this, that 
he had seen that man go by, leaping among the rocks. 

Don Quixote rested marvellously admired at the goatherd's tale; 
and, with greater desire to know who that unfortunate madman 


was, purposed with himself, as he had already resolved, to search 
him throughout the mountains, without leaving a corner or cave 
of it unsought until he had gotten him. But fortune disposed the 
matter better than he expected; for he appeared in that very instant 
in a cleft of a rock that answered to the place where they stood speak- 
ing; who came towards them, murmuring somewhat to himself, 
which could not be understood near at hand, and much less afar 
off. His apparel was such as we have delivered, only differing in 
this, as Don Quixote perceived when he drew nearer, that he wore 
on him, although torn, a leather jerkin, perfumed with amber; by 
which he thoroughly collected that the person which wore such 
attire was not of the least quality. 

When the young man came to the place where they discoursed, 
he saluted them with a hoarse voice, but with great courtesy; and 
Don Quixote returned him his greetings with no less compliment; 
and, alighting from Rozinante, he advanced to embrace him with 
very good carriage and countenance, and held him a good while 
straitly between his arms, as if he had known him of long time. 
The other, whom we may call the Unfortunate Knight of the Rock 
as well as Don Quixote the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, after 
he had permitted himself to be embraced a while, did step a litde 
off from our knight, and, laying his hands on his shoulders, began 
to behold him earnesdy, as one desirous to call to mind whether 
he had ever seen him before; being, perhaps, no less admired to 
see Don Quixote's figure, proportion, and arms, than Don Quixote 
was to view him. In resolution, the first that sfKjke after the em- 
bracing was the ragged knight, and said what we will presently 

Wherein Is Prosecuted the Adventure of Sierra Morena 

THE history affirms that great was the attention wherewithal 
Don Quixote hstened to the Unfortunate Knight of the 
Rock, who began his speech on this manner: 'Truly, good 
sir, whatsoever you be (for I know you not), I do with all my heart 
gratify the signs of affection and courtesy which you have used 
towards me, and wish heartily that I were in terms to serve with 
more than my will the good-will you bear towards me, as your 
courteous entertainment denotes; but my fate is so niggardly as 
it affords me no other means to repay good works done to me, than 
only to lend me a good desire sometime to satisfy them.' 

'So great is mine affection,' replied Don Quixote, 'to serve you, 
as I was fully resolved never to depart out of these mountains until 
I had found you, and known of yourself whether there might be 
any kind of remedy found for the grief that this your so unusual a 
kind of life argues doth possess your soul; and, if it were requisite, 
to search it out with all possible diligence; and when your disasters 
were known of those which clap their doors in the face of comfort, 
I intended in that case to bear a part in your lamentations, and plain 
it with the doleful note; for it is a consolation in affiiction to have 
one that condoles in them. And, if this my good intention may 
merit any acceptance, or be gratified by any courtesy, let me entreat 
you, sir, by the excess thereof which I see accumulated in your 
bosom, and joindy I conjure you by that thing which you have, 
or do presently most aflect, that you will please to disclose unto me 
who you are, and what the cause hath been that persuaded you 
to come to live and die in these deserts like a brute beast, seeing 
you live among such, so alienated from yourself, as both your attire 
and countenance demonstrate. And I do vow,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'by the high order of chivalry which I, although unworthy and a 
sinner, have received, and by the profession of knights-errant, that 



if you do pleasure me herein, to assist you with as good earnest as 
my profession doth bind me, either by remedying your disaster, 
if it can be holpen, or else by assisting you to lament it, if it be so 

The Knight of the Rock, who heard him of the Ill-favoured Face 
speak in that manner, did nothing else for a great while but behold 
him again and again, and re-behold him from top to toe. And, 
after viewing him well, he said: 'If you have anything to eat, I pray 
you give it me for God's sake, and after I have eaten I will satisfy 
your demand thoroughly, to gratify the many courtesies and un- 
deserved proffers you have made unto me.' Sancho, and the goat- 
herd present, the one out of his wallet, the other out of his scrip, took 
some meat, and gave it to the Knight of the Rock, to allay his 
hunger; and he did eat so fast, like a distracted man, as he left no 
intermission between bit and bit, but clapt them up so swifdy, 
as he rather seemed to swallow than to chew them; and whilst he 
did eat, neither he nor any of the rest spake a word; and having 
ended his dinner, he made them signs to follow him, as at last 
they did, unto a little meadow seated hard by that place, at the fold 
of a mountain, where being arrived, he stretched himself on the 
grass, which the rest did likewise in his imitation, without speaking 
a word until that he, after settling himself in his place, began in 
this manner: 'If, sirs, you please to hear the exceeding greatness 
of my disasters briefly rehearsed, you must promise me that you 
will not interrupt the file of my doleful narration with either de- 
mand or other thing; for in the very instant that you shall do it, 
there also must remain that which I say depending.' These words 
of our ragged knight's called to Don Quixote's remembrance the 
tale which his squire had told unto him, where he erred in the 
account of his goats which had passed the river, for which that history 
remained suspended. But returning to our ragged man, he said: 
'This prevention which now I give is to the end that I may com- 
pendiously pass over the discourse of my mishaps; for the revoking 
of them to remembrance only serves me to none other stead than 
to increase the old by adding of new misfortunes; and by how 
much the fewer your questions are, by so much the more sf)eedily 
shall I have finished my pitiful discourse; and yet I mean not to omit 


the essential point of my woes untouched, that your desires may be 
herein sufficiently satisfied.' Don Quixote, in his own and his other 
companion's name, promised to perform his request; whereupon 
he began his relation on this manner: 

'My name is Cardenio, the place of my birth one of the best 
cities in Andalusia, my lineage noble, my parents rich, and my mis- 
fortunes so great as I think my parents have ere this deplored and 
my kinsfolk condoled them, being very little able with their wealth 
to redress them; for the goods of fortune are but of small virtue 
to remedy the disasters of heaven. There dwelt in the same city 
a heaven, wherein love had placed all the glory that I could desire; 
so great is the beauty of Lucinda, a damsel as noble and rich as I, 
but more fortunate, and less constant than my honourable desires 
expected. I loved, honoured, and adored this Lucinda almost from 
my very infancy, and she affected me likewise, with all the in- 
tegrity and good-will which with her so young years did accord. 
Our parents knew our mutual amity, for which they were nothing 
aggrieved, perceiving very well, that although we continued it, yet 
could it have none other end but that of matrimony : a thing which 
the equality of our blood and substance did of itself almost invite 
us to. Our age and affection increased in such sort, as it seemed fit 
for Lucinda's father, for certain good respects, to deny me the 
entrance of his house any longer, imitating in a manner therein 
Thisbe, so much solemnised by the poets, her parents; which hin- 
drance served only to add flame to flame, and desire to desire; for, 
although it set silence to our tongues, yet would they not impose 
it to our f)ens, which are wont to express to whom it pleased, the 
most hidden secrecies of our souls, with more liberty than the 
tongue; for the presence of the beloved doth often distract, trouble, 
and strike dumb the boldest tongue and firmest resolution. O 
heavens! how many letters have I written unto her! What cheerful 
and honest answers have I received! How many ditties and amorous 
verses have I composed, wherein my soul declared and published 
her passions, declined her inflamed desires, entertained her re- 
membrance, and recreated her will! In effect, perceiving myself 
to be forced, and that my soul consumed with a perpetual desire 
to behold her, I resolved to put my desires in execution, and finish 


in an instant that which I deemed most expedient for the better 
achieving of my desired and deserved reward; which was (as I 
did indeed), to demand her of her father for my lawful spouse.' 

'To which he made answer, that he did gratify the good-will 
which I showed by honouring him, and desire to honour myself with 
pawns that were his; but, seeing my father yet lived, the motion of 
that matter properly most concerned him: for, if it were not done 
with his good liking and pleasure, Lucinda was not a woman to 
be taken or given by stealth. I rendered him thanks for his good- 
will, his words seeming unto me very reasonable, as that my father 
should agree unto them as soon as I should explain the matter; and 
therefore departed presently to acquaint him with my desires: 
who, at the time which I entered into a chamber wherein he was, 
stood with a letter open in his hand; and, espying me, ere I could 
break my mind unto him, gave it me, saying, "By that letter, 
Cardenio, you may gather the desire that Duke Ricardo bears to 
do you any pleasure or favour." 

'This Duke Ricardo, as I think you know, sirs, already, is a 
grandee of Spain, whose dukedom is seated in the best part of all 
Andalusia. I took the letter and read it, which app)eared so urgent, 
as I myself accounted it would be ill done if my father did not ac- 
complish the contents thereof, which were indeed, that he should 
presently address me to his court, to the end I might be companion 
(and not servant) to his eldest son; and that he would incharge 
himself with the advancing of me to such preferments as might 
be answerable unto the value and estimation he made of my per- 
son. I passed over the whole letter, and was strucken dumb at the 
reading thereof, but chiefly hearing my father to say, "Cardenio, 
thou must depart within two days, to accomplish the duke's desire, 
and omit not to render Almighty God thanks, which doth thus 
open the way by which thou mayst attain in fine to that which I 
know thou dost merit." And to these words added certain others 
of fatherly counsel and direction. The term of my departure ar- 
rived, and I spoke to my Lucinda on a certain night, and recounted 
unto her all that passed, and likewise to her father, entreating them 
to overslip a few days, and defer the bestowing of his daughter 
elsewhere, until 1 went to understand Duke Ricardo his will; which 


he promised me, and she confirmed it, with a thousand oaths and 

'Finally, I came to Duke Ricardo's court, and was so friendly re- 
ceived and entertained by him, as even then very envy began to 
exercise her accustomed function, being forthwith emulated by the 
ancient servitors, persuading themselves that the tokens the duke 
showed to do me favours could not but turn to their prejudice. 
But he that rejoiced most at mine arrival was a second son of the 
duke's, called Fernando, who was young, gallant, very comely, liberal, 
and amorous; who, within a while after my coming, held me so 
dearly as every one wondered thereat; and although the elder 
loved me well, and did me favour, yet was it in no respject com- 
parable to that wherewithal Don Fernando loved and treated me. 
It therefore befel that, as there is no secrecy amongst friends so 
great but they will communicate it the one to the other, and the 
familiarity which I had with Don Fernando was now past the 
limits of favour and turned into dearest amity, he revealed unto me 
all his thoughts, but chiefly one of his love, which did not a little 
molest him; for he was enamoured on a farmer's daughter, that 
was his father's vassal, whose parents were marvellous rich, and 
she herself so beautiful, wary, discreet, and honest, as never a one 
that knew her could absolutely determine wherein or in which of 
all her jjerfections she did most excel, or was most accomplished. 
And those good parts of the beautiful country maid reduced Don 
Fernando his desires to such an exigent, as he resolved, that he 
might the better gain her good-will and conquer her integrity, to 
pass her a promise of marriage; for otherwise he should labour 
to effect that which was impossible, and but strive against the 
stream. I, as one bound thereunto by our friendship, did thwart 
and dissuade him from his purpose with the best reasons and most 
efficacious words I might; and, seeing all could not prevail, I deter- 
mined to acquaint the Duke Ricardo his father wherewithal. But 
Don Fernando, being very crafty and discreet, suspected and feared 
as much, because he considered that, in the law of a faithful servant, 
I was bound not to conceal a thing that would turn so much to the 
prejudice of the duke, my lord; and therefore, both to divert and 
deceive me at once, [he said] that he could find no means so 


good to deface the remembrance of that beauty out of his mind, 
which held his heart in such subjection, than to absent himself for 
certain months; and he would likewise have that absence to be 
this, that both of us should depart together, and come to my 
father's house, under pretence (as he would inform the duke) that 
he went to see and cheapen certain great horses that were in the 
city wherein I was born, a place of breeding the best horses in 
the world. 

'Scarce had I heard him say this, when (borne away by the 
natural propension each one hath to his country, and my love 
joined) although his designment had not been so good, yet would 
I have ratified it, as one of the most expedient that could be 
imagined, because I saw occasion and opportunity so fairly offered, 
to return and see again my Lucinda; and therefore, set on by this 
thought and desire, I approved his opinion, and did quicken his 
purpose, persuading him to prosecute it with all possible speed; for 
absence would in the end work her effect in despite of the most 
forcible and urgent thoughts. And when he said this to me, he had 
already, under the title of a husband (as it was afterward known), 
reaped the fruits of his longing desires from his beautiful country 
maid, and did only await an opportunity to reveal it without 
his own detriment, fearful of the duke his father's indignation 
when he should understand his error. 

'It afterwards happened that, as love in young men is not for 
the most part love, but lust, the which (as [that which] it ever 
proposeth to itself as his last end and period is delight) so soon 
as it obtaineth the same, it likewise decayeth and maketh forcibly 
to retire that which was termed love; for it cannot transgress the 
limits which Nature hath assigned it, which boundings or measures 
Nature hath in no wise allotted to true and sincere affection, — I 
would say that, as soon as Don Fernando had enjoyed his country 
lass, his desires weakened, and his importunities waxed cold; and 
if at the first he feigned an excuse to absent himself, that he might 
with more facility compass them, he did now in very good earnest 
procure to depart, to the end he might not put them in execution. 
The duke gave him licence to depart, and commanded me to 
accompany him. We came to my city, where my father entertained 


him according to his calling. I saw Lucinda, and then again were 
revived (although, indeed, they were neither dead nor mortified) 
my desires, and 1 acquainted Don Fernando (alas! to my total ruin) 
with them, because I thought it was not lawful, by the law of 
amity, to keep anything concealed from him. There I dilated to 
him on the beauty, wit, and discretion of Lucinda, in so ample 
a manner as my praise stirred in him a desire to view a damsel 
so greatly adorned, and enriched with so rare endowments. And 
this his desire I (through my misfortune) satisfied, showing her 
unto him by the light of a candle, at a window where we two 
were wont to parley together; where he beheld her to be such as 
was sufficient to blot out of his memory all the beauties which ever 
he had viewed before. He stood mute, beside himself, and ravished; 
and, moreover, rested so greatly enamoured, as you may perceive 
in the discourse of this my doleful narration. And, to inflame 
his desires the more (a thing which I fearfully avoided, and only 
discovered to Heaven), fortune so disposed that he found after me 
one of her letters, wherein she requested that I would demand her 
of her father for wife, which was so discreet, honest, and amordUsly 
penned, as he said, after reading it, that in Lucinda alone were in- 
cluded all the graces of beauty and understanding jointly, which 
were divided and separate in all the other women of the world. 

'Yet, in good sooth, I will here confess the truth, that although 
I saw clearly how deservedly Lucinda was thus extolled by Don 
Fernando, yet did not her praises please me so much pronounced 
by him; and therefore began to fear and suspect him, because he 
let no moment overslip us without making some mention of Lu- 
cinda, and would still himself begin the discourse, were the 
occasion never so far-fetched: a thing which roused in me I cannot 
tell what jealousy; not that I did fear any traverse in Lucinda's 
loyalty, but yet, for all, my fates made me the very thing which 
they most assured me. And Don Fernando procured to read all the 
papers I sent to Lucinda, or she to me, under pretext that he took 
extraordinary delight to note the witty conceits of us both. It 
therefore fell out, that Lucinda, having demanded of me a book 
of chivalry to read, wherein she took marvellous delight, and was 
that of Amadis de Gaul' — 


Scarce had Don Quixote well heard him make mention of books 
of knighthood when he replied to him: 'If you had, good sir, but 
once told me at the beginning of your historical narration that 
your Lady Lucinda was affected to the reading of knightly adven- 
tures, you needed not to have used any amplification to endear or 
make plain unto me the eminency of her wit, which certainly could 
not in any wise be so excellent and perspicuous as you have figured 
it, if she wanted the propension and feeling you have rehearsed 
to the perusing of so pleasing discourses; so that henceforth, with 
me, you need not spend any more words to explain and manifest 
the height of her beauty, worth, and understanding; for by this 
only notice I have received of her devotion to books of knighthood, 
I do confirm her for the most fair and accompHshed woman for all 
perfection in the world; and I would to God, good sir, that you had 
also sent her, together with Amadis, the histories of the good Don 
Rugel of Grecia; for I am certain the Lady Lucinda would have 
taken great delight in Darayda and Garaya, and in the witty con- 
ceits of the shepherd Darinel, and in those admirable verses of his 
Bucolics, sung and rehearsed by him with such grace, discretion, 
and liberty. But a time may come wherein this fault may be re- 
compensed, if it shall please you to come with me to my village; 
for there I may give you three hundred books, which are my soul's 
greatest contentment, and the entertainment of my life, — although 
I do now verily believe that none of them are left, thanks be to the 
malice of evil and envious enchanters. And I beseech you to pardon 
me this transgression of our agreement at the first promised, not to 
interrupt your discourses; for when I hear any motion made of 
chivalry or knights-errant, it is no more in my pwwer to omit to 
sp)eak of them than in the sunbeams to leave off warming, or in 
the moon to render things humid. And therefore I entreat pardon, 
and that you will prosecute your history, as that which most 
imports us.' 

Whilst Don Quixote spoke those words, Cardenio hung his 
head on his breast, giving manifest tokens that he was exceeding 
sad. And although Don Quixote requested him twice to follow 
on with his discourse, yet neither did he lift up his head or answer 


a word, till at last, after he had stood a good while musing, he 
held up his head and said: 'It cannot be taken out of my mind, 
nor is there any one in the world can deprive me of the conceit, or 
make me believe the contrary, and he were a bottlehead that would 
think or believe otherwise, than that the great villain. Master 
Elisabat the barber, kept Queen Madasima as his leman.' 

'That is not so, I vow by such and such!' quoth Don Quixote, 
in great choler (and as he was wont, rapped out three or four round 
oaths); 'it is great malice, or rather villany, to say such a thing; for 
Queen Madasima was a very noble lady, and it ought not to be 
presumed that so high a princess would fall in love with a quack- 
salver; and whosoever thinks the contrary lies like an errant villain, 
as I will make him understand, a-horseback or afoot, armed or dis- 
armed, by night or by day, or as he best liketh.' Cardenio stood 
beholding him very earnestly as he spoke these words, whom the 
accident of his madness had by this possessed, and was not in 
plight to prosecute his history; nor would Don Quixote give ear 
to it, he was so mightily disgusted to hear Queen Madasima de- 

A marvellous accident! for he took her defence as earnestly as 
if she were verily his true and natural princess, his wicked books had 
so much distracted him. And Cardenio being by this furiously 
mad, hearing himself answered with the lie, and the denomination 
of a villain, with other the like outrages, he took the rest in ill part, 
and, lifting up a stone that was near unto him, gave Don Quixote 
such a blow therewithal as he overthrew him to the ground on his 
back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master so roughly handled, set 
upon the fool with his fist shut; and the ragged man received his 
assault in such manner, as he likewise overthrew him at his feet 
with one fist, and, mounting afterward upon him, did work him 
with his feet like a piece of dough; and the goatherd, who thought 
to succour him, was like to incur the same danger. And after he 
had overthrown and beaten them all very well, he departed from 
them, and entered into the wood very quietly. Sancho arose; and 
with rage to see himself so belaboured without desert, he ran upon 
the goatherd to be revenged on him, saying that he was in the 


fault, who had not premonished them how that man's raving fits 
did take him so at times; for, had they been advertised thereof, 
they might have stood all the while on their guard. 

The goatherd answered that he had already advised them thereof, 
and if he had not been attentive thereunto, yet he was therefore 
nothing the more culpable. 

Sancho Panza replied, and the goatherd made a rejoinder there- 
unto; but their disputation ended at last in the catching hold of 
one another's beards, and befisting themselves so uncompassion- 
ately, as if Don Quixote had not pacified them, they would have 
torn one another to pieces. Sancho, holding still the goatherd fast, 
said unto his lord, 'Let me alone, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured 
Face; for on this man, who is a clown as I am myself, and no 
dubbed knight, I may safely satisfy myself of the wrong he hath 
done me, by fighting with him hand to hand, like an honourable 
man.' 'It is true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but I know well that he is in 
no wise culpable of that which hath happened.' And, saying so, 
app)eased them, and turned again to demand of the goatherd whether 
it were possible to meet again with Cardenio; for he remained 
possessed with an exceeding desire to know the end of his history. 

The goatherd turned again to repeat what he had said at the first, 
to wit, that he knew not any certain place of his abode; but if he 
haunted that commark any while, he would some time meet with 
him, either in his mad or modest humour. 


Which Treats of the Strange Adventures That Happened to the 
Knight of the Mancha in Sierra Morena; and of the Pen- 
ance He Did There, in Imitation of Beltenebros 

DON QUIXOTE took leave of the goatherd, and, mounting 
once again on Rozinante, he commanded Sancho to follow 
him, who obeyed but with a very ill will: and thus they 
travelled by little and little, entering into the thickest and roughest 
part of all the mountain; and Sancho went almost burst with a 
desire to reason with his master, and therefore wished in mind that 
he would once begin, that he might not transgress his command- 
ment of silence imposed on him, but growing at last wholly im- 
potent to contain himself speechless any longer: 'Good sir Don 
Quixote, I pray you give me your blessing and licence; for I mean 
to depart from this place, and return to my house, my wife and 
children, with whom I shall be, at least, admitted to reason and 
speak my pleasure; for that you would desire to have me keep you 
company through these deserts night and day, and that I may not 
speak when I please, is but to bury me alive. Yet, if fortune had 
so happily disposed our affairs as that beasts could speak, as they 
did in Guisop)ete's time, the harm had been less; for then would I 
discourse a while with Rozinante (seeing my niggardly fortune 
hath not consented I might do it with mine ass) what I thought 
good, and in this sort would I waive my mishaps; for it is a stubborn 
thing, and that cannot be borne with patience, to travel all the days 
of our life, and not to encounter any other thing than tramplings 
under feet, tossings in coverlets, blows of stones and buffets, and be 
besides all this forced to sew up our mouths, a man daring not to 
break his mind, but to stand mute like a post.' 'Sancho, I under- 
stand thee now,' quoth Don Quixote; 'thou diest with longing to 
speak that which I have forbidden thee to speak; account, there- 
fore, that commandment revoked, and say what thou pleasest, on 



condition that this revocation be only available and of force whilst we 
dwell in these mountains, and no longer.' 

'So be it,' quoth Sancho; 'let me speak now, for what may after 
befall, God only knows.' And then, beginning to take the benefit 
of his licence, he said, 'I pray you, tell me what benefit could you 
reap by taking Queen Madasima's part? or what was it to the 
purpose that that abbot was her friend or no? For, if you had let 
it slip, seeing you were not his judge, I verily believe that the fool 
had prosecuted his tale, and we should have escaped the blow of 
the stone, the trampling under feet, and spurnings; yea, and more 
than five or six good buffets.' 'In faith, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'if thou knewest as well as I did how honourable and principal a 
lady was Queen Madasima, thou wouldst rather say that I had 
great patience, seeing I did not strike him on the mouth out of 
which such blasphemies issued; for it is a very great dishonour to 
aver or think that any queen would fall in love with a barber. 
For the truth of the history is, that Master Elisabat, of whom the 
madman spoke, was very prudent, and a man of a sound judgment, 
and served the queen as her tutor and physician; but to think that 
she was his leman is a madness worthy the severest punishment; 
and to the end thou mayst see that Cardenio knew not what he 
said, thou must understand that when he spoke it he then was 
wholly beside himself.' 

"That's it which I say,' quoth Sancho, 'that you ought not to 
make account of words spoken by a fool; for if fortune had not 
assisted you, but addressed the stone to your head, as it did to your 
breast, we should have remained in good plight, for having turned 
so earnestly in that my lady's defence, whom God confound. And 
think you that Cardenio would not escape the dangers of the law, 
by reason of his madness?' 'Any knight-errant,' answered Don 
Quixote, 'is bound to turn for the honour of women, of what quality 
soever, against mad or unmad men; how much more for queens 
of so high degree and worth as was Queen Madasima, to whom I 
bear particular affections for her good parts? For, besides her 
being marvellous beautiful, she was, moreover, very prudent and 
patient in her calamities, which were very many; and the company 
and counsels of Master Elisabat proved very beneficial and neces- 


sary, to induce her to bear her mishaps with prudence and patieiKe: 
and hence the ignorant and ill-meaning vulgar took occasion to 
suspect and affirm that she was his friend. But I say again they 
Ue, and all those that do either think or say it, do he a thousand 

'Why,' quoth Sancho, 'I neither say it nor think it. Let those 
affirm any such thing, eat that lie and swallow it with their bread; 
and if they of whom you speak lived lightly, they have given account 
to God thereof by this. I come from my vineyard; I know nothing. 
I am not afraid to know other men's lives; for he that buys and 
lies shall feel it in his purse. How much more, seeing I was born 
naked, and am now naked, I can neither win nor lose! A man is 
but a man, though he have a hose on his head; but howsoever, 
what is that to me? And many think there is a sheep where there 
is no fleece. But who shall bridle a man's understanding, when 
men are profane?' 'Good God!' quoth Don Quixote, 'how many 
follies hast thou inserted here! and how wide from our purpose 
are those proverbs which thou hast recited! Honest Sancho, hold 
thy peace; and from henceforth endeavour to serve thy master, and 
do not meddle with things which concern thee nothing; and under- 
stand, with all thy five senses, that whatsoever I have done, do, or 
shall do, is wholly guided by reason, and conformable to the rules 
of knighthood, which I know better than all the other knights that 
ever professed them in the world.' 'Sir,' quoth Sancho, 'and is it a 
good rule of chivalry that we go wandering and lost among these 
mountains in this sort, without path or way, in the search of a mad- 
man, to whom peradventure, after he is found, will return a desire 
to finish what he began, not of his tale, but of your head and my 
ribs, by endeavouring to break them soundly and thoroughly?' 

'Peace, I say, Sancho, once again,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for thou 
must wit that the desire of finding the madman alone brings me 
not into these parts so much, as that which I have in my mind to 
achieve a certain adventure, by which I shall acquire eternal renown 
and fame throughout the universal face of the earth; and I shall 
therewithal seal all that which may render a knight-errant complete 
and famous.' 'And is the adventure very dangerous?' quoth San- 
cho Panza. 'No,' answered the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, 


'although the die might run in such sort as we might cast a hazard 
instead of an encounter; but all consists in thy diligence.' *In mine?' 
quoth Sancho. 'Yes,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for if thou returnest 
speedily from the place whereunto I mean to send thee, my pain 
will also end shortly, and my glory commence very soon after. 
And because I will not hold thee long suspended, awaiting to 
hear the effect of my words, I would have thee to know that the 
famous Amadis de Gaul was one of the most accomplished knights- 
errant, — I do not say well saying he was one; for he was the only, the 
first, and prime lord of as many as lived in his age. An evil year 
and a worse month for Don Belianis, or any other that shall dare 
presume to compare with him, for I swear that they all are, ques- 
tionless, deceived. I also say, that when a painter would become 
rare and excellent in his art, he procures to imitate the patterns 
of the most singular masters of his science; and this very rule 
runs current throughout all other trades and exercises of account 
which serve to adorn a well-disposed commonwealth; and so ought 
and doth he that means to obtain the name of a prudent and patient 
man, by imitating Ulysses, in whose person and dangers doth Homer 
delineate unto us the true portraiture of patience and sufferance; 
as likewise Virgil demonstrates, under the person of Aeneas, the 
duty and valour of a pious son, and the sagacity of a hardy and 
expert captain, not showing them such as indeed they were, but 
as they should be, to remain as an example of virtue to ensuing 
posterities. And in this very manner was Amadis the north star 
and the sun of valorous and amorous knights, whom all we ought 
to imitate which march under the ensigns of love and chivalry. And 
this being so manifest as it is, I find, friend Sancho, that the knight- 
errant who shall imitate him most shall likewise be nearest to attain 
the perfection of arms. And that wherein this knight bewrayed 
most his prudence, valour, courage, patience, constancy, and love, 
was when he retired himself to do penance, being disdained by his 
lady Oriana, to the Poor Rock, changing his name unto that of 
Beltenebros: a name certainly most significative and proper for the 
life which he had at that time willingly chosen. And I may more 
easily imitate him herein than in cleaving of giants, beheading of 
serpents, killing of monsters, overthrowing of armies, putting navies 

DON Quixote's resolve 213 

to flight, and finishing of enchantments. And seeing that this moun- 
tain is so fit for that purpose, there is no reason why I should over- 
slip the occasion, which doth so commodiously proffer me her locks.' 

'In effect,' quoth Sancho, 'what is it you mean to do in these 
remote places?' 'Have not I told thee already,' said Don Quixote, 
'that I mean to follow Amadis, by playing here the despaired, wood, 
and furious man? To imitate likewise the valiant Orlando, where 
he found the tokens by a fountain that Angelica the fair had abused 
herself with Medozo; for grief whereof he ran mad, and plucked 
up trees by their roots, troubled the waters of clear fountains, slew 
shepherds, destroyed their flocks, fired the sheepfolds, overthrew 
houses, trailed mares after him, and committed a hundred thousand 
other insolences, worthy of eternal fame and memory. And although 
I mean not to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rowland (for he had 
all these names), exactly in every mad prank that he played, yet 
will I do it the best I can in those things which shall seem unto 
me most essential. And perhaps I may rest contented with the 
only imitation of Amadis, who, without endamaging, and by his 
ravings, and only using these of feeling laments, [arrived] to as 
great fame thereby as anyone whatsoever.' 

'I believe,' replied Sancho, 'that the knights which performed 
the like penances were moved by some reasons to do the like auster- 
ities and follies; but, good sir, what occasion hath been offered 
unto you to become mad? What lady hath disdained you? Or 
what arguments have you found that the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso 
hath ever dallied with Moor or Christian?' 'There is the point,' 
answered our knight, 'and therein consists the perfection of mine 
affairs; for that a knight-errant do run mad upon any just occa- 
sion deserves neither praise nor thanks; the wit is in waxing mad 
without cause, whereby my mistress may understand, that if dry 
I could do this, what would I have done being watered? How 
much more, seeing I have a just motive, through the prolix absence 
that I have made from my ever supremest Lady Dulcinea of 
Toboso? For, as thou mightest have heard read in Marias Am- 
brosio his Shepherd, — 

"To him that absent is. 
All things succeed amiss." 


So that, friend Sancho, I would not have thee lavish time longer in 
advising to let slip so rare, so happy, and singular an imitation. I 
am mad, and will be mad, until thou return again with answer 
upon a letter, which I mean to send with thee to my Lady Dulcinea; 
and if it be such as my loyalty deserves, my madness and f)enance 
shall end; but if the contrary, I shall run mad in good earnest, and 
be in that state that I shall apprehend nor feel anything. So that, 
howsoever I be answered, 1 shall issue out of the conflict and pain 
wherein thou leavest me, by joying the good thou shalt bring me, as 
wise; or not feeling the evil thou shalt denounce, as mad. But tell 
me, Sancho, keepest thou charily yet the helmet of Mambrino, which 
I saw thee take up from the ground the other day, when that un- 
grateful fellow thought to have broken it into pieces, but could 
not, by which may be collected the excellent temper thereof?' 

Sancho answered to this demand, saying, 'I cannot suffer or bear 
longer, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, nor take patiently many 
things which you say; and I begin to suspect, by your words, that 
all that which you have said to me of chivalry, and of gaining 
kingdoms and empires, of bestowing islands and other gifts and 
great things, as knights-errant are wont, are all matters of air and 
hes, all cozenage or cozening, or how else you please to term it; 
for he that shall hear you name a barber's basin Mambrino's helmet, 
and that you will not abandon that error in more than four days, 
what other can he think but that he who affirms such a thing doth 
want wit and discretion? I carry the basin in my bag, all battered 
and bored, and will have it mended, and dress my beard in it at 
home, if God shall do me the favour that I may one day see my wife 
and bairns.' 

'Behold, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I do likewise swear that 
thou hast the shallowest pate that ever any squire had or hath in the 
world. Is it possible that, in all the time thou hast gone with me, 
thou couldst not perceive that all the adventures of knights-errant 
do appear chimeras, follies, and desperate things, being quite con- 
trary? Not that they are indeed such; but rather, by reason that 
we are still haunted by a crew of enchanters, which change and 
transform our acts, making them seem what they please, according 
as they like to favour or annoy us; and so this, which seems to thee 


a barber's basin, is in my conceit Mambrino his helmet, and to 
another will appear in some other shape. And it is doubtlessly done 
by the profound science of the wise man my friend, to make that 
seem a basin which, really and truly, is Mambrino's helmet; because 
that, in being so precious a jewel, all the world would pursue me to 
deprive me of it; but now, seeing that it is so like a barber's basin, 
they endeavour not to gain it, as was clearly showed in him that 
thought to break it the other day, and would not carry it with him, 
but left it lying behind him on the ground; for, in faith, he had 
never left it did he know the worthiness thereof. Keep it, friend; 
for I need it not at this present, wherein I must rather disarm myself 
of the arms I wear, and remain as naked as I was at the hour of 
my birth, if I shall take the humour rather to imitate Orlando in 
doing of my penance than Amadis.' 

Whilst thus he discoursed, he arrived to the foot of a lofty moun- 
tain, which stood like a hewn rock divided from all the rest, by the 
skirt whereof glided a smooth river, hemmed in on every side by a 
green and flourishing meadow, whose verdure did marvellously 
delight the greedy beholding eye; there were in it also many wild 
trees, and some plants and flowers, which rendered the place much 
more pleasing. The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face made choice 
of this place to accomplish therein his penance; and therefore, as 
soon as he had viewed it, he began to say, with a loud voice, like 
a distracted man, these words ensuing: 'This is the place where the 
humour of mine eyes shall increase the liquid veins of this crystal 
current, and my continual and deep sighs shall give perpetual 
motion to the leaves of these mountainy trees, in testimony of the 
pain which my oppressed heart doth suffer. O you, whosoever you 
be, rustical gods! which have your mansion in this inhabitable place, 
give ear to the plaints of this unfortunate lover, whom a long 
absence and a few imagined suspicions have conducted to deplore 
his state among these deserts, and make him exclaim on the rough 
condition of that ingrate and fair, who is the top, the sun, the period, 
term, and end of all human beauty. O ye Napeas and Dryads! 
which do wontedly inhabit the thickets and groves, so may the 
nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom (although in vain) you are 
beloved, never have power to interrupt your sweet rest, as you shall 


assist me to lament my disasters, or at least attend them, whilst I 
dolefully breathe them. O Dulcinea of Toboso! the day of my 
night, the glory of my pain, north of my travels, and star of my 
fortunes; so Heaven enrich thee with the highest, whensoever thou 
shalt demand it, as thou wilt consider the place and pass unto which 
thine absence hath conducted me, and answer my faith and desires 
in compassionate and gracious manner. O solitary trees (which shall 
from henceforward keep company with my solitude), give tokens, 
with the soft motion of your boughs, that my presence doth not 
dislike you. O thou my squire, and grateful companion in all pros- 
perous and adverse successes! bear well away what thou shalt see 
me do here, to the end that thou mayst after promptly recount it as 
the total cause of my ruin.' And, saying so, he alighted from Rozin- 
ante, and, taking off in a trice his bridle and saddle, he struck him 
on the buttock, saying, 'He gives thee liberty that wants it him- 
self, O horse! as famous for thy works as thou art unfortunate by 
thy fates. Go where thou pleasest; for thou bearest written in thy 
forehead, how that neither the Hippogriff of Astolpho, nor the 
renowned Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dearly, could compare 
with thee for swiftness.' 

When Sancho had viewed and heard his lord speak thus, he 
likewise said, 'Good betide him that freed us from the pains of 
unpannelling the grey ass; for if he were here, in faith, he should 
also have two or three claps on the buttocks, and a short oration 
in his praise. Yet if he were here, I would not permit any other to 
unpannel him, seeing there was no occasion why; for he, good 
beast, was nothing subject to the passions of love or despair, no 
more than I, who was his master when it pleased God. And, in 
good sooth, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, if my departure 
and your madness be in good earnest, it will be needful to saddle 
Rozinante again, that he may supply the want of mine ass; for it will 
shorten the time of my departure and return again. And if I make 
my voyage afoot, I know not when I shall arrive there, or return here 
back unto you; for, in good earnest, I am a very ill footman.' 

'Let it be as thou likest,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for thy design dis- 
pleaseth me nothing; and therefore I resolve that thou shalt depart 
from hence after three days; for in the mean space thou shalt behold 


what I will do and say for my lady's sake, to the end thou mayst 
tell it to her.' 'Why,' quoth Sancho, 'what more can I view than 
that which I have seen already?' 'Thou art altogether wide of the 
matter,' answered Don Quixote; 'for I must yet tear mine apparel, 
throw away mine armour, and beat my head about these rocks, with 
many other things of that kind that will strike thee into admira- 
tion.' 'Let me beseech you,' quoth Sancho, 'see well how you give 
yourself those knocks about the rocks; for you might happen upon 
some one so ungracious a rock, as at the first rap would dissolve all 
the whole machina of your adventures and p)enance; and, therefore, 
I would be of opinion, seeing that you do hold it necessary that 
some knocks be given with the head, and that this enterprise cannot 
be accomplished without them, that you content yourself, seeing 
that all is but feigned, counterfeited, and a jest, — that you should, 
I say, content yourself with striking it on the water, or on some 
other soft thing, as cotton or wool, and leave to my charge the ex- 
aggeration thereof; for I will tell to my lady that you strike your 
head against the point of a rock which was harder than a diamond.' 
'I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will,' quoth Don Quixote; 
'but I can assure thee that all these things which I do are no jests, 
but very serious earnests; for otherwise we should transgress the 
statutes of chivalry, which command us not to avouch any untruth, 
on pain of relapse; and to do one thing for another is as much as to 
lie. So that my head-knocks must be true, firm, and sound ones, 
without any sophistical or fantastical shadow: and it will be requisite 
that you leave me some lint to cure me, seeing that fortune hath 
deprived us of the balsam which we lost.' 'It was worse to have lost 
the ass,' quoth Sancho, 'seeing that at once, with him, we have lost 
our lint and all our other provision; and I entreat you most earnestly 
not to name again that accursed drink; for in only hearing it men- 
tioned, you not only turn my guts in me, but also my soul. And 
I request you, moreover, to make account that the term of three 
days is already expired, wherein you would have me take notice 
of your follies; for I declare them already for seen, and will tell 
wonders to my lady: wherefore, go write your letter, and despatch 
me with all haste; for I long already to return, and take you out of 
this purgatory wherein I leave you.' 


'Dost thou call it a purgatory, Sancho?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Thou 
hadst done better hadst thou called it hell; or rather worse, if there 
be anything worse than that.' 'I call it so,' quoth Sancho; ' "Quia in 
inferno nulla est retentio," as I have heard say.' 

'I understand not,' said Don Quixote, 'what retentio meaneth.' 
'Retentio,' quoth Sancho, 'is that, whosoever is in hell, never comes, 
nor can come, out of it. Which shall fall out contrary in your per- 
son, or my feet shall go ill, if I may carry spurs to quicken Rozinante, 
and that I may safely arrive before my Lady Dulcinea in Tobcso; 
for I will recount unto her such strange things of your follies and 
madness (for they be all one) that you have, and do daily, as I 
will make her as soft as a glove, although I found her at the first 
harder than a cork-tree; with whose sweet and honey answer I will 
return in the air as speedily as a witch, and take you out of this 
purgatory, which is no hell, although it seems one, seeing there is 
hope to escape from it; which, as I have said, they want which are 
in hell; and I believe you will not contradict me herein.' 

'Thou hast reason,' answered the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face; 
'but how shall I write the letter?' 'And the warrant for the receipt 
of the colts also?' added Sancho. 'All shall be inserted together,' 
quoth Don Quixote; 'and seeing we have no paper, we may do 
well, imitating the ancient men of times past, to write our mind 
in the leaves of trees or wax; yet wax is as hard to be found here as 
paper. But, now that I remember myself, I know where we may 
write our mind well, and more than well, to wit, in Cardenio's 
tablets, and thou shalt have care to cause the letters to be written 
out again fairly, in the first village wherein thou shalt find a school- 
master; or, if such a one be wanting, by the clerk of the church; and 
beware in any sort that thou give it not to a notary or court-clerk 
to be copied, for they write such an entangling, confounded process 
letter, as Satan himself would scarce be able to read it.' 'And how 
shall we do for want of your name and subscription?' quoth Sancho. 
'Why,' answered Don Quixote, 'Amadis was never wont to sub- 
scribe to his letters.' 'Ay, but the warrant to receive the three asses 
must forcibly be subsigned; and if it should afterward be copied, 
they would say the former is false, and so I shall rest without my 
colts.' 'The warrant shall be written and firmed with my hand in 


the tablets, which, as soon as my niece shall see, she shall make no 
difficulty to deliver thee them. And as concerning the love-letter, 
thou shalt put this subscription to it, "Yours until death, the Knight 
of the Ill-favoured Face." And it makes no matter though it be 
written by any stranger; forasmuch as I can remember Dulcinea 
can neither write nor read, nor hath she seen any letter, no, not 
so much as a character of my writing all the days of her life; for 
my love and hers have been ever Platonical, never extending them- 
selves further than to an honest regard and view the one of the 
other, and even this same so rarely, as I dare boldly swear, that in 
these dozen years which I love her more dearly than the light of 
these mine eyes, which the earth shall one day devour, I have not 
seen her four times, and perhaps of those same four times she hath 
scarce perceived once that I beheld her — such is the care and close- 
ness wherewithal her parents, Lorenzo Corcuelo and her mother 
Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up.' 'Ta, ta,' quoth Sancho, 'that 
the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is Lorenzo Corcuelo his daughter, 
called by another name Aldonza Lorenzo?' 'The same is she,' 
quoth Don Quixote, 'and it is she that merits to be empress of the 
vast universe.' 'I know her very well,' replied Sancho, 'and I dare 
say that she can throw an iron bar as well as any the strongest lad in 
our parish. I vow, by the giver, that 'tis a wench of the mark, tall 
and stout, and so sturdy withal, that she will bring her chin out of 
the mire, in despite of any knight-errant, or that shall err, that shall 
honour her as his lady. Out upon her! what a strength and voice 
she hath! I saw her on a day stand on the top of the church-steeple, 
to call certain servants of her father's, that laboured in a fallow field; 
and although they were half a league from thence, they heard her 
as well as if they were at the foot of the steeple. And the best that 
is in her is that she is nothing coy; for she hath a very great smack 
of courtship, and plays with every one, and gibes and jests at them 
all. And now I affirm, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, that not 
only you may and ought to commit raving follies for her sake, but 
eke you may, with just title, also despair and hang yourself; for none 
shall hear thereof but will say you did very well, although the devil 
carried you away. And fain would I be gone, if it were for nothing 
else but to see her; for it is many a day since I saw her, and I am 


sure she is changed by this; for women's beauty is much impaired 
by going always to the field, exposed to the sun and weather. And 
I will now, sir Don Quixote, confess a truth unto you, that I have 
lived until now in a marvellous error, thinking well and faithfully 
that the Lady Dulcinea was some great princess, on whom you were 
enamoured, or such a person as merited those rich presents which 
you bestowed on her, as well of the Biscaine as of the slaves, and 
many others, that ought to be, as I suppose, corresfxindent to the 
many victories which you have gained, both now and in the time 
that I was not your squire. But, pondering well the matter, I can- 
not conceive why the Lady Aldonza Lorenzo — I mean the Lady 
Dulcinea of Toboso, of these should care whether these vanquished 
men which you send, or shall send, do go and kneel before her; for 
it may befall that she, at the very time of their arrival, be combing 
of flax or threshing in the barn, whereat they would be ashamed, 
and she likewise laugh, and be somewhat displeased at the present.' 
'I have oft told thee, Sancho, many times, that thou art too great 
a prattler,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and although thou hast but a gross 
wit, yet now and then thy frumps nip; but, to the end thou mayst 
perceive the faultiness of thy brain, and my discretion, I will tell thee 
a short history, which is this: There was once a widow, fair, young, 
free, rich, and withal very pleasant and jocund, that fell in love with 
a certain round and well-set servant of a college. His regent came to 
understand it, and therefore said on a day to the widow, by the 
way of fraternal correction, "Mistress, I do greatly marvel, and not 
without occasion, that a woman so principal, so beautiful, so rich, 
and specially so witty, could make so ill a choice, as to wax en- 
amoured on so foul, so base, and foolish a man as such a one, we 
having in this house so many masters of art, graduates, and divines, 
amongst whom you might have made choice as among pears, say- 
ing, I will take this, and I will not have that." But she answered him 
thus, with a very pleasant and good grace: "You are, sir, greatly de- 
ceived, if you deem that I have made an ill choice in such a one, let 
him seem never so great a fool; for, to the purpose that I mean to 
use him, he knows as much or rather more philosophy than Aris- 
totle." And so, Sancho, is likewise Dulcinea of Toboso as much 
worth as the highest princess of the world, for the effect I mean to 


use her. For all the poets which celebrate certain ladies at pleasure, 
thinkest thou that they all had mistresses? No. Dost thou believe 
that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, Silvias, Dianas, Galateas, Alcidas, 
and others such like, wherewithal the books, ditties, barbers' shops, 
and theatres are filled, were truly ladies of flesh and bones, and 
their mistresses which have and do celebrate them thus? No, cer- 
tainly; but were for the greater part feigned, to serve as a subject of 
their verses, to the end the authors might be accounted amorous, 
and men of courage enough to be such. And thus it is also sufficient 
for me to believe and think that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair 
and honest. As for her parentage, it matters but litde; for none will 
send to take information thereof, to give her an habit; and I make 
account of her as of the greatest princess in the world. For thou 
oughtest to know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not already, that two 
things alone incite men to love more than all things else, and those 
be, surpassing beauty and a good name. And both these things are 
found in Dulcinea in her prime; for none can equal her in fairness, 
and few come near her for a good rejxjrt. And, for a final conclu- 
sion, I imagine that all that which I say is really so, without adding 
or taking aught away. And I do imagine her, in my fantasy, to be 
such as I could wish her as well in beauty as principality, and neither 
can Helen approach, nor Lucrece come near her; no, nor any of 
those other famous women, Greek, Barbarous, or Latin, of fore- 
going ages. And let every one say what he pleaseth; for though 
I should be reprehended for this by the ignorant, yet shall I not, 
therefore, be chastised by the more observant and rigorous sort 
of men.' 

'I avouch,' quoth Sancho, 'that you have great reason in all that 
you say, and that I am myself a very ass — but, alas! why do I name 
an ass with my mouth, seeing one should not mention a ro()e in one's 
house that was hanged? But give me the letter, and farewell; for I 
will change.' With that, Don Quixote drew out his tablets, and, 
going aside, began to indite his letter with great gravity; which 
ended, he called Sancho to read it to him, to the end he might bear 
it away in memory, lest by chance he did lose the tablets on the way; 
for such were his cross fortunes, as made him fear every event. To 
which Sancho answered, saying, 'Write it there twice or thrice in 


the book, and give me it after; for I will carry It safely, by God's 
grace. For to think that 1 will be able ever to take it by rote is a 
great folly; for my memory is so short as I do many times forget 
mine own name. But yet, for all that, read it to me, good sir; for 
I would be glad to hear it, as a thing which I suppose to be as 
excellent as if it were cast in a mould.' 'Hear it, then,' said Don 
Quixote; 'for thus it says: 


'Sovereign Lady, — The wounded by the point of absence, and the 
hurt by the darts of thy heart, sweetest Dulcinea of Tobosol doth 
send thee that health which he wanteth himself. If thy beauty dis- 
dain me, if thy valour turn not to my benefit, if thy disdains con- 
vert themselves to my harm, maugre all my patience, I shall be ill 
able to sustain this care; which, besides that it is violent, is also too 
durable. My good squire Sancho will give thee certain relation, O 
beautiful ingrate, and my dearest beloved enemy! of the state 
wherein I remain for thy sake. If thou please to favour me, I am 
thine; and if not, do what thou likest: for, by ending of my life, 
1 shall both satisfy thy cruelty and my desires. — Thine until death, 
'The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' 

'By my father's life,' quoth Sancho, when he heard the letter, 
'it is the highest thing that ever I heard. Good God! how well do 
you say everything in it! and how excellently have you applied the 
subscription of "The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face!" I say again, 
in good earnest, that you are the devil himself, and there's nothing 
but you know it.' 'All is necessary,' answered Don Quixote, 'for the 
office that I profess.' 'Put, then,' quote Sancho, 'in the other side of 
that leaf, the warrant of three colts, and firm it with a legible letter 
that they may know it at the first sight.' 'I am pleased,' said Don 
Quixote. And so, writing it, he read it after to Sancho; and it said 

'You shall please, good niece, for this first of colts, to deliver unto 
my squire Sancho Panza, three of the five that I left at home, and 
are in your charge; the which three colts I command to be de- 


livered to him, for as many others counted and received here; for 
with this, and his acquittance, they shall be justly delivered. Given 
in the bowels of Sierra Morena, the two-and-twentieth of August, 
of this present year .' 

'It goes very well,' quoth Sancho; 'subsign it, therefore, I pray 
you.' 'It needs no seal,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but only my rubric, 
which is as valuable as if it were subscribed not only for three 
asses, but also for three hundred.' 'My trust is in you,' answered 
Sancho; 'permit me, for I will go saddle Rozinante, and prepare 
yourself to give me your blessing; for I purpose presently to depart, 
before I see any mad prank of yours; for I will say that I saw you 
play so many, as no more can be desired.' 'I will have thee stay, 
Sancho (and that because it is requisite), at least to see me stark 
naked, playing a dozen or two of raving tricks; for I will despatch 
them in less than half an hour; because that thou, having viewed 
them with thine own eyes, mayst safely swear all the rest that thou 
pleasest to add; and I assure thee that thou canst not tell so many 
as I mean to perform.' 'Let me entreat you, good sir, that I may not 
see you naked; for it will turn my stomach, and I shall not be able 
to keep myself from weeping; and my head is yet so sore since 
yesternight, through my lamentations for the loss of the grey beast, 
as I am not strong enough yet to endure new plaints. But, if your 
pleasure be such as I must necessarily see some follies, do them, in 
Jove's name, in your clothes briefly, and such as are most neces- 
sary; chiefly, seeing none of these things are requisite for me. And, 
as I have said, we might excuse time (that shall now be lavished in 
these trifles) to return speedily with the news you desire and deserve 
so much. And if not, let the Lady Dulcinea provide herself well; 
for if she answer not according to reason, I make a solemn vow 
to him that I may, that I'll make her disgorge out of her stomach 
a good answer, with very kicks and fists; for how can it be suffered 
that so famous a knight-errant as yourself should thus run out of 

his wits, without, nor for what, for one Let not the gentlewoman 

constrain me to say the rest; for I will out with it, and venture all 
upon twelve, although it never were sold.' 


'In good faith, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I think thou art 
grown as mad as myself,' 'I am not so mad,' replied Sancho, 'but I 
am more choleric. But, setting that aside, say, what will you eat 
until my return ? Do you mean to do as Cardenio, and take by the 
highway's side perforce from the shepherds?' 'Care thou not for 
that,' replied Don Quixote; 'for although I had it, yet would I not 
eat any other thing than the herbs and fruits that this field and trees 
do yield; for the perfection of mine affair consists in fasting, and 
the exercise of other castigations.' To this Sancho replied: 'Do you 
know what I fear? that I shall not find the way to you again here 
where I leave you, it is so difficult and obscure.' 'Take well the 
marks, and I will endeavour to keep here about,' quoth Don 
Quixote, 'until thou come back again; and will, moreover, about 
the time of thy return, mount to the tops of these high rocks, to see 
whether thou appearest. But thou shouldst do best of all, to the end 
thou mayst not stay and miss me, to cut down here and there certain 
boughs, and strew them on the way as thou goest, until thou beest 
out in the plains, and those may after serve thee as bounds and 
marks, by which thou mayst again find me when thou returnest, 
in imitation of the clue of Theseus's labyrinth.' 

'I will do so,' quoth Sancho; and then, cutting down certain 
boughs, he demanded his lord's blessing, and departed, not without 
tears on both sides. And, mounting upon Rozinante, whom Don 
Quixote commended very seriously to his care, that he should tend 
him as he would his own person, he made on towards the plains, 
strewing here and there on the way his branches, as his master had 
advised him; and with that departed, although his lord importuned 
him to behold two or three follies ere he went away. But scarce had 
he gone a hundred paces, when he returned and said, 'I say, sir, 
that you said well that, to the end I might swear with a safe con- 
science that I have seen you play these mad tricks, it were necessary 
that at least I see you do one, although that of your abode here is 
one great enough.' 

'Did not I tell thee so?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Stay Sancho, for I 
will do it in the space of a creed.' And, taking of? with all haste 
his hose, he remained the half of him naked, and did instandy give 
two or three jerks in the air, and two tumbles over and over on the 


ground, with his head downward, and his legs aloft, where he 
discovered such things, as Sancho, because he would not see them 
again, turned the bridle and rode away, resting contented and 
satisfied that he might swear that his lord was mad. And so we 
will leave him travelling on his way, until his return, which was 
very soon after. 


Wherein Are Prosecuted the Pranks Played by Don Quixote in 
His Amorous Humours in the Mountains of Sierra Morena 

A ND, turning to recount what the knight of the ill-favoured 
/ \ face did when he was all alone, the history says that, after 
A. JL Don Quixote had ended his frisks and leaps, naked from 
the girdle downward, and from that upward apparelled, seeing that 
his squire Sancho was gone, and would behold no more of his 
mad pranks, he ascended to the top of a high rock, and began there 
to think on that whereon he had thought oftentimes before, without 
ever making a full resolution therein, to wit, whether were it better 
to imitate Orlando in his unmeasurable furies, than Amadis in his 
melancholy moods: and, speaking to himself, would say, 'If Orlando 
was so valorous and good a knight as men say, what wonder, seeing 
in fine he was enchanted, and could not be slain, if it were not by 
clapping a pin to the sole of his foot, and therefore did wear shoes 
still that had seven folds of iron in the soles? although these his 
draughts stood him in no stead at Roncesvalles against Bernardo del 
Carpio, which, understanding them, pressed him to death between 
his arms. But, leaving his valour apart, let us come to the losing 
of his wits, which it is certain he lost through the signs he found 
in the forest, and by the news that the shepherd gave unto him, 
that Angelica had slept more than two noontides with the little 
Moor, Medoro of the curled locks, him that was page to King 
Argamante. And if he understood this, and knew his lady had 
played beside the cushion, what wonder was it that he should run 
mad. But how can I imitate him in his furies, if I cannot imitate 
him in their occasion ? for I dare swear for my Dulcinea of Toboso, 
that all the days of her life she hath not seen one Moor, even in his 
own attire as he is, and she is now right as her mother bore her; and 
I should do her a manifest wrong, if, upon any false suspicion, I 
should turn mad of that kind of folly that did distract furious Or- 



lando. On the other side, I see that Amadis de Gaul, without losing 
his wits, or using any other raving trick, gained as great fame 
of being amorous as any one else whatsoever. For that which his 
history recites was none other than that, seeing himself disdained 
by his lady Oriana, who had commanded him to withdraw himself 
from her presence, and not appear again in it until she pleased, 
he retired himself, in the company of a certain hermit, to the Poor 
Rock, and there crammed himself with weeping, until that Heaven 
assisted him in the midst of his greatest cares and necessity. And 
this being true, as it is, why should I take now the pains to strip 
myself all naked, and offend these trees, which never yet did me any 
harm? Nor have I any reason to trouble the clear waters of these 
brooks, which must give me drink when I am thirsty. Let the re- 
membrance of Amadis live, and be imitated in everything as much 
as may be, by Don Quixote of the Mancha; of whom may be said 
what was said of the other, that though he achieved not great things, 
yet did he die in their pursuit. And though I am not contemned 
or disdained by my Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient, as I have said 
already, that I be absent from her; therefore, hands to your task; 
and, ye famous actions of Amadis, occur to my remembrance, and 
instruct me where I may best begin to imitate you. Yet I know al- 
ready, that the greatest thing he did use was prayer, and so will I.' 
And, saying so, he made him a pair of beads of great galls, and was 
very much vexed in mind for want of an Eremite, who might hear 
his confession and comfort him in his afflictions; and therefore did 
entertain himself walking up and down the little green field, writ- 
ing and graving in the rinds of trees, and on the smooth sands, many 
verses, all accommodated to his sadness, and some of them in the 
praise of Dulcinea; but those that were found thoroughly finished, 
and were legible after his own finding again in that place, were 
only these ensuing: 

'O ye plants, ye herbs, and ye trees, 

That flourish in this pleasant site, 
In lofty and verdant degrees. 

If my harms do you not delight, 
Hear my holy plaints, which are these. 
And let not my grief you molest. 


Though it ever so feelingly went. 
Since here for to pay your rest, 
Don Quixote his tears hath addrest, 

Dulcinea's want to lament 

Of Toboso. 

'In this very place was first spied 

The loyallest lover and true, 
Who himself from his lady did hide; 

But yet felt his sorrows anew, 
Not knowing whence they might proceed. 
Love doth him cruelly wrest 

With a passion of evil descent 
Which robb'd Don Quixote of rest. 
Till a pipe with tears was full prest, 

Dulcinea's want to lament 

Of Toboso. 

'He, searching adventures, blind. 

Among these dearn woods and rock& 
Still curseth on pitiless mind; 

For a wretch amidst bushy locks 
And crags may misfortunes find. 
Love with his whip, wounded his breast. 

And not with soft hands him pent, 
And when he his noddle had prest, 
Don Quixote his tears did forth wrest, 

Dulcinea's want to lament 

Of Toboso.' 

The addition of Toboso to the name of Dulcinea did not cause 
small laughter in those which found the verses recited; because 
they imagined that Don Quixote conceived that if, in the naming 
of Dulcinea, he did not also add that of Toboso, the rime could 
not be understood; and in truth it was so, as he himself did after- 
ward confess. He composed many others; but, as we have related, 
none could be well copied or found entire, but these three stanzas. 
In this, and in sighing, and invoking the fauns and sylvans of these 
woods, and the nymphs of the adjoining streams, with the dolorous 
and hollow echo, that it would answer and they comfort and listen 
unto him, and in the search of some herbs to sustain his languishing 
forces, he entertained himself all the time of Sancho his absence; 


who, had he stayed three weeks away, as he did but three days, the 
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face should have remained so disfigured 
as the very mother that bore him would not have known him. 

But now it is congruent that, leaving him swallowed in the gulfs 
of sorrow and versifying, we turn and recount what happened to 
Sancho Panza in his embassage; which was that, issuing out to the 
highway, he presently took that which led towards Toboso, and ar- 
rived the next day following to the inn where the disgrace of the 
coverlet befel him; and scarce had he well espied it, but presendy 
he imagined that he was once again flying in the air; and therefore 
would not enter into it, although his arrival was at such an hour 
as he both might and ought to have stayed, being dinner-time, and 
he himself likewise possessed with a marvellous longing to taste some 
warm meat — for many days past he had fed altogether on cold 
viands. This desire enforced him to approach to the inn, remaining 
still doubtful, notwithstanding, whether he should enter into it or 
no. And as he stood thus suspended, there issued out of the inn 
two persons which presently knew him, and the one said to the 
other, 'Tell me, master licentiate, is not that horseman that rides 
there Sancho Panza, he whom our adventurer's old woman said 
departed with her master for his squire?' 'It is,' quoth the licentiate, 
'and that is our Don Quixote his horse.' And they knew him so well, 
as those that were the curate and barber of his own village, and 
were those that made the search and formal process against the 
books of chivalry; and therefore, as soon as they had taken full 
notice of Sancho Panza and Rozinante, desirous to learn news of 
Don Quixote, they drew near unto him; and the curate called him 
by his name, saying, 'Friend Sancho Panza, where is your master?' 
Sancho Panza knew them instantly, and, desirous to conceal the 
place and manner wherein his lord remained, did answer them, that 
his master was in a certain place, withheld by affairs for a few days, 
that were of great consequence, and concerned him very much, and 
that he durst not, for both his eyes, discover the place to them. 
'No, no,' quoth the barber, 'Sancho Panza, if thou dost not tell us 
where he sojourneth, we must imagine (as we do already) that thou 
hast robbed and slain him, specially seeing thou comest thus on his 
horse; and therefore thou must, in good faith, get us the horse's 


owner, or else stand to thine answer.' 'Your threats fear me nothing,* 
quoth Sancho; 'for I am not a man that robs or murders any one. 
Every man is slain by his destiny, or by God that made him. My 
lord remains doing of penance in the midst of this mountain, with 
very great pleasure.' And then he presently recounted unto them, 
from the beginning to the end, the fashion wherein he had left him, 
the adventures which had befallen, and how he carried a letter to 
the Lady Dulcinca of Toboso, who was Lorenzo Corcuelo his 
daughter, of whom his lord was enamoured up to the livers. 

Both of them stood greatly admired at Sancho's relation; and al- 
though they knew Don Quixote's madness already, and the kind 
thereof, yet as often as they heard speak thereof, they rested newly 
amazed. They requested Sancho to show them the letter that he 
carried to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. He told them that it was 
written in tablets, and that he had express order from his lord to 
have it fairly copied out in paper, at the first village whereunto he 
should arrive. To which the curate answered, bidding show it unto 
him, and he would write out the copy very fairly. 

Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom, and searched the 
little book, but could not find it, nor should not, though he had 
searched till Doomsday; for it was in Don Quixote's power, who 
gave it not to him, nor did he ever remember to demand it. When 
Sancho perceived that the book was lost, he waxed as wan and pale as 
a dead man, and, turning again very spjeedily to feel all the parts 
of his body, he saw clearly that it could not be found; and therefore, 
without making any more ado, he laid hold on his own beard with 
both his fists, and drew almost the one half of the hair away, and 
afterward bestowed on his face and nose, in a memento, half a 
dozen such cuffs as he bathed them all in blood; which the curate 
and barber beholding, they asked him what had befallen him, that 
he entreated himself so ill. 'What should befall me,' answered 
Sancho, 'but that I have lost at one hand, and in an instant, three 
colts, whereof the least was like a castle?' 'How so,' quoth the bar- 
ber. 'Marry,' said Sancho, 'I have lost the tablets wherein were 
written Dulcinea's letter, and a schedule of my lord's, addressed to 
his niece, wherein he commanded her to deliver unto me three colts, 
of four or five that remained in his house.' And, saying $0, he re- 


counted the loss o£ his grey ass. The curate comforted him, and said 
that, as soon as his lord were found, he would deal with him to 
renew his grant, and write it in paper, according to the common 
use and practice, forasmuch as those which were written in tablets 
were of no value, and would never be accepted nor accomplished. 

With this Sancho took courage, and said, if that was so, he cared 
not much for the loss of Dulcinea's letter; for he knew it almost all 
by rote. 'Say it, then, Sancho,' quoth the barber, 'and we will after 
write it.' Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head, to 
call the letter to memory; and now would he stand upon one leg, 
and now upon another. Sometimes he looked on the earth, other 
whiles upon heaven; and after he had gnawed off almost the half 
of one of his nails, and held them all the while suspended, exf)ecting 
his recital thereof, he said, after a long pause: 'On my soul, master 
licentiate, I give to the devil anything that I can remember of that 
letter, although the beginning was this: "High and unsavoury 
lady." ' 'I warrant you,' quoth the barber, 'he said not but "super- 
human" or "sovereign lady." ' 

'It is so,' quoth Sancho, 'and presently followed, if I well remem- 
ber: "He that is wounded and wants sleep, and the hurt man doth 
kiss your worship's hands, ingrate and very scornful fair"; and thus 
he went roving until he ended in, "Yours until death, the Knight of 
the Ill-favoured Face.'" Both of them took great delight to see 
Sancho's good memory, and praised it to him very much, and re- 
quested him to repieat the letter once or twice more to them, that 
they might also bear it in memory, to write it at the due season. 
Sancho turned to recite it again and again, and at every repetition 
said other three thousand errors. And after this he told other things 
of his lord, but sf)oke not a word of his own tossing in a coverlet, 
which had befallen him in that inn into which he refused to enter. 
He added besides, how his lord, in bringing him a good despatch 
from his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, would forthwith set out to 
endeavour how he might become an emperor, or at the least a 
monarch; for they had so agreed between themselves both, and it 
was a very easy matter for him to become one, such was the valour 
of his person and strength of his arm; and that when he were one, 
he would procure him a good marriage; for by that time he should 


be a widower at the least; and he would wive him one of the em- 
peror's ladies to wife, that were an inheritrix of some great and rich 
state on the firm land, for now he would have no more islands. And 
all this was related so seriously by Sancho, and so in his perfect 
sense, he scratching his nose ever and anon as he spoke, so as the 
two were stricken into a new amazement, pondering the vehemence 
of Don Quixote's frenzy, which carried quite away with it in that 
sort the judgment of that poor man, but would not labour to dis- 
possess him of that error, because it seemed to them that, since it 
did not hurt his conscience it was better to leave him in it, that the 
recital of his follies might turn to their greater recreation: and there- 
fore exhorted him to pray for the health of his lord; for it was a 
very possible and contingent thing to arrive in the process of time 
to the dignity of an emperor, as he said, or at least to that of an 
archbishop, or other calling equivalent to it. 

Then Sancho demanded of them, 'Sirs, if fortune should turn our 
affairs to another course, in such sort as my lord, abandoning the 
purpose to purchase an empire, would take in his head that of 
becoming a cardinal, I would fain learn of you here, what cardinalv 
errant are wont to give to their squires?' 'They are wont to give 
them,' quoth the curate, 'some simple benefice, or some parsonage, 
or to make them clerks or sextons, or vergers of some church, whose 
living amounts to a good penny-rent, beside the profit of the altar, 
which is ofttimes as much more.' 'For that it is requisite,' quoth 
Sancho, 'that the squire be not married, and that he know how to 
help mass at least; and if that be so, unfortunate I! that both am 
married, and knows not besides the first letter of the ABC, what 
will then become of me, if my master take the humour to be an 
archbishop, and not an emperor, as is the custom and use of knights- 
errant?' 'Do not afflict thy mind for that, friend Sancho,' quoth the 
barber; 'for we will deal with thy lord here, and we will counsel 
him, yea, we will urge it to him as a matter of conscience, that he 
become an emperor, and not an archbishop; for it will be more easy 
for him to be such a one, by reason that he is more valorous than 

'So methinks,' quoth Sancho, 'although I know he hath ability 
enough for all. That which I mean to do for my part is, I will pray 


unto our Lord to conduct him to that place wherein he may serve 
Him best, and give me greatest rewards.' 'Thou speakest Uke a 
discreet man,' quoth the curate, 'and thou shall do therein the duty 
of a good Christian. But that which we must endeavour now is, 
to devise how we may win thy lord from prosecuting that unprofit- 
able penance he hath in hand, as thou sayst; and to the end we may 
think on the manner how, and eat our dinner withal, seeing it is 
time, let us all enter into the inn.' Sancho bade them go in, and he 
would stay for them at the door, and that he would after tell them 
the reason why he had no mind to enter, neither was it in any sort 
convenient that he should; but he entreated them to bring him 
somewhat forth to eat that were warm, and some provand for Rozi- 
nante. With that they departed into the lodging, and within a while 
after the barber brought forth unto him some meat. And the curate 
and the barber, after having pandered well with themselves what 
course they were to take to attain their design, the curate fell on a 
device very fit both for Don Quixote's humour, and also to bring their 
purpose to pass; and was, as he told the barber, that he had be- 
thought him to apparel himself like a lady adventuress, and that 
he therefore should do the best that he could to fit himself Uke a 
squire, and that they would go in that habit to the place where Don 
Quixote sojourned, feigning that he was an afflicted and distressed 
damsel, and would demand a boon of him, which he, as a valorous 
knight-errant, would in no wise deny her, and that the gift which 
he meant to desire, was to entreat him to follow her where she 
would carry him, to right a wrong which a naughty knight had done 
unto her; and that she would besides pray him not to command her 
to unmask herself, or inquire anything of her estate, until he had 
done her right against that bad knight. And by this means he cer- 
tainly hof)ed that Don Quixote would grant all that he requested 
in this manner. And in this sort they would fetch him from thence 
and bring him to his village, where they would labour with all their 
power to see whether his extravagant frenzy could be recovered by 
any remedy. 


How THE Curate and the Barber Put Their Design in Practice, 
WITH Many Other Things Worthy to Be Recorded in This 
Famous History 

THE curate's invention disliked not the barber, but rather 
pleased him so well as they presently put it in execution. 
They borrowed, therefore, of the innkeeper's wife a gown 
and a kerchief, leaving her in pawn thereof a fair new cassock of 
the curate's. The barber made him a great beard of a pied ox's tail, 
wherein the innkeeper was wont to hang his horse's comb. The 
hostess demanded of them the occasion why they would use these 
things. The curate recounted in brief, reasons of Don Quixote's 
madness, and how that disguisement was requisite to bring him 
away from the mountain wherein at that present he made his abode. 
Presently the innkeeper and his wife remembered themselves how 
he had been their guest, and of his balsam, and was the tossed 
squire's lord; and then they rehearsed again to the curate all that 
had passed between him and them in that inn, without omitting the 
accident that had befallen Sancho himself; and in conclusion the 
hostess tricked up the curate so handsomely as there could be no 
more desired; for she attired him in a gown of broadcloth, laid over 
with guards of black velvet, each being a span breadth, full of 
gashes and cuts; the bodice and sleeves of green velvet, welted with 
white satin; which gown and doublet, as I suspect, were both 
made in the time of King Bamba. The curate would not permit 
them to veil and bekerchief him, but set on his head a white quilted 
linen nightcap, which he carried for the night, and girded his fore- 
head with a black tafTeta garter, and with the other he masked his 
face, wherewithal he covered his beard and visage very neatly; then 
did he encasque his pate in his hat, which was so broad, as it might 
serve him excellently for a qtatasol; and lapping himself up hand- 
somely in his long cloak, he went to horse, and rode as women use. 



Then mounted the barber Ukewise on his mule, with his beard 
hanging down to the girdle, half red and half white, as that which, 
as we have said, was made of the tail of a pied<oloured ox; then 
taking leave of them all, and of the good Maritornes, who promised 
(although a sinner) to say a rosary to their intention, to the end 
that God might give them good success in so Christian and difficult 
an adventure as that which they undertook. But scarce were they 
gone out of the inn, when the curate began to dread a little that he 
had done ill in apparelling himself in that wise, accounting it a very 
indecent thing that a priest should dight himself so, although the 
matter concerned him never so much. And acquainting the barber 
with his surmise, he entreated him that they might change attires, 
seeing it was much more just that he, because a layman, should feign 
the oppressed lady, and himself would become his squire, for so his 
dignity would be less profaned; to which, if he would not conde- 
scend, he resolved to pass on no farther, although the devil should 
carry therefore Don Quixote away. Sancho came over to them about 
this season, and seeing them in that habit, he could not contain his 
laughter. The barber (to be brief) did all that which the curate 
pleased, and making thus an exchange of inventions, the curate 
instructed him how he should behave himself, and what words he 
should use to Don Quixote to press and move him to come away 
with him, and forsake the propension and love of that place which 
he had chosen to perform his vain penance. 

The barber answered, that he would set everything in his due 
point and perfection, though he had never lessoned him, but would 
not set on the array until they came near to the place where Don 
Quixote abode; and therefore folded up his clothes, and master 
parson his beard, and forthwith went on their way; Sancho Panza 
playing the guide, who recounted at large to them all that had 
happened with the madman whom they found in the mountain; 
concealing, notwithstanding, the booty of the malet, with the other 
things found therein; for, although otherwise most simple, yet was 
our young man an ordinary vice of fools, and had a spice of 

They arrived the next day following to the place where Sancho 
had left the tokens of boughs, to find that wherein his master so- 


journed; and having uken notice thereof, he said unto them that 
that was the entry, and therefore they might do well to apparel 
themselves, if by change that might be a mean to procure his lord's 
liberty; for they had told him already, that on their going and 
apparelling in that manner consisted wholly the hope of freeing his 
lord out of that wretched life he had chosen; and therefore did 
charge him, on his life, not to reveal to his lord in any case what 
they were, nor seem in any sort to know them; and that if he 
demanded (as they were sure he would) whether he had delivered 
his letter to Dulcinea, he should say he did, and that by reason she 
could not read, she answered him by word of mouth, saying that 
she commanded, under pain of her indignation, that presently 
abandoning so austere a life, he would come and see her; for this 
was most requisite, to the end that moved therewithal, and by what 
they meant likewise to say unto him, they made certain account to 
reduce him to a better life, and would besides persuade him to that 
course instantly^ which might set him in the way to become an 
emperor or monarch; for as concerning the being an archbishop, he 
needed not to fear it at all. 

Sancho listened to all the talk and instruction, and bore them 
away well in memory, and gave them great thanks for the intention 
they had to counsel his lord to become an emperor, and not an arch- 
bishop; for, as he said, he imagined in his simple judgment, that an 
emperor was of more ability to reward his squire than an archbishop- 
errant. He likewise added, that he thought it were necessary he 
went somewhat before them to search him, and deliver his lady's 
answer; for perhaps it alone would be sufficient to fetch him out of 
that place, without putting them to any further pains. They liked 
of Sancho Panza's device, and therefore determined to expect him 
until his return with the news of finding his master. With that 
Sancho entered in by the clefts of the rocks (leaving them both 
behind together), by which ran a litde smooth stream, to which 
other rocks, and some trees that grew near unto it, made a fresh and 
pleasing shadow. The heats, and the day wherein they arrived there, 
was one of those of the month of August, when in those places the 
heat is intolerable; the hour, about three in the afternoon: all which 
did render the place more grateful, and invited them to remain 


therein until Sancho's return. Both, therefore, resting there quietly 
under the shadow, there arrived to their hearing the sound of a 
voice, which, without being accompanied by any instrument, did 
resound so sweet and melodiously, as they remained greatly admired, 
because they esteemed not that to be a place wherein any so good a 
musician might make his abode; for, although it is usually said that 
in the woods and fields are found shepherds of excellent voices, yet 
is this rather a poetical endearment than an approved truth; and 
most of all when they perceived that the verses they heard him sing- 
ing were not of rustic composition, but rather of delicate and courtly 
invention. The truth whereof is confirmed by the verses, which were 

'Who doth my weal diminish thus and stain? 

And say by whom my woes augmented be? 

By jealousy. 
And who my patience doth by trial wrong? 

An absence long. 
If that be so, then for my grievous wrong. 
No remedy at all I may obtain, 
Since my best hopes I cruelly find slain 
By disdain, jealousy, and absence long. 

'Who in my mind those dolors still doth move? 

Dire love. 
And who my glory's ebb doth most importune? 

And to my plaints by whom increase is giv'n? 

By Heav'n. 
If that be so, then my mistrust jumps ev'n, 
That of my wondrous evil I needs must die; 
Since in my harm join'd and united be. 
Love, wavering fortune, and a rigorous Heaven. 

'Who better hap can unto me bequeath? 

From whom his favours doth not love estrange? 

From change. 
And his too serious harms, who cureth wholly? 

If that be so, it is no wisdom truly. 


To think by human means to cure that care, 
Where the only antidotes and med'cines are 
Desired death, light change, and endless folly.' 

The hour, the time, the solitariness of the place, voice, and art of 
him that sung, struck wonder and delight in the hearers' minds, 
which remained still quiet, hstening whether they might hear any- 
thing else; but, perceiving that the silence continued a pretty while, 
they agreed to issue and seek out the musician that sung so har- 
moniously; and being ready to put their resolution in practice, they 
were again arrested by the same voice, the which touched their ears 
anew with this sonnet: 

A Sonnet. 

'Holy amity! which, with nimble wings. 
Thy semblance leaving here on earth behind, 
Among the blessed souls of heaven, up-flings, 
To those imperial rooms to cheer thy mind: 
And thence to us, is (when thou lik'st) assign'd 
Just Peace, whom shady veil so covered brings; 
As oft, instead of her, Deceit we find 
Clad in weeds of good and virtuous things. 
Leave heaven, O amity! do not permit 
Foul Fraud thus openly thy robes to invest; 
With which, sincere intents destroy docs it: 
For if thy likeness from it thou dost not wrest. 
The world will turn to the first conflict soon. 
Of discord, chaos, and confusion.' 

The song was concluded with a profound sigh, and both the 
others lent attentive ear to hear if he would sing any more; but 
perceiving that the music was converted into throbs and doleful 
plaints, they resolved to go and learn who was the wretch, as excel- 
lent for his voice as dolorous in his sighs. And after they had gone 
a little, at the doubling of the point of a crag, they perceived one of 
the very same form and fashion that Sancho had painted unto them 
when he told them the history of Cardenio; which man espying 
them likewise, showed no semblance of fear, but stood still with 
his head hanging on his breast like a malcontent, not once lifting up 
his eyes to behold them from the first time when they unexpectedly 


The curate, who was a man very well spoken (as one that had 
already intelligence of his misfortune; for he knew him by his signs), 
drew nearer to him, and prayed and persuaded him, with short but 
very forcible reasons, to forsake that miserable life, lest he should 
there eternally lose it, which of all miseries would prove the most 
miserable. Cardenio at this season was in his right sense, free from 
the furious accident that distracted him so often; and therefore, 
viewing them both attired in so strange and unusual a fashion from 
that which was used among those deserts, he rested somewhat ad- 
mired, but chiefly hearing them speak in his affair, as in a matter 
known (for so much he gathered out of the curate's speeches); and 
therefore answered in this manner: 'I perceive well, good sirs (who- 
soever you be), that Heaven, which hath always care to succour 
good men; yea, even, and the wicked many times, hath, without any 
desert, addressed unto me by these deserts and places so remote 
from the vulgar haunt, persons which, laying before mine eyes 
with quick and pregnant reasons the little I have to lead this kind 
of life, do labour to remove me from this place to a better; and by 
reason they know not as much as I do, and that after escaping this 
harm I shall fall into a far greater, they account me perhaps for a 
man of weak discourse, and what is worse, for one wholly devoid of 
judgment. And were it so, yet is it no marvel; for it seems to me 
that the force of the imagination of my disasters is so bent and 
powerful in my destruction, that I, without being able to make it 
any resistance, do become like a stone, void of all good feeling and 
knowledge. And I come to know the certainty of this truth when 
some men do recount and show unto me tokens of the things I have 
done whilst this terrible accident overrules me; and after I can do 
no more than be grieved, though in vain, and curse, without benefit, 
my too froward fortune, and render as an excuse of my madness 
the relation of the cause thereof to as many as please to hear it; 
for wise men perceiving the cause will not wonder at the effects, 
and though they give me no remedy, yet at least will not condemn 
me; for it will convert the anger they conceive at my misrules into 
compassion for my disgraces. And, sirs, if by chance it be so that 
you come with the same intention that others did, I request you, ere 
you enlarge further your discreet persuasions, that you will give ear 


awhile to the relation of my mishaps; for perhaps, when you have 
understood it, you may save the labour that you would take, com- 
forting an evil wholly incapable of consolation.' 

Both of them, which desired nothing so much [as] to understand 
from his own mouth the occasion of his harms, did entreat him to 
relate it, promising to do nothing else in his remedy or comfort but 
what himself pleased. And with this the sorrowful gentleman began 
his doleful history, with the very same words almost that he had 
rehearsed it to Don Quixote and the goatherd a few days past, when, 
by occasion of Master Elisabat and Don Quixote's curiosity in 
observing the decorum of chivalry, the tale remained imperfect, as 
our history left it above. But now good fortune so disposed things, 
that his foolish fit came not upon him, but gave him leisure to con- 
tinue his story to the end; and so arriving to the passage that spxjke of 
the letter Don Fernando found in the book of Amadis de Gaul, 
Cardenio said that he had it very well in memory, and the sense 
was this: 

' "I discover daily in thee worths that oblige and enforce me to 
hold thee dear; and therefore, if thou desirest to have me discharge 
this debt, without serving a writ on my honour, thou mayst easily do 
it. I have a father that knows thee, and loves me likewise well, who, 
without forcing my will, will accomplish that which justly thou 
oughtest to have, if it be so that thou esteemest me as much as thou 
sayst, and I do believe." 

'This letter moved me to demand Lucinda of her father for my 
wife, as I have already recounted; and by it also Lucinda remained 
in Don Fernando's opinion crowned for one of the most discreet 
women of her time. And this billet letter was that which first put 
him in mind to destroy me ere I could effect my desires. I told to 
Don Fernando wherein consisted all the difficulty of her father's 
protracting of the marriage, to wit, in that my father should first 
demand her; the which I dared not to mention unto him, fearing 
lest he would not willingly consent thereunto; not for that the 
quality, bounty, virtue, and beauty of Lucinda were to him unknown, 


or that she had not parts in her able to ennoble and adorn any other 
lineage of Spain whatsoever, but because I understood by him, 
that he desired not to marry me until he had seen what Duke 
Ricardo would do for me. Finally, I told him that I dared not 
reveal it to my father, as well for that inconvenience, as for many 
others that made me so afraid, without knowing what they were, 
as methought my desires would never take effect. 

'To all this Don Fernando made me answer, that he would take 
upon him to speak to my father, and persuade him to treat of that 
affair also with Lucinda's. O ambitious MariusI O cruel Catiline! 
O facinorous Sylla! O treacherous Galalon! O traitorous Vellido! 
O revengeful Julian! O covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel, revengeful, 
and cozening, what indeserts did this wench commit, who with 
such plaints discovered to thee the secrets and delights of her heart? 
What offence committed I against thee? What words did I sf)eak, 
or counsel did I give, that were not all addressed to the increasing 
of thine honour and profit? But on what do I (the worst of all 
wretches!) complain? seeing that when the current of the stars doth 
bring with it mishaps, by reason they come down precipitately from 
above, there is no earthly force can withhold, or human industry 
prevent or evacuate them. Who would have imagined that Don 
Fernando, a noble gentleman, discreet, obliged by my deserts, and 
powerful to obtain whatsoever the amorous desire would exact of 
him, where and whensoever it seized on his heart, would (as they 
say) become so corrupt as to deprive me of one only sheep, which 
yet I did not possess? But let these considerations be laid apart as 
unprofitable, that we may knit up again the broken thread of my 
unfortunate history. And therefore I say that, Don Fernando be- 
lieving that my presence was a hindrance to put his treacherous and 
wicked design in execution, he resolved to send me to his eldest 
brother, under pretext to get some money of him for to buy six 
great horses, that he had of purpose, and only to the end I might 
absent myself, bought the very same day that he offered to speak 
himself to my father, and would have me go for the money, because 
he might bring his treacherous intent the better to pass. Could I 
prevent this treason? Or could I perhaps but once imagine it? No, 
truly; but rather, glad for the good merchandise he had made, did 


make proffer of myself to depart for the money very willingly. I 
spoke that night to Lucinda, and acquainted her with the agreement 
passed between me and Don Fernando, bidding her to hope firmly 
that our good just desires would sort a wished and happy end. She 
answered me again (as Uttle suspecting Don Fernando's treason as 
myself), bidding me to return with all speed, because she believed 
that the conclusion of our affections should be no longer deferred 
than my father deferred to sp>eak unto hers. And what was the cause 
I know not, but as soon as she had said this unto me, her eyes were 
filled with tears, and somewhat thwarting her throat, hindered her 
from saying many other things, which methought she strived to 

'I rested admired at this new accident, until that time never seen 
in her; for always, as many times as my good fortune and diligence 
granted it, we conversed with all sport and delight, without ever 
intermeddling in our discourses any tears, sighs, complaints, suspi- 
cions, or fears. All my speech was to advance my fortune for having 
received her from Heaven as my lady and mistress; then would I 
amplify her beauty, admire her worth, and praise her discretion. 
She, on the other side, would return me the exchange, extolling in 
me what she, as one enamoured, accounted worthy of laud and 
commendation. After this we would recount a hundred thousand 
toys and chances befallen our neighbours and acquaintance; and 
that to which my presumption dared furthest to extend itself, was 
sometimes to take her beautiful and ivory hands perforce, and kiss 
them as well as I might, through the rigorous strictness of a nig- 
gardly iron grate which divided us. But the precedent night to the 
day of my sad departure, she wept, sobbed, and sighed, and departed, 
leaving me full of confusion and inward assaults, amazed to behold 
such new and doleful tokens of sorrow and feeling in Lucinda. But 
because I would not murder my hopes, I did attribute all these things 
to the force of her affection towards me, and to the grief which 
absence is wont to stir in those that love one another dearly. To be 
brief, I departed from thence sorrowful and pensive, my soul being 
full of imaginations and suspicions, and yet knew not what I sus- 
pected or imagined: clear tokens, foretelling the sad success and 
misfortune which attended me. I arrived to the place where I was 


sent, and delivered my letter to Don Fernando's brother, and was 
well entertained, but not well despatched; for he commanded me 
to exp)ect (a thing to me most displeasing) eight days, and that out 
of the duke his father's presence, because his brother had written 
unto him to send him certain moneys unknown to his father. And 
all this was but false Don Fernando's invention; for his brother 
wanted not money wherewithal to have despatched me presently, 
had not he written the contrary. 

'This was so displeasing a commandment and order, as almost it 
brought me to terms of disobeying it, because it seemed to me a 
thing most impossible to sustain my life so many days in the absence 
of my Lucinda, and specially having left her so sorrowful as I have 
recounted; yet, notwithstanding, I did obey like a good servant, 
although I knew it would be with the cost of my health. But on 
the fourth day after I had arrived, there came a man in my search 
with a letter, which he delivered unto me, and by the endorsement 
I knew it to be Lucinda's; for the hand was like hers. I opened it 
(not without fear and assailment of my senses), knowing that it 
must have been some serious occasion which could move her to 
write unto me, being absent, seeing she did it so rarely even when 
I was present. I demanded of the bearer, before I read, who had 
delivered it to him, and what time he had spent in the way. He 
answered me, "that passing by chance at midday through a street 
of the city, a very beautiful lady did call him from a certain window. 
Her eyes were all beblubbered with tears, and said unto him very 
hastily, 'Brother, if thou beest a Christian, as thou appearest to be 
one, I pray thee, for God's sake, that thou do forthwith address this 
letter to the place and person that the superscription assigneth (for 
they be well known), and therein thou shalt do our Lord great serv- 
ice; and because thou mayst not want means to do it, take what thou 
shalt find wrapped in that handkerchief.' And, saying so, she threw 
out of the window a handkerchief, wherein were lapped up a hun- 
dred reals, this ring of gold which I carry here, and that letter which 
I delivered unto you; and presently, without expecting mine answer, 
she departed, but first saw me take up the handkerchief and letter, 
and then I made her signs that I would accomplish herein her 
command. And after, perceiving the pains I might take in bringing 

244 ^^N QUIXOTE 

you it so well considered, and seeing by the endorsement that you 
were the man to whom it was addressed, — for, sir, I know you very 
well, — and also obliged to do it by the tears of that beautiful lady, 
I determined not to trust any other with it, but to come and bring 
it you myself in person; and in sixteen hours since it was given 
unto me, I have travelled the journey you know, which is at least 
eighteen leagues long." Whilst the thankful new messenger spake 
thus unto me, I remained in a manner hanging on his words, and 
my thighs did tremble in such manner as I could very hardly sustain 
myself on foot; yet, taking courage, at last I opened the letter, 
whereof these were the contents: 

'"The word that Don Fernando hath passed unto you to speak 
to your father, that he might speak to mine, he hath accomplished 
more to his own pleasure than to your profit. For, sir, you shall 
understand that he hath demanded me for his wife; and my father 
(borne away by the advantage of worths which he supposes to be 
in Don Fernando more than in you) hath agreed to his demand in 
so good earnest, as the espousals shall be celebrated within these two 
days, and that so secretly and alone as only the heavens and some 
folk of the house shall be witnesses. How I remain, imagine, and 
whether it be convenient you should return, you may consider; and 
the success of this affair shall let you to perceive whether I love you 
well or no. I beseech Almighty God that this may arrive unto your 
hands before mine shall be in danger to join itself with his, which 
keepeth his promised faith so ill." 

'These were, in sum, the contents of the letter, and the motives 
that f)ersuaded me presently to depart, without attending any other 
answer or other moneys; for then I conceived clearly that it was not 
the buyal of the horses, but that of his delights, which had moved 
Don Fernando to send me to his brother. The rage which I con- 
ceived against him, joined with the fear to lose the jewel which I 
had gained by so many years' service and desires, did set wings on 
me, for I arrived as I had flown next day at mine own city, in the 
hour and moment fit to go speak to Lucinda. I entered secretly, and 
left my mule whereon I rode in the honest man's house that had 


brought me the letter, and my fortune purposing then to be favour- 
able to me, disposed so mine affairs, that I found Lucinda sitting at 
that iron grate which was the sole witness of our loves. Lucinda 
knew me straight and 1 her, but not as we ought to know one 
another. But who is he in the world that can truly vaunt that he 
hath penetrated and thoroughly exhausted the confused thoughts 
and mutable nature of women? Truly none. I say, then, to proceed 
with my tale, that as soon as Lucinda perceived me, she said, "Car- 
denio, I am attired with my wedding garments, and in the hall 
doth wait for me the traitor Don Fernando, and my covetous father, 
with other witnesses, which shall rather be such of my death than 
of mine espousals. Be not troubled, dear friend, but procure to be 
present at this sacrifice, the which if I cannot hinder by my per- 
suasions and reasons, I carry hidden about me a poniard secretly, 
which may hinder more resolute forces by giving end to my life, 
and a beginning to thee, to know certain the affection which I have 
ever borne and do bear unto thee." I answered her troubled and 
hastily, fearing I should not have the leisure to reply unto her, saying, 
"Sweet lady, let thy works verify thy words; for if thou carriest a 
poniard to defend thy credit, I do here likewise bear a sword where- 
withal I will defend thee, or kill myself, if fortune prove adverse 
and contrary." I believe that she could not hear all my words, by 
reason she was called hastily away, as I perceived, for that the bride- 
groom expected her coming. By this the night of my sorrows did 
thoroughly fall, and the sun of my gladness was set, and I remained 
without light in mine eyes or discourse in my understanding. I 
could not find the way into her house, nor could I move myself to 
any part; yet, considering at last how important my presence was 
for that which might befall in that adventure, I animated myself 
the best I could, and entered into the house; and as one that knew 
very well all the entries and passages thereof, and specially by 
reason of the trouble and business that was then in hand, I went 
in unperceived of any. And thus, without being seen, I had the 
opportunity to place myself in the hollow room of a window of the 
same hall, which was covered by the ends of two encountering pieces 
of tapestry, from whence I could see all that was done in the hall, 
remaining myself unviewed of any. Who could now describe the 


assaults and surprisals of my heart while I there abode? the thoughts 
which encountered my mind? the considerations which I had? 
which were so many and such, as they can neither be said, nor is 
it reason they should. Let it suffice you to know that the bridegroom 
entered into the hall without any ornament, wearing the ordinary 
array he was wont, and was accompanied by a cousin-german of 
Lucinda's, and in all the hall there was no stranger present, nor any 
other than the household servants. Within a while after, Lucinda 
came out of the parlour, accompanied by her mother and two 
waiting-maids of her own, as richly attired and decked as her calling 
and beauty deserved, and the perfection of courdy pomp and bravery 
could afford. My distraction and trouble of mind lent me no time 
to note particularly the apparel she wore, and therefore did only 
mark the colours, which were carnation and white; and the splen- 
dour which the precious stones and jewels of her tires and all the 
rest of her garments yielded; yet did the singular beauty of her fair 
and golden tresses surpass them so much, as being in competency 
with the precious stones, and flame of four links that lighted in 
the hall, yet did the splendour thereof seem far more bright and 
glorious to mine eyes. O memory! the mortal enemy of mine ease, 
to what end serves it now to represent unto me the incomparable 
beauty of that my adored enemy? Were it not better, cruel memory! 
to remember and represent that which she did then, that, being 
moved by so manifest a wrong, I may at least endeavour to lose my 
life, since I cannot procure a revenge? Tire not, good sirs, to hear 
the digressions I make; for my grief is not of that kind that may 
be rehearsed succinctly and Sf)eedily, seeing that in mine opinion 
every passage of it is worthy of a large discourse.' 

To this the curate answered, that not only they were not tired or 
wearied hearing of him, but rather they received marvellous delight 
to hear him recount each minuity and circumstance, because they 
were such as deserved not to be passed over in silence, but rather 
merited as much attention as the principal parts of the history. 

'You shall then wit,' quoth Cardenio, 'that as they thus stood in 
the hall, the curate of the parish entered, and, taking them both 
by the hand to do that which in such an act is required at the saying 
of, "Will you, Lady Lucinda, take the Lord Don Fernando, who is 


here present, for your lawful spouse, according as our holy mother 
of the Church commands?" I thrust out all my head and neck out 
of the tapestry, and, with most attentive ears and a troubled mind, 
settled myself to hear what Lucinda answered, expecting by it the 
sentence of my death or the confirmation of my life. Oh, if one had 
dared to sally out at that time, and cry with a loud voice, "O Lu- 
cinda! Lucinda! see well what thou doest; consider withal what 
thou owest me! Behold how thou art mine, and that thou canst 
not be any other's; Note that thy saying of Yea and the end of my 
life shall be both in one instant. O traitor, Don Fernando, robber 
of my glory! death of my life! what is this thou pretendest? what 
wilt thou do? Consider that thou canst not, Christian-like, achieve 
thine intention, seeing Lucinda is my spouse, and I am her hus- 
band." O foolish man! now that I am absent, and far from the 
danger, I say what I should have done, and not what I did. Now, 
after that I have pjermitted my dear jewel to be robbed, I exclaim 
on the thief, on whom I might have revenged myself, had I had as 
much heart to do it as I have to complain. In line, since I was then 
a coward and a fool, it is no matter though I now die ashamed, 
sorry, and frantic. The curate stood expecting Lucinda's answer a 
good while ere she gave it; and in the end, when I hofied that she 
would take out the poniard to stab herself, or would unloose her 
tongue to say some truth, or use some reason or persuasion that 
might redound to my benefit, I heard her instead thereof answer, 
with a dismayed and languishing voice, the word "I will." And then 
Don Fernando said the same; and, giving her the ring, they re- 
mained tied with an indissoluble knot. Then the bridegroom com- 
ing to kiss his spouse, she set her hand upon her heart, and fell in a 
trance between her mother's arms. 

'Now only remains untold the case wherein I was, seeing in that 
Yea, which I had heard, my hopes deluded, Lucinda's words and 
promises falsified, and myself wholly disabled to recover in any 
time the good which I lost in that instant. I rested void of counsel, 
abandoned (in mine opinion) by Heaven, proclaimed an enemv to 
the earth which upheld me, the air denying breath enough for my 
sighs, and the water humour suflficient to mine eyes; only the fire 
increased in such manner as I burned thoroughly with rage and 


jealousy. AH the house was in a tumult for this sudden amazement 
o£ Lucinda; and as her mother unclasped her bosom to give her 
the air, there appeared in it a paper, folded up, which Don Fer- 
nando presently seized on, and went aside to read it by the light of 
a torch; and after he had read it, he sat down in a chair, laying his 
hands on his cheek, with manifest signs of melancholy discontent, 
without bethinking himself of the remedies that were applied to his 
sp)ouse to bring her again to herself. I, seeing all the folk of the 
house thus in an uproar, did adventure myself to issue, not weigh- 
ing much whether I were seen or no, bearing withal a resolution (if 
I were perceived) to play such a rash part, as all the world should 
understand the just indignation of my breast, by the revenge I 
would take on false Don Fernando and the mutable and dismayed 
traitress. But my destiny, which hath reserved me for greater evils 
(if possibly there be any greater than mine own), ordained that 
instant my wit should abound, whereof ever since I have so great 
want; and therefore, without will to take revenge of my greatest 
enemies (of whom I might have taken it with all facility, by reason 
they suspected so little my being there), I determined to take it on 
myself, and execute in myself the pain which they deserved, and 
that perhaps with more rigour than I would have used toward them 
if I had slain them at that time, seeing that the sudden death fin- 
isheth presently the pain; but that which doth lingeringly torment, 
kills always, without ending the life. 

'To be short, I went out of the house, and came to the other where 
I had left my mule, which I caused to be saddled; and, without 
bidding mine host adieu, I mounted on her, and rode out of the 
city, without daring, like another Lot, to turn back and behold it; 
and then, seeing myself alone in the fields, and that the darkness of 
the night did cover me, and the silence thereof invite me to complain, 
without respect or fear to be heard or known, I did let slip my voice, 
and untied my tongue with so many curses of Lucinda and Don 
Fernando, as if thereby I might satisfy the wrong they had done me. 
I gave her the title of cruel, ungrateful, false, and scornful, but 
esf)ecially of covetous, seeing the riches of mine enemy had shut 
up the eyes of her affection, to deprive me thereof, and render it to 
him with whom fortune had dealt more frankly and liberally; and 


in the midst of this tune of maledictions and scorns, I did excuse 
her, saying, That it was no marvel that a maiden kept close in her 
parents' house, made and accustomed always to obey them, should 
at last condescend to their will, specially seeing they bestowed upon 
her for husband so noble, so rich, and proper a gentleman, as to 
refuse him would be reputed in her to proceed either from want of 
judgment, or from having bestowed her affections elsewhere, which 
things must of force greatly prejudice her good opinion and renown. 
Presendy would I turn again to say, that though she had told them 
that I was her spouse, they might easily (jerceive that in choosing 
me she had not made so ill an election that she might not be excused, 
seeing that before Don Fernando offered himself, they themselves 
could not happen to desire, if their wishes were guided by reason, 
so fit a match for their daughter as myself; and she might easily 
have said, before she put herself in that last and forcible pass of 
giving her hand, that 1 had already given her mine, which I would 
come out to confess, and confirm all that she could any way feign in 
this case; and concluded in the end, that httle love, less judgment, 
much ambition, and desire of greatness caused her to forget the 
words wherewithal she had deceived, entertained, and sustained me 
in my firm hof)es and honest desires. 

'Using these words, and feeling this unquietness in my breast, 
I travelled all the rest of the night, and struck about dawn into one 
of the entries of these mountains, through which I travelled three 
days at random, without following or finding any path or way, 
until I arrived at last to certain meadows and fields, that lie I know 
not in which part of these mountains; and finding there certain 
herds, I demanded of them which way lay the most craggy and 
inaccessible places of these rocks, and they directed me hither; and 
presently I travelled towards it, with purpose here to end my life; 
and, entering in among those deserts, my mule, through weariness 
and hunger, fell dead under me, or rather, as I may better suppose, 
to disburden himself of so vile and unprofitable a burden as he 
carried of me. I remained afoot, overcome by nature, and pierced 
through and through by hunger, without having any help, or know- 
ing who might succour me, and remained after that manner I know 
not how long, prostrate on the ground, and then I rose again without 


any hunger, and I found near unto me certain goatherds, who were 
those doubtlessly that fed me in my hunger; for they told me in 
what manner they found me, and how I spake so many foolish and 
mad words as gave certain argument that I was devoid of judg- 
ment; and I have felt in myself since that time that I enjoy not my 
wits perfectly, but rather perceive them to be so weakened and 
impaired, as I commit a hundred foUies, tearing mine apparel, crying 
loudly through these deserts, cursing my fates, and idly repeating 
the abhorred name of mine enemy, without having any other intent 
or discourse at that time than to endeavour to finish my life ere long; 
and when I turn to myself, I am so broken and tired as I am scarce 
able to stir me. My most ordinary mansion-place is in the hoUowness 
of a cork-tree, sufficiently able to cover this wretched carcase. The 
cowherds and the goatherds that feed their cattle here in these 
mountains, moved by charity, gave me sustenance, leaving meat for 
me by the ways and on the rocks which they suppose I frequent, and 
where they think I may find it; and so, although I do then want 
the use of reason, yet doth natural necessity induce me to know my 
meat, and stirreth my appetite to covet, and my will to take it. They 
tell me, when they meet me in my wits, that I do other times come 
out to the highways and take it from them violently, even when 
they themselves do offer it unto me willingly. After this manner 
do I pass my miserable life, until Heaven shall be pleased to conduct 
it to the last period, or so change my memory as I may no more 
remember the beauty and treachery of Lucinda or the injury done 
by Don Fernando; for, if it do me this favour, without depriving 
my life, then will I convert my thoughts to better discourses; if not, 
there is no other remedy but to pray God to receive my soul into 
His mercy, for I neither find valour nor strength in myself to rid 
my body out of the straits wherein for my pleasure I did at first 
willingly intrude it. 

'This is, sirs, the bitter relation of my disasters; wherefore judge 
if it be such as may be celebrated with less feeling and compassion 
than that which you may by this time have perceived in myself; and 
do not in vain labour to persuade or counsel me that which reason 
should afford you may be good for my remedy, for it will work no 
other effect in me than a medicine prescribed by a skilful physician 


to a patient that will in no sort receive it. I will have no health 
without Lucinda; and since she pleaseth to alienate herself, being 
or seeing she ought to be mine, so do I also take delight to be of 
the retinue of mishap, although I might be a retainer to good for- 
tune. She hath ordained that her changing shall establish my {perdi- 
tion; and I will labour, by procuring mine own loss, to please and 
satisfy her will. And it shall be an example to ensuing ages, that I 
alone wanted that wherewith all other wretches abounded, to whom 
the impossibility of receiving comfort proved sometimes a cure; 
but in me it is an occasion of greater feeUng and harm, because I 
am persuaded that my harms cannot end even with very death itself.' 
Here Cardenio finished his large discourse and unfortunate and 
amorous history; and just about the time that the curate was be- 
thinking himself of some comfortable reasons to answer and per- 
suade him, he was suspended by a voice arrived to his hearing, which 
with pitiful accents said what shall be recounted in the Fourth Part 
of this narration; for in this very point the wise and most absolute 
historiographer, Cid Hamet BenengeU, finished the Third Book o£ 
this history. 



Wherein is Discoursed the New and Pleasant Adventure That 
Happened to the Curate and the Barber in Sierra Morena 

MOST happy and fortunate were those times wherein the 
thrice audacious and bold knight, Don Quixote of the 
Mancha, was bestowed on the world, by whose most 
honourable resolution to revive and renew in it the already worn- 
out and well-nigh deceased exercise of arms, we joy in this our so 
niggard and scant an age of all pastimes, not only the sweetness of 
his true history, but also of the other tales and digressions contained 
therein, which are in some respects no less pleasing, artificial, and 
true than the very history itself; the which, prosecuting the carded, 
spun, and self-twined thread of the relation, says that, as the curate 
began to bethink himself uf)on some answer that might both com- 
fort and animate Cardenio, he was hindered by a voice which came 
to his hearing, said very dolefully the words ensuing: 

'O God! is it possible that I have yet found out the place which 
may serve for a hidden sepulchre to the load of this loathsome body 
that I unwillingly bear so long? Yes, it may be, if the solitariness 
of these rocks do not illude me. Ah, unfortunate that I am! how 
much more grateful companions will these crags and thickets prove 
to my designs, by affording me leisure to communicate my mishaps 
to Heaven with plaints, than that of any mortal man living, since 
there is none upon earth from whom may be expected counsel in 
doubts, ease in complaints, or in harms remedy?' The curate and 
his companions heard and understood all the words clearly, and 
forasmuch as they conjectured (as indeed it was) that those plaints 
were delivered very near unto them, they did all arise to search out 
the plaintiff; and, having gone some twenty steps thence, they 
beheld a young youth behind a rock, sitting under an ash-tree, and 



attired like a country swain, whom, by reason his face was incHned, 
as he sat washing of his feet in the clear stream that glided that 
way, they could not perfectly discern, and therefore approached 
towards him with so great silence, as they were not descried by 
him, who only attended to the washing of his feet, which were so 
white, as they properly resembled two pieces of clear crystal that 
grew among the other stones of the stream. The whiteness and 
beauty of the feet amazed them, being not made, as they well con- 
jectured, to tread clods, or measure the steps of lazy oxen, and hold- 
ing the plough, as the youth's apparel would p)ersuade them; and 
therefore the curate, who went before the rest, seeing they were 
not yet spied, made signs to the other two that they should divert 
a little out of the way, or hide themselves behind some broken cliffs 
that were near the place, which they did all of them, noting what 
the youth did with very great attention. He wore a little brown 
capouch girt very near to his body with a white towel, also a pair 
of breeches and gamashoes of the same coloured cloth, and on his 
head a clay-coloured cap; his gamashoes were lifted up half the 
leg, which verily seemed to be white alabaster. Finally, having 
washed his feet, taking out a linen kerchief from under his cap, he 
dried them therewithal, and at the taking out of the kerchief he held 
up his face, and then those which stood gazing on him had leisure 
to discern an unmatchable beauty, so surpassing great, as Cardenio, 
rounding the curate in the ear, said, 'This body, since it is not 
Lucinda, can be no human creature, but a divine.' The youth took 
off his cap at last, and, shaking his head to the one and other part, 
did dishevel and discover such beautiful hairs as those of Phoebus 
might justly emulate them; and thereby they knew the supposed 
swain to be a delicate woman; yea, and the fairest that ever the first 
two had seen in their lives, or Cardenio himself, the lovely Lucinda 
excepted; for, as he after affirmed, no feature save Lucinda's could 
contend with hers. The long and golden hairs did not only cover 
her shoulders, but did also hide her round about in such sort as 
(her feet excepted) no other part of her body appeared, they were 
so near and long. At this time her hands served her for a comb, 
which, as her feet seemed pieces of crystal in the water, so did they 
appear among her hairs like pieces of driven snow. All which 


circumstances did possess the three which stood gazing at her with 
great admiration and desire to know what she was, and therefore 
resolved to show themselves; and with the noise which they made 
when they arose, the beautiful maiden held up her head, and, re- 
moving her hairs from before her eyes with both hands, she espied 
those that had made it; and presently arising, full of fear and 
trouble, she laid hand on a packet that was by her, which seemed 
to be of apparel and thought to fly away without staying to pull 
on her shoes, or to gather up her hair. But scarce had she gone six 
paces when her delicate and tender feet, unable to abide the rough 
encounter of the stones, made her to fall to the earth; which the 
three perceiving, they came out to her, and the curate arriving first 
of all, said to her, 'Lady, whatsoever you be, stay and fear nothing; 
for we which you behold here come only with intention to do you 
service, and therefore you need not pretend so impertinent a flight, 
which neither your feet can endure, nor would we f)ermit.' 

The poor girl remained so amazed and confounded as she an- 
swered not a word; wherefore, the curate and the rest drawing 
nearer, they took her by the hand, and then he prosecuted his speech, 
saying, 'What your habit concealed from us, lady, your hairs have 
bewrayed, being manifest arguments that the causes were of no 
small moment which have thus bemasked your singular beauty 
under so unworthy array, and conducted you to this all-abandoned 
desert, wherein it was a wonderful chance to have met you, if not 
to remedy your harms, yet at least to give you some comfort, seeing 
no evil can afflict and vex one so much, and plunge him in so deep 
extremes (whilst it deprives not the life), that will wholly abhor 
from listening to the advice that is offered with a good and sincere 
intention; so that, fair lady, or lord, or what else you shall please to 
be termed, shake off your affrightment, and rehearse unto us your 
good or ill fortune; for you shall find in us jointly, or in every one 
part, companions to help you to deplore your disasters.* 

Whilst the curate made this speech, the disguised woman stood as 
one half asleep, now beholding the one, now the other, without 
once moving her lip or saying a word; just like a rustical clown, 
when rare and unseen things to him before are unexpectedly pre- 
sented to his view. 


But the curate insisting, and using other persuasive reasons 
addressed to that effect, won her at last to make a breach on her 
tedious silence, and, with a profound sigh, blow open her coral 
gates, saying somewhat to this effect: 'Since the solitariness of these 
rocks hath not been potent to conceal me, nor the dishevelling of 
my disordered hairs licensed my tongue to beHe my sex, it were in 
vain for me to feign that anew which, if you believed it, would be 
more for courtesy's sake than any other respect. Which presupposed, 
I say, good sirs, that I do gratify you highly for the liberal offers 
you have made me, which are such as have bound me to satisfy your 
demand as near as I may, although I fear the relation which I must 
make to you of my mishaps will breed sorrow at once with com- 
passion in you, by reason you shall not be able to find any salve that 
may cure, comfort, or beguile them; yet, notwithstanding, to the end 
my reputation may not hover longer suspended in your opinions, 
seeing you know me to be a woman, and view me young, alone, and 
thus attired, being things all of them able, either joined or parted, 
to overthrow the best credit, I must be enforced to unfold what I 
could otherwise most willingly conceal.' 

All this she, that appeared so comely, spoke without stop or stag- 
gering, with so ready delivery, and so sweet a voice, as her discretion 
admired them no less than her beauty; and, renewing again their 
compliments and entreaties to her to accomplish speedily her prom- 
ise, she, setting all coyness apart, drawing on her shoes very mod- 
esdy, and winding up her hair, sat her down on a stone, and the 
other three about her, where she used no little violetKe to smother 
certain rebellious tears that strove to break forth without her per- 
mission, and then, with a reposed and clear voice, she began the 
history of her life in this manner: 

'In this province of Andalusia there is a certain town from whence 
a duke derives his denomination, which makes him one of those in 
Spain are called grandees. He hath two sons — the elder is heir of 
his states, and likewise, as may be presumed, of his virtues; the 
younger is heir I know not of what, if he be not of Vellido, his 
treacheries or Galalon's frauds. My parents are this nobleman's 
vassals, of humble and low calling, but so rich as, if the goods of 
nature had equalled those of their fortunes, then should they have 


had nothing else to desire, nor I feared to see myself in the mis- 
fortunes wherein I now am plunged, for perhaps my mishaps pro- 
ceed from that of theirs, in not being nobly descended. True it is 
that they are not so base as they should therefore shame their calling, 
nor so high as may check my conceit, which persuades me that my 
disasters proceed from their lowness. In conclusion, they are but 
farmers and plain people, but without any touch or spot of bad 
blood, and, as we usually say, old, rusty Christians, yet so rusty and 
ancient as yet their riches and magnificent port gain them, by little 
and little, the title of gentility, yea, and of worship also; although 
the treasure and nobility whereof they made most price and account 
was to have had me for their daughter; and therefore, as well by 
reason that they had none other heir than myself, as also because, 
as affectionate parents, they held me most dear, I was one of the 
most made of and cherished daughters that ever father brought up. 
I was the mirror wherein they beheld themselves, the staff of their 
old age, and the subject to which they addressed all their desires, 
from which, because they were most virtuous, mine did not stray 
an inch; and even in the same manner that I was lady of their minds, 
so was I also of their goods. By me were servants admitted or dis- 
missed; the notice and account of what was sowed or reaped passed 
through my hands; of the oil-mills, the wine-presses, the number 
of great and little cattle, the bee-hives — in fine, of all that so rich a 
farmer as my father was, had, or could have, I kept the account, and 
was the steward thereof and mistress, with such care of my side, and 
pleasure of theirs, as I cannot possibly endear it enough. The times 
of leisure that I had in the day, after I had given what was necessary 
to the head servants and other labourers, I did entertain in those 
exercises which were both commendable and requisite for maidens, 
to wit, in sewing, making of bone lace, and many times handling 
the distaff; and if sometimes I left those exercises to recreate my 
mind a little, I would then take some godly book in hand, or play 
on the harp; for experience had taught me that music ordereth dis- 
ordered minds, and doth lighten the passions that afflict the spirit. 
'This was the life which I led in my father's house, the recounting 
whereof so particularly hath not been done for ostentation, nor to 
give you to understand that I am rich, but to the end you may note 


how much, without mine own fault, have I fallen from that happy 
state I have said, unto the unhappy plight into which I am now 
reduced. The history, therefore, is this, that passing my life in so 
many occupations, and that with such recollection as might be 
compared to a religious life, unseen, as I thought, by any other 
person than those of our house; for when I went to mass it was 
commonly so early, and so accompanied by my mother and other 
maid-servants, and I myself so covered and watchful as mine eyes 
did scarce see the earth whereon I trod; and yet, notwithstanding, 
those of love, or, as 1 may better term them, of idleness, to which 
lynx eyes may not be compared, did represent me to Don Fernando's 
affection and care; for this is the name of the duke's younger son of 
whom I spake before.' 

Scarce had she named Don Fernando, when Cardenio changed 
colour, and began to sweat, with such alteration of body and counte- 
nance, as the curate and barber which beheld it, feared that the 
accident of frenzy did assault him, which was wont (as they had 
heard) to possess him at times. But Cardenio did nothing else than 
sweat, and stood still, beholding now and then the country girl, 
imagining straight what she was; who, without taking notice of his 
alteration, followed on her discourse in this manner: 

'And scarce had he seen me, when (as he himself after confessed) 
he abode greatly surprised by my love, as his actions did after give 
evident demonstration. But to conclude soon the relation of those 
misfortunes which have no conclusion, I will overslip in silence the 
diligences and practices of Don Fernando, used to declare unto me 
his affection. He suborned all the folk of the house; he bestowed 
gifts and favours on my parents. Every day was a holiday and a 
day of sports in the streets where I dwelt; at night no man could 
sleep for music. The letters were innumerable that came to my 
hands, without knowing who brought them, farsed too full of amor- 
ous conceits and offers, and containing more promises and protesta- 
tions than characters. All which not only could not mollify my 
mind, but rather hardened it so much as if he were my mortal enemy; 
and therefore did construe all the endeavours he used to gain my 
goodwill to be practised to a contrary end: which I did not as ac- 
counting Don Fernando ungentle, or that I esteemed him too 


importunate; for I took a kind of delight to see myself so highly 
esteemed and beloved of so noble a gentleman; nor was I anything 
offended to see his papers written in my praise; for, if I be not 
deceived in this point, be we women ever so foul, we love to hear 
men call us beautiful. But mine honesty was that which opposed 
itself unto all these things, and the continual admonitions of my 
parents, which had by this plainly perceived Don Fernando's pre- 
tence, as one that cared not all the world should know it. They 
would often say unto me that they had deposited their honours and 
reputation in my virtue alone and discretion, and bade me consider 
the inequality that was between Don Fernando and me, and that 
I might collect by it how his thoughts (did he ever so much affirm 
the contrary) were more addressed to compass his pleasures than 
my profit; and that if I feared any inconvenience might befall, to 
the end they might cross it, and cause him to abandon his so unjust 
a pursuit, they would match me where I most liked, either to the 
best of that town or any other town adjoining, saying, they might 
easily compass it, both by reason of their great wealth and my good 
report. I fortified my resolution and integrity with these certain 
promises and the known truth which they told me, and therefore 
would never answer to Don Fernando any word that might ever 
so far off argue the least hope of condescending to his desires. All 
which cautions of mine, which I think he deemed to be disdains, 
did inflame more his lascivious appetite (for this is the name where- 
withal I entitle his affection towards me), which, had it been such 
as it ought, you had not known it now, for then the cause of reveal- 
ing it had not befallen me. Finally, Don Fernando, understanding 
how my parents meant to marry me, to the end they might make 
void his hope of ever possessing me, or at least set more guards to 
preserve mine honour, and this news or surmise was an occasion that 
he did what you shall presently hear. 

'For, one night as I sat in my chamber, only attended by a young 
maiden that served me, I having shut the doors very safe, for fear 
lest, through my negligence, my honesty might incur any danger, 
without knowing or imagining how it might happen, notwith- 
standing all my diligences used and preventions, and amidst the 
solitude of this silence and recollection, he stood before me in my 


chamber. At his presence 1 was so troubled as I lost both sight and 
speech, and by reason thereof could not cry, nor I think he would 
not, though I had attempted it, permit me; for he presently ran 
over to me, and, taking me between his arms (for, as I have said, 
I was so amazed as 1 had no power to defend myself), he spake 
such things to me as I know not how it is possible that so many lies 
should have ability to feign things resembling in show so much 
the truth; and the traitor caused tears to give credit to his words, 
and sighs to give countenance to his intention. 

'I, poor soul, being alone amidst my friends, and weakly practised 
in such affairs, began, I know not how, to account his leasings for 
verities, but not in such sort as his tears or sighs might any wise 
move me to any compassion that were not commendable. And so, 
the first trouble and amazement of mind being past, I began again 
to recover my defective spirits, and then said to him, with more 
courage than I thought I should have had, "If, as I am, my lord, 
between your arms, I were between the paws of a fierce lion, and 
that I were made certain of my liberty on condition to do or say 
anything prejudicial to mine honour, it would prove as impossible 
for me to accept it as for that which once hath been to leave off his 
essence and being. Wherefore, even as you have engirt my middle 
with your arms, so likewise have I tied fast my mind with virtuous 
and forcible desires that are wholly different from yours, as you 
shall perceive, if, seeking to force me, you presume to pass further 
with your inordinate design. 1 am your vassal, but not your slave; 
nor hath the nobility of your blood power, nor ought it to harden, 
to dishonour, stain, or hold in httle account the humility of mine; 
and I do esteem myself, though a country wench and farmer's 
daughter, as much as you can yourself, though a nobleman and a 
lord. With me your violence shall not prevail, your riches gain any 
grace, your words have power to deceive, or your sighs and tears 
be able to move; yet, if I shall find any of these properties mentioned 
in him whom my parent shall please to bestow on me for my spouse, 
I will presently subject my will to his, nor shall it ever vary from 
his mind a jot; so that, if I might remain with honour, although 
I rested void of delights, yet would I wilUngly bestow on you that 
which you presently labour so much to obtain: all which I do say 


to divert your straying thought from ever thinking that any one 
may obtain of me aught who is not my lawful spouse." "If the let 
only consists therein, most beautiful Dorothea" (for so I am called), 
answered the disloyal lord, "behold, I give thee here my hand to 
be thine alone; and let the heavens, from which nothing is con- 
cealed, and this image of Our Lady, which thou hast here present, 
be witnesses of this truth!" ' 

When Cardenio heard her say that she was called Dorothea, he 
fell again into his former suspicion, and in the end confirmed his 
first opinion to be true, but would not interrupt her sf)eech, being 
desirous to know the success, which he knew wholly almost before, 
and therefore said only, 'Lady, is it possible that you are named 
Dorothea? I have heard report of another of that name, which 
perhaps hath run the like course of your misfortune; but I request 
you to continue your relation, for a time may come wherein I may 
recount unto you things of the same kind, which will breed no small 
admiration.' Dorothea noted Cardenio's words and his uncouth 
and disastrous attire, and then entreated him very instantly if he 
knew anything of her afifairs he would acquaint her therewithal; 
for if fortune had left her any good, it was only the courage which 
she had to bear patiently any disaster that might befall her, being 
certain in her opinion that no new one could arrive which might 
increase a whit those she had already. 

'Lady, I would not let slip the occasion,' quoth Cardenio, 'to tell 
you what I think, if that which I imagine were true; and yet there 
is no commodity left to do it, nor can it avail you much to know it.' 
'Let it be what it list,' said Dorothea; 'but that which after befel of 
my relation was this: That Don Fernando took an image that was 
in my chamber for witness of our contract, and added withal most 
forcible words and unusual oaths, promising unto me to become my 
husband; although I warned him, before he had ended his speech, 
to see well what he did, and to weigh the wrath of his father when 
he should see him married to one so base and his vassal, and that 
therefore he should take heed that my beauty (such as it was) 
should not blind him, seeing he should not find therein a sufficient 
excuse for his error, and that if he meant to do me any good, I 
conjured him, by the love that he bore unto me, to licence my for- 

Dorothea's story 261 

tunes to rule in their own sphere, according as my quality reached; 
for such unequal matches do never please long, nor persevere with 
that delight wherewithal they began. 

'AH the reasons here rehearsed I said unto him, and many more 
which now are fallen out of mind, but yet proved of no efficacy to 
wean him from his obstinate purpose; even like unto one that goeth 
to buy, with intention never to pay for what he takes, and there- 
fore never considers the price, worth, or defect of the stuff he takes 
to credit. I at this season made a brief discourse, and said thus to 
myself, "I may do this, for I am not the first which by matrimony 
hath ascended from a low degree to a high estate; nor shall Don 
Fernando be the first whom beauty or blind affection (for that is 
the most certain) hath induced to make choice of a consort unequal 
to his greatness. Then, since herein I create no new world nor 
custom, what error can be committed by embracing the honour 
wherewithal fortune crowns me, although it so befel that his affec- 
tion to me endured no longer than till he accomplished his will? 
for before God I certes shall still remain his wife. And if I shoiJd 
disdainfully give him the repulse, I see him now in such terms as, 
f)erhaps forgetting the duty of a nobleman, he may use violence, 
and then shall I remain for ever dishonoured, and also without 
excuse of the imputations of the ignorant, which knew not how 
much without any fault I have fallen into this inevitable danger; 
for what reasons may be sufficiently forcible to persuade my father 
and others that this nobleman did enter into my chamber without 
my consent?" All these demands and answers did I, in an instant, 
revolve in mine imagination, and found myself chiefly forced (how 
I cannot tell) to assent to his petition by the witnesses he invoked, 
the tears he shed, and finally by his sweet disposition and comely 
feature, which, accompanied with so many arguments of unfeigned 
affection, were able to conquer and enthrall any other heart, though 
it were as free and wary as mine own. Then called I for my waiting- 
maid, that she might on earth accompany the celestial witnesses. 

'And then Don Fernando turned again to reiterate and confirm his 
oaths, and added to his former other new saints as witnesses, and 
wished a thousand succeeding maledictions to light on him if he 
did not accomplish his promise to me. His eyes again waxed moist, 


his sighs increased, and himself enwreathed me more straidy be- 
tween his arms, from which he had never once loosed me; and widi 
this, and my maiden's departure, 1 left to be a maiden, and he began 
to be a traitor and a disloyal man. The day that succeeded to the 
night of my mishaps came not, I think, so soon as Don Fernando 
desired it; for, after a man hath satisfied that which the appetite 
covets, the greatest delight it can take after is to apart itself from the 
place where the desire was accomplished. 1 say this, because Don 
Fernando did hasten his departure from me: by my maid's industry, 
who was the very same that had brought him into my chamber, he 
was got in the street before dawning. And at his departure from 
me he said (although not with so great show of affection and vehe- 
mency as he had used at his coming) that I might be secure of his 
faith, and that his oaths were firm and most true; and for a more 
confirmation of his word, he took a rich ring off his finger and put it 
on mine. In fine, he departed, and I remained behind, I cannot well 
say whether joyful or sad; but this much I know, that I rested con- 
fused and pensive, and almost beside myself for the late mischance; 
yet either I had not the heart, or else I forgot to chide my maid for 
her treachery committed by shutting up Don Fernando in my 
chamber; for as yet I could not determine whether that which had 
befallen me was a good or an evil. 

'I said to Don Fernando, at his departure, that he might see me 
other nights when he pleased, by the same means he had come that 
night, seeing I was his own, and would rest so, until it pleased him 
to let the world know that I was his wife. But he never returned 
again but the next night following, nor could I see him after, for 
the space of a month, either in the street or church, so as I did but 
spend time in vain to expect him; although I understood that he was 
still in town, and rode every other day a-hunting, an exercise to 
which he was much addicted. 

'Those days were, I know, unfortunate and accursed to me, and 
those hours sorrowful; for in them I began to doubt, nay, rather 
wholly to discredit Don Fernando's faith; and my maid did then 
hear loudly the checks I gave unto her for her presumption, ever 
until then dissembled; and I was, moreover, constrained to watch 
and keep guard on my tears and countenance, lest I should give 

Dorothea's story 263 

occasion to my parents to demand of me the cause of my discontents, 
and thereby engage me to use ambages or untruths to cover them. 
But all this ended in an instant, one moment arriving whereon all 
these respects stumbled, all honourable discourses ended, patience 
was lost, and my most hidden secrets issued in public; which was, 
when there was spread a certain rumour throughout the town, 
within a few days after, that Don Fernando had married, in a city 
near adjoining, a damsel of surpassing beauty, and of very noble 
birth, although not so rich as could deserve, by her preferment or 
dowry, so worthy a husband; it was also said that she was named 
Lucinda, with many other things that happened at their espousals 
worthy of admiration.' Cardenio hearing Lucinda named did noth- 
ing else but lift up his shoulders, bite his lip, bend his brows, and 
after a little while shed from his eyes two floods of tears. But yet 
for all that Dorothea did not interrupt the file of her history, saying, 
'This doleful news came to my hearing; and my heart, instead of 
freezing thereat, was so inflamed with choler and rage, as I had well- 
nigh run out to the streets, and with outcries published the deceit 
and treason that was done to me; but my fury was presently assuaged 
by the resolution which I made to do what I put in execution the 
very same night, and then I put on this habit which you see, being 
given unto me by one of those that among us country-folk are called 
swains, who was my father's servant; to whom I disclosed all my 
misfortunes, and requested him to accompany me to the city where 
I understood my enemy sojourned. He, after he had reprehended 
my boldness, perceiving me to have an inflexible resolution, made 
offer to attend on me, as he said, unto the end of the world; and 
presently after I trussed up in a pillow-bear a woman's attire, some 
money, and jewels, to prevent necessities that might befal; and in 
the silence of night, without acquainting my treacherous maid with 
my purpose, I issued out of my house, accompanied by my servant 
and many imaginations, and in that manner set on towards the city, 
and though I went on foot, was yet borne away flying by my desires, 
to come, if not in time enough to hinder that which was past, yet at 
least to demand of Don Fernando that he would tell me with what 
conscience of soul he had done it. I arrived where I wished within 
two days and a half; and at the entry of the city I demanded where 


Lucinda her father dwelt; and he of whom I first demanded the 
question answered me more than I desired to hear. He showed me 
the house, and recounted to me all that befel at the daughter's 
marriage, being a thing so public and known in the city, as men 
made meetings of purpose to discourse thereof. 

'He said to me that the very night wherein Don Fernando was 
espoused to Lucinda, after she had given her consent to be his wife, 
she was instantly assailed by a terrible accident that struck her into a 
trance, and her spouse approaching to unclasp her bosom that she 
might take the air, found a paper folded in it, written with Lucinda's 
own hand, wherein she said and declared that she could not be Don 
Fernando's wife, because she was already Cardenio's, who was, as 
the man told me, a very principal gentleman of the same city; and 
that if she had given her consent to Don Fernando, it was only done 
because she would not disobey her parents. In conclusion, he told 
me that the paper made also mention how she had a resolution to 
kill herself presently after the marriage, and did also lay down 
therein the motives she had to do it; all which, as they say, was con- 
firmed by a poniard that was found hidden about her in her apparel. 
Which Don Fernando perceiving, presuming that Lucinda did flout 
him, and hold him in little account, he set upxjn her ere she was come 
to herself, and attempted to kill her with the very same poniard, and 
had done it, if her father and other friends which were present had 
not opposed themselves and hindered his determination. Moreover, 
they reported that presently after Don Fernando absented himself 
from the city, and that Lucinda turned not out of her agony until 
the next day, and then recounted to her parents how she was verily 
spouse to that Cardenio of whom we spake even now. I learned 
besides that Cardenio, as it is rumoured, was present at the marriage, 
and that as soon as he saw her married, being a thing he would 
never have credited, departed out of the city in a desperate mood, 
but first left behind him a letter, wherein he showed at large the 
wrong Lucinda had done to him, and that he himself meant to go 
to some place where people should never after hear of him. All this 
was notorious, and publicly bruited throughout the city, and every 
one spoke thereof, but most of all having very soon after understood 
that Lucinda was missing from her parents' house and the city, for 

Dorothea's story 265 

she could not be found in neither of both; for which her parents were 
almost beside themselves, not knowing what means to use to find her. 
'These news reduced my hof)es again to their ranks, and I esteemed 
it better to find Don Fernando unmarried than married, presuming 
that yet the gates of my remedy were not wholly shut, I giving my- 
self to understand that Heaven had peradventure set that impedi- 
ment on the second marriage to make him understand what he 
ought to the first, and to remember how he was a Christian, and 
that he was more obliged to his soul than to human respects. I 
revolved all these things in my mind, and comfortless did yet com- 
fort myself, by feigning large yet languishing hopes, to sustain that 
life which I now do so much abhor. And whilst I stayed thus in the 
city, ignorant what I might do, seeing I found not Don Fernando, 
I heard a crier go about publicly, promising great rewards to any 
one that could find me out, giving signs of the very age and apparel 
I wore; and I likewise heard it was bruited abroad that the youth 
which came with me had carried me away from my father's house 
—a thing that touched my soul very nearly, to view my credit so 
greatly wrecked, seeing that it was not sufficient to have lost it by 
my coming away, without the addition [of] him with whom I 
departed, being a subject so base and unworthy of my loftier 
thoughts. Having heard this cry, I departed out of the city with my 
servant, who even then began to give tokens that he faltered in the 
fidelity he had promised to me; and both of us together entered the 
very same night into the most hidden parts of this mountain, fearing 
lest we might be found. But, as it is commonly said that one evil 
calls on another, and that the end of one disaster is the beginning of 
a greater, so proved it with me; for my good servant, until then 
faithful and trusty, rather incited by his villany than my beauty, 
thought to have taken the benefit of the opportunity which these 
inhabitable places offered, and solicited me of love, with little shame 
and less fear of God, or respect of myself; and now seeing that I 
answered his impudences with severe and reprehensive words, leav- 
ing the entreaties aside wherewithal he thought first to have com- 
passed his will, he began to use his force; but just Heaven, which 
seldom or never neglects the just man's assistance, did so favour my 
proceedings, as with my weak forces, and very little labour, I threw 


him down a steep rock, and there I left him, I know not whether 
alive or dead; and presently I entered in among these mountains 
with more swiftness than my fear and weariness required, having 
therein no other project or design than to hide myself in them, and 
shun my father and others, which by his entreaty and means sought 
for me everywhere. 

'Some months are past since my first coming here, where I found 
a herdman, who carried me to a village seated in the midst of these 
rocks, wherein he dwelt, and entertained me, whom I have served 
as a shepherd ever since, procuring as much as lay in me to abide 
still in the field, to cover these hairs which have now so unexpectedly 
betrayed me; yet all my care and industry availed not, seeing my 
master came at last to the notice that I was no man, but a woman, 
which was an occasion that the like evil thought sprung in him as 
before in my servant; and as fortune gives not always remedy for 
the difficulties which occur, I found neither rock nor downfall 
to cool and cure my master's infirmity, as I had done for my man, 
and therefore I accounted it a less inconvenience to depart thence, 
and hide myself again among these deserts, than to adventure the 
trial of my strength or reason with him; therefore, as I say, I turned 
to imbosk myself, and search out some place where, without any 
encumbrance, I might entreat Heaven, with my sighs and tears, to 
have compassion on my mishap, and lend me industry and favour, 
either to issue fortunately out of it, or else to die amidst these soli- 
tudes, not leaving any memory of a wretch, who hath ministered 
matter, although not through her own default, that men may speak 
and murmur of her, both in her own and in other countries.' 


Which Treats of the Discretion of the Beautiful Dorothea, 
AND THE Artificial Manner Used to Dissuade the Amorous 
Knight from Continuing His Penance; and How He Was 
Gotten Away; With Many Other Delightful and Pleasant 

THIS is, sirs, the true relation of my tragedy; see therefore, 
now, and judge, whether the sighs you heard, the words to 
which you listened, and the tears that gushed out at mine 
eyes, have not had sufficient occasion to appear in greater abundance; 
and, having considered the quality of my disgrace, you shall per- 
ceive all comfort to be vain, seeing the remedy thereof is impossible. 
Only I will request at your hands one favour, which you ought 
and may easily grant, and is, that you will address me unto some 
place where I may live secure from the fear and suspicion I have 
to be found by those which I know do daily travel in my pursuit; 
for although I am sure that my parents' great affection toward me 
doth warrant me to be kindly received and entertained by them, 
yet the shame is so great that possesseth me, only to think that I 
shall not return to their presence in that state which they expect, 
as I account it far better to banish myself from their sight for ever, 
than once to behold their face with the least suspicion that they 
again would behold mine, divorced from that honesty which whilom 
my modest behaviour promised.' Here she ended, and her face, 
suddenly overrun by a lovely scarlet, perspicuously denoted the 
feeling and bashfulness of her soul. 

The audients of her sad story felt great motions both of pity and 
admiration for her misfortunes; and although the curate thought 
to comfort and counsel her forthwith, yet was he prevented by 
Cardenio, who, taking her first by the hand, said at last, 'Lady, thou 
art the beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Clenardo.' Dorothea 
rested admired when she heard her father's name, and saw of how 



little value he seemed who had named him, for we have already 
recounted how raggedly Cardenio was clothed; and therefore she 
said unto him, 'And who art thou, friend, that knowest so well my 
father's name? for until this hour (if I have not forgotten myself) 
I did not once name him throughout the whole discourse of my 
unfortunate tale.' 

'I am,' answered Cardenio, 'the unlucky knight whom Lucinda 
(as thou saidst) affirmed to be her husband. I am the disastrous 
Cardenio, whom the wicked proceeding of him that hath also 
brought thee to those terms wherein thou art, hath conducted me to 
the state in which I am, and thou mayst behold — ragged, naked, 
abandoned by all human comfort, and, what is worse, void of sense, 
seeing I only enjoy it but at some few short times, and that when 
Heaven pleaseth to lend it me. I am he, Dorothea, that was present 
at Don Fernando's unreasonable wedding, and that heard the con- 
sent which Lucinda gave him to be his wife. I was he that had 
not the courage to stay and see the end of her trance, or what became 
of the pap)er found in her bosom; for my soul had not power or 
sufferance to behold so many misfortunes at once, and therefore 
abandoned the place and my patience together, and only left a 
letter with mine host, whom I entreated to deliver it into Lucinda 
her own hands, and then came into these deserts, with resolution 
to end in them my miserable life, which, since that hour, 1 have 
hated as my most mortal enemy; but fortune hath not pleased to 
deprive me of it, thinking it sufficient to have impaired my wit, per- 
haps reserving me for the good success befallen me now in finding 
of yourself; for, that being true (as I believe it is) which you have 
here discoursed, peradventure it may have reserved yet better hap 
for us both in our disasters than we expect. 

'For, presupposing that Lucinda cannot marry with Don Fer- 
nando, because she is mine, nor Don Fernando with her, because 
yours, and that she hath declared so manifestly the same, we may 
well hope that Heaven hath means to restore to every one that 
which is his own, seeing it yet consists in being not made away or 
annihilated. And seeing this comfort remains, not sprung from any 
very remote hope, nor founded on idle surmises, I request thee, fair 
lady, to take another resolution in thine honourable thought, seeing 


1 mean to do it in mine, and let us accommodate ourselves to expect 
better success; for I do vow unto thee, by the faith of a gentleman 
and Christian, not to forsake thee until I see thee in Don Fernando's 
possession; and when I shall not, by reasons, be able to induce him 
to acknowledge how far he rests indebted to thee, then will I use 
the liberty granted to me as a gentleman, and with just title challenge 
him to the field in respect of the wrong he hath done unto thee, for- 
getting wholly mine own injuries, whose revenge I will leave to 
Heaven, that I may be able to right yours on earth.' 

Dorothea rested wonderfully admired, having known and heard 
Cardenio, and, ignoring what competent thanks she might return 
him in satisfaction of his large offers, she cast herself down at his 
feet to have kissed them, which Cardenio would not permit; and 
the licentiate answered for both, praising greatly Cardenio's dis- 
course, and chiefly entreated, prayed, and counselled them, that they 
would go with him to his village, where they might fit themselves 
with such things as they wanted, and also take order how to search 
out Don Fernando, or carry Dorothea to her father's house, or do 
else what they deemed most convenient. Cardenio and Dorothea 
gratified his courtesies, and accepted the favour he preferred. The 
barber also, who had stood all the while silent and suspended, made 
them a pretty discourse, with as friendly an offer of himself and his 
service as master curate, and likewise did briefly relate the occasion 
of their coming thither with the extravagant kind of madness which 
Don Quixote had, and how they expected now his squire's return, 
whom they had sent to search for him. Cardenio having heard 
him named, remembered presently, as in a dream, the conflict 
passed between them both, and recounted it unto them, but 
could not in any wise call to mind the occasion thereof. 

By this time they heard one call for them, and knew by the 
voice that it was Sancho Panza's, who, because he found them not 
in the place where he had left them, cried out for them as loudly 
as he might. They went to meet him, and demanding for Don 
Quixote, he answered that he found him all naked to his shirt, lean, 
yellow, almost dead for hunger, and sighing for his Lady Dulcinea; 
and, although he had told him how she commanded him to repair 
presently to Toboso, where she expected him, yet, notwithstanding, 


he answered that he was determined never to appear before her 
beauty until he had done feats that should make him worthy of her 
gracious favour. And then the squire affirmed, if that humour 
passed on any further, he feared his lord would be in danger never 
to become an emperor, as he was bound in honour, no, nor a cardinal, 
which was the least that could be expected of him. 

The licentiate bid him be of good cheer, for they would bring 
him from thence whether he would or no; and recounted to Car- 
denio and Dorothea what they had bethought for Don Quixote's 
remedy, or, at least, for the carrying him home to his house. To 
that Dorothea answered that she would counterfeit the distressed 
lady better than the barber, and chiefly seeing she had apparel 
wherewithal to act it most naturally, and therefore desired them to 
leave to her charge the representing of all that which should be 
needful for the achieving of their design; for she had read many 
books of knighthood, and knew well the style that distressed 
damsels used when they requested any favour of knights-adventur- 
ers. 'And then need we nothing else,' quoth the curate, 'but only 
to put our purpose presently in execution; for, questionless, good 
success turns on our side, seeing it hath so unexpectedly begun 
already to open the gates of your remedy, and hath also facilitated 
for us that whereof we had most necessity in this exigent.' Dorothea 
took forthwith out of her pillow-bear a whole gown of very rich 
stuff, and a short mantle of another green stuff, and a collar, and 
many other rich jewels out of a box, wherewithal she adorned 
herself in a trice so gorgeously as she seemed a very rich and goodly 
lady. All which, and much more, she had brought with her, as she 
said, from her house, to prevent what might happen, but never had 
any use of them until then. Her grace, gesture, and beauty liked 
them all extremely, and made them account Don Fernando to be a 
man of little understanding, seeing he contemned such feature. 
But he which was most of all admired was Sancho Panza, because, 
as he thought (and it was so indeed), that he had not in all the 
days of his life before seen so fair a creature; and he requested the 
curate, very seriously, to tell him who that beautiful lady was, and 
what she sought among those thoroughfares. 'This fair lady, friend 
Sancho,' answered the curate, 'is (as if a man said nothing she is so 


great) heir-apparent, by direct line, of the mighty kingdom of 
Micomicon, and comes in the search of your lord, to demand a 
boon of him, which is, that he will destroy and undo a great wrong 
done unto her by a wicked giant; and, through the great fame 
which is spread over all Guinea of your lord's prowess, this princess 
is come to find him out.' 'A happy searcher, and a fortunate finding!' 
quoth Sancho; 'and chiefly, if my master be so happy as to right that 
injury and redress that wrong by killing that, O! the mighty lubber 
of a giant whom you say. Yes, he will kill him, I am very certain, 
if he can once but meet him, and if he be not a spirit; for my master 
hath no kind of power over spirits. But I must request one favour 
of you among others most earnestly, good master licentiate, and it is, 
that to the end my lord may not take an humour of becoming a 
cardinal (which is the thing I fear most in this world), that you 
will give him counsel to marry this princess presently, and by that 
means he shall remain incapable of the dignity of a cardinal, and 
will come very easily by his empire, and I to the end of my desires; 
for I have thought well of the matter, and have found that it is in 
no wise expedient that my lord should become a cardinal; for I am 
wholly unfit for any ecclesiastical dignity, seeing I am a married man, 
and therefore, to trouble myself now with seeking of dispensations 
to enjoy church livings, having, as I have, both wife and children, 
were never to end. 'So that all my good consists in that my lord do 
marry this princess instantly, whose name yet I know not, and 
therefore I have not said it.' 'She is hight,' quoth the curate, 'the 
Princess Micomicona; for her kingdom being called Micomicon, 
it is evident she must be termed so.' 

'That is questionless,' quoth Sancho; 'for I have known many 
to take their denomination and surname from the place of their 
birth, calling themselves Peter of Alcala, John of Ubeda, and 
James of Valladolid; and perhaps in Guinea princes and queens 
use the same custom, and call themselves by the names of their 

'So I think,' quoth the curate; 'and as touching your master's 
marriage with her, I will labour therein as much as lies in my 
power.' Wherewithal Sancho remained as well satisfied as the 
curate admired at his simplicity, and to see how firmly he had 


fixed in his fantasy the very ravings of his master, seeing he did 
believe without doubt that his lord should become an emperor. 
Dorothea in this space had gotten upon the curate's mule, and the 
barber had somewhat better fitted the beard which he made of 
the ox's tail on his face, and did after entreat Sancho to guide them 
to the place where Don Quixote was, and advertised him withal 
that he should in no wise take any notice of the curate or barber, 
or confess in any sort that he knew them, for therein consisted 
all the means of bringing Don Quixote to the mind to become an 
emperor. Yet Cardenio would not go with them, fearing lest thereby 
Don Quixote might call to mind their contention; and the curate, 
thinking also that his presence was not expedient, remained with 
him, letting the others go before, and these followed afar off fair 
and softly on foot; and ere they departed, the curate instructed 
Dorothea anew what she should say, who bid him to fear nothing, 
for she would discharge her part to his satisfaction, and as books 
of chivalry required and laid down. 

They travelled about three-quarters of a league, as they espied the 
knight, and at last they discovered him among a number of intricate 
rocks, all apparelled, but not armed; and as soon as Dorothea beheld 
him, she struck her palfrey, her well-bearded barber following her; 
and as they approached Don Quixote, the barber leaped lightly 
down from his mule and ran towards Dorothea to take her down 
between his arms, who, alighting, went with a very good grace 
towards Don Quixote, and kneeled before him. And although he 
strived to make her arise, yet she, remaining still on her knees, spake 
to him in this manner: 'I will not arise from hence, thrice valorous 
and approved knight, until your bounty and courtesy shall grant 
unto me one boon, which shall much redound unto your honour and 
prize of your person, and to the profit of the most disconsolate and 
wronged damsel that the sun hath ever seen. And if it be so that 
the valour of your invincible arm be correspondent to the bruit of 
your immortal fame, you are obliged to succour this comfortless 
wight that comes from lands so remote, to the sound of your 
famous name, searching you for to remedy her mishaps.' 

'I will not answer you a word, fair lady,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'nor hear a jot of your affair, until you arise from the ground.' 


'I will not get up from hence, my lord,' quoth the afflicted lady, 'if 
first, of your wonted bounty, you do not grant to my request.' 'I do 
give and grant it,' said Don Quixote, 'so that it be not a thing that 
may turn to the damage or hindrance of my king, my country, or 
of her that keeps the key of my heart and hberty.' 'It shall not turn 
to the damage or hindrance of those you have said, good sir,' re- 
plied the dolorous damsel; and, as she was saying this, Sancho Panza 
rounded his lord in the ear, saying softly to him, 'Sir, you may very 
well grant the request she asketh, for it is a matter of nothing; it is 
only to kill a monstrous giant, and she that demands it is the mighty 
Princess Micomicona, queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon in 
Ethiopia.' 'Let her be what she will,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for I will 
accomplish what I am bound, and my conscience shall inform me 
conformable to the state 1 have professed.' And then, turning to 
the damsel, he said, 'Let your great beauty arise; for I grant to you 
any boon which you shall please to ask of me.' 'Why, then,' quoth 
the damsel, 'that which I demand is that your magnanimous person 
come presently away with me to the place where I shall carry you, 
and do likewise make me a promise not to undertake any other 
adventure or demand until you revenge me upon a traitor who hath, 
against all laws, both divine and human, usurped my kingdom.' 
'I say that I grant you all that,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and therefore, 
lady, you may cast away from this day forward all the melancholy 
that troubles you, and labour that your languishing and dismayed 
hopes may recover again new strength and courage; for, by the 
help of God, and that of mine arm, you shall see yourself shortly 
restored to your kingdom, and enthroned in the chair of your 
ancient and great estate, in despite and maugre the traitors that 
shall dare gainsay it: and therefore, hands, to the work; for they 
say that danger always follows delay.' The distressed damsel strove 
with much ado to kiss his hand, but Don Quixote, who was a most 
accomplished knight for courtesy, would never condescend there- 
unto; but, making her arise, he embraced her with great kindness 
and respect, and commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante, and help 
him to arm himself. 

Sancho took down the arms forthwith, which hung on a tree 
like trophies, and, searching the girths, armed his lord in a moment, 

274 ^^^ QUIXOTE 

who, seeing himself armed, said, 'Let us, in God's name, depart 
from hence to assist this great lady.' The barber kneeled all this 
while, and could with much ado dissemble his laughter, or keep 
on his beard that threatened still to fall off, with whose fall, perhaps, 
they should all have remained without bringing their good purpose 
to pass. And seeing that the boon was granted, and noted the 
diligence wherewithal Don Quixote made himself ready to depart 
and accomplish the same, he arose and took his lady by the hand, 
and both of them together holp her upon her mule; and presently 
after Don Quixote leaped on Rozinante, and the barber got on his 
beast, Sancho only remaining afoot, where he afresh renewed the 
memory of the loss of his grey ass, with the want procured to him 
thereby; but all this he bore with very great patience, because he 
supposed that his lord was now in the way and next degree to be 
an emperor; for he made an infallible account that he would marry 
that princess, and at least be king of Micomicon. But yet it grieved 
him to think how that kingdom was in the country of black Moors, 
and that therefore the nation which should be given to him for his 
vassals should be all black, for which difficulty his imagination coined 
presendy a good remedy, and he discoursed with himself in this 
manner: 'Why should I care though my subjects be all black Moors? 
Is there any more to be done than to load them in a ship and bring 
them into Spain, where I may sell them, and receive the price of 
them in ready money? And with that money may I buy some 
title or office, wherein I may after live at mine ease all the days of 
my hfe. No! but sleep, and have no wit or ability to dispose of 
things; and to sell thirty or ten thousands vassals in the space that 
one would say. Give me those straws. I will despatch them all; they 
shall fly, the little with the great, or as I can best contrive the matter; 
and be they ever so black, I will transform them into white or yellow 
ones. Come near, and see whether I cannot suck well my lingers' 
ends.' And thus he travelled, so solicitous and glad as he quite 
forgot his pain of travelling afoot. Cardenio and the curate stood in 
the meantime beholding all that passed from behind some brambles 
where they lay lurking, and were in doubt what means to use to 
issue and join in company with them. But the curate, who was an 
ingenious and prompt plotter, devised instandy what was to be 


done that they might attain their desire. Thus, he took out of his 
case a pair of shears, and cut off Cardenio's beard therewithal in a 
trice, and then gave unto him to wear a riding capouch which he 
himself had on, and a black cloak, and himself walked in a doublet 
and hose. Cardcnio, thus attired, looked so unlike that he was 
before, as he would not have known himself in a looking-glass. This 
being finished, and the others gone on before whilst they disguised 
themselves, they sallied out with facility to the highway before Don 
Quixote or his company; for the rocks and many other bad passages 
did not permit those that were a-horseback to make so speedy an 
end of their journey as they. And having thoroughly passed the 
mountain, they expHXted at the foot thereof for the knight and his 
company, who when he appeared, the curate looked on him very 
earnestly for a great space, with inkling that he began to know him. 
And after he had a good while beheld him, he ran towards him 
with his arms spread abroad, saying, 'In a good hour be the mirror 
of all knighthood found, and my noble countryman, Don Quixote 
of the Mancha! the flower and cream of gentiUty, the shadow and 
remedy of the afflicted, and the quintessence of knights-errant!' and, 
saying this, he held Don Quixote his left thigh embraced; who, 
admiring at that which he heard that man to say and do, did also 
review him with attention, and finally knew him, and, all amazed to 
see him, made much ado to alight; but the curate would not per- 
mit him. Wherefore Don Quixote said, 'Good master licentiate, 
permit me to alight; for it is in no sort decent that I be a-horseback, 
and so reverend a person as you go on foot.' 'I will never consent 
thereunto,* quoth the curate; 'your highness must needs stay on 
horseback, seeing that thereon you are accustomed to achieve the 
greatest feats of chivalry and adventures which were ever seen in our 
age. For it shall suffice me, who am an unworthy priest, to get up 
behind some one of these other gentlemen that ride in your com- 
pany, if they will not take it in bad part; yea, and I will make ac- 
count that I ride on Pegasus, or the zebra of the famous Moor 
Muzaraque, who lies yet enchanted in the steep rock of Zulema, near 
unto Alcala of Henares.' 

'Truly, I did not think upon it, good master licentiate,' answered 
Don Quixote; 'yet, I presume, my lady the princess will be well 


apaid, for my sake, to command her squire to lend you the use of 
his saddle, and to get up himself on the crupper, if so it be that the 
beast will bear double.' 'Yes, that it will,' said the princess, 'for 
aught I know; and likewise, I am sure, it will not be necessary to 
command my squire to alight, for he is of himself so courteous and 
courtly as he will in no wise condescend that an ecclesiastical man 
should go on foot when he may help him to a horse.' 

'That is most certain,' quoth the barber; and, saying so, he alighted, 
and entreated the curate to take the saddle, to which courtesy he did 
easily condescend. But, by evil fortune, as the barber thought to 
leap up behind him, the mule, which was in effect a hired one, and 
that is sufficient to say it was unhappy, did lift a little her hinder 
quarters, and bestowed two or three flings on the air, which had 
they hit on Master Nicholas his breast or pate, he would have be- 
queathed the quest of Don Quixote upon the devil. But, notwith- 
standing, the barber was so affrighted as he fell on the ground, with 
so little heed of his beard as it fell quite off and lay spread upon 
the ground; and, perceiving himself without it, he had no other 
shift but to cover his face with both his hands, and complain that 
all his cheek teeth were strucken out. Don Quixote, beholding such 
a great sheaf of a beard fallen away, without jaw or blood, from the 
face, he said, 'I vow this is one of the greatest miracles that ever I 
saw in my life; it hath taken and plucked away his beard as smoothly 
as if it were done of purpose.' The curate beholding the danger which 
their invention was like to incur if it were detected, went forthwith, 
and, taking up the beard, came to Master Nicholas, that lay still 
a-playing, and, with one push, bringing his head towards his own 
breast, he set it on again, murmuring the while over him certain 
words, which he said were a certain prayer appropriated to the 
setting on of fallen beards, as they should soon perceive; and so, 
having set it on handsomely, the squire remained as well bearded 
and whole as ever he was in his life. Whereat Don Quixote rested 
marvellously admired, and requested the curate to teach him that 
prayer when they were at leisure; for he supposed that the virtue 
thereof extended itself further than to the fastening on of beards, 
since it was manifest that the place whence the beard was torn must 
have remained without flesh, wounded, and ill dight, and, seeing it 


cured all, it must of force serve for more than the beard. 'It is true,' 
replied master curate; and then promised to instruct him with the 
secret with the first opportunity that was presented. 

Then they agreed that the curate should ride first on the mule, 
and after him the other two, each one by turns, until they arrived 
to the inn, which was about some two leagues thence. Three being 
thus mounted (to wit, Don Quixote, the princess, and curate), and 
the other three on foot (Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza), 
Don Quixote said to the damsel, 'Madam, let me entreat your high- 
ness to lead me the way that most pleaseth you.' And before she 
could answer, the licentiate said, 'Towards what kingdom would 
you travel? Is it, by fortune, towards that of Micomicon? I sup- 
pose it should be thitherwards, or else I know but little of king- 
doms.' She, who knew very well the curate's meaning, and was 
herself no babe, answered, saying, 'Yes, sir, my way lies towards 
that kingdom.' 'If it be so,' quoth the curate, 'you must pass through 
the village where I dwell, and from thence direct your course 
towards Carthagena, where you may luckily embark yourselves. 
And if you have a prosperous wind, and a quiet and calm sea, you 
may come within the space of nine years to the sight of the Lake 
Meona, I mean Meolidas, which stands on this side of your high- 
ness's kingdom some hundred days' journey, or more.' 'I take you 
to be deceived, good sir,' quoth she, 'for it is not yet fully two 
years since I departed from thence, and, truly, I never almost had 
any fair weather, and yet, notwithstanding, I have arrived, and come 
to see that which I so much longed for, to wit, the presence of the 
worthy Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose renown came to my 
notice as soon as I touched the earth of Spain with my foot, and 
moved me to search for him, to commend myself to his courtesy, 
and commit the justice of my cause to the valour of his invincible 

'No more,' quoth Don Quixote; 'I cannot abide to hear myself 
praised, for I am a sworn enemy of all adulation; and although 
this be not such, yet notwithstanding the like discourses do offend 
my chaste ears. What I can say to you, fair princess, is that whether 
I have valour or not, that which I have, or have not, shall be em- 
ployed in your service, even to the very loss of my life. And so, 


omitting that till this time, let me entreat good master licentiate to 
tell me the occasion which hath brought him here to these quarters, 
so alone, without attendants, and so slightly attired, as it strikes 
me in no little admiration?' 'To this I will answer with brevity,' 
quoth the curate. 'You shall understand that Master Nicholas the 
barber, our very good friend, and myself, travelled towards Seville 
to recover certain sums of money which a kinsman of mine, who 
hath dwelt these nuny years in the Indies, hath sent unto me. The 
sum is not a little one, for it surmounted seventy thousand reals of 
eight, all of good weight — see if it was not a rich gift. And passing 
yesterday through this way, we were set upon by four robbers, which 
despoiled us of all, even to our very beards, and that in such sort as 
the barber was forced to set on a counterfeit one; and this young 
man that goeth here with us' (meaning Cardenio) 'was transformed 
by them anew. And the best of it is that it is publicly bruited about 
all this commark that those which surprised us were galley-slaves 
who were set at liberty, as is reported, much about this same place, 
by so valiant a knight as, in despite of the commissary and the 
guard, he freed them all. And, questionless, he either was wood, 
or else as great a knave as themselves, or some one that wanted both 
soul and conscience, seeing he let slip the wolves amidst the sheep, 
the fox among the hens, and flies hard by honey, and did frustrate 
justice, rebel against his natural lord and king; for he did so by 
oppugning his just commandments; and hath deprived the galleys 
of their feet, and set all the holy brotherhood in an uproar, which 
hath reposed these many years past; and finally, would do an act 
by which he should lose his soul, and yet not gain his body.' Sancho 
had rehearsed to the curate and barber the adventure of the slaves, 
which his lord had accomplished with such glory; and therefore 
the curate did use this vehemence as he repeated it, to see what 
Don Quixote would say or do, whose colour changed at every word, 
and durst not confess that he was himself the deliverer of that 
good people. 'And these,' quoth the curate, 'were they that have 
robbed us. And God, of His infinite mercy, pardon him who hin- 
dered their going to receive the punishment they had so well de- 


Of Many Pleasant Discourses Passed Between Don Quixote and 
Those of His Company, After He Had Abandoned the Rigor- 
ous Place of His Penance 

SCARCE had the curate finished his speech thoroughly, when 
Sancho said, 'By my faith, master Ucentiate, he that did that 
feat was my lord, and that not for want of warning, for I 
told him beforehand, and advised him that he should see well what 
he did, and that it was a sin to deliver them, because they were all 
sent to the galleys for very great villanies they had played.' 

'You bottlehead,' replied Don Quixote, hearing him speak, 'it 
concerneth not knights-errant to examine whether the afflicted, the 
enchained, and oppressed, which they encounter by the way, be 
carried in that fashion, or are plunged in that distress, through 
their own default or disgrace, but only are obliged to assist them as 
needy and oppressed, setting their eyes upon their pains, and not on 
their crimes. I met with a rosary or beads of inserted people, sorrow- 
ful and unfortunate, and I did for them that which my religion 
exacts; as for the rest, let them verify it elsewhere: and to whoso- 
ever else, the holy dignity and honourable person of master licentiate 
excepted, it shall seem evil, I say he knows but slightly what belongs 
to chivalry, and he lies like a whoreson and a villain born, and this 
will I make him know with the broad side of my sword.' These 
words he said, settling himself in his stirrups, and addressing his 
morion (for the barber's basin, which he accounted to be Mam- 
brino's helmet, he carried hanging at the pommel of his saddle, 
until he might have it repaired of the crazings the galley-slave had 
wrought in it). Dorothea, who was very discreet and pleasant, 
and that was by this well acquainted with Don Quixote's faulty 
humour, and saw all the rest make a jest of him, Sancho Panza 
excepted, would also show her conceit to be as good as some others, 
and therefore said unto him, 'Sir knight, remember yourself of the 



boon you have promised unto me, whereunto conforming yourself, 
you cannot intermeddle in any other adventure, be it ever so urgent. 
Therefore, assuage your stomach; for if master licentiate had known 
that the galley-slaves were delivered by your invincible arm, he 
would rather have given unto himself three blows on the mouth, and 
also bit his tongue thrice, than have spoken any word whence might 
result your indignation.' 'That I dare swear,' quoth the curate; 'yea, 
and besides torn away one of my moustaches.' 

'Madam,' said Don Quixote, 'I will hold my peace, and suppress 
the just choler already enkindled in my breast, and will ride quietly 
and peaceably, until I have accomplished the thing I have promised; 
and I request you, in recompense of this my good desire, if it be not 
displeasing to you, to tell me your grievance, and how many, which, 
and what the persons be, of whom I must take due, sufficient, and 
entire revenge.' 'I will promptly perform your will herein,' an- 
swered Dorothea, 'if it will not be irksome to you to listen to 
disasters.' 'In no sort, good madam,' said Don Quixote. To which 
Dorothea answered thus: 'Be then attentive to my relation.' Scarce 
had she said so, when Cardenio and the barber came by her side, 
desirous to hear how the discreet Dorothea would feign her tale; 
and the same did Sancho, which was so much deceived in her per- 
son as his lord Don Quixote. And she, after dressing herself well in 
the saddle, bethought and provided herself whilst she coughed and 
used other gestures, and then began to speak on this manner: 

'First of all, good sirs, I would have you note that I am called'^ 
And here she stood suspended a while, by reason she had forgotten 
the name that the curate had given unto her. But he presently 
occurred to her succour, understanding the cause, and said, 'It is no 
wonder, great lady, that you be troubled and stagger whilst you 
recount your misfortunes, seeing it is the ordinary custom of dis- 
asters to deprive those whom they torment and distract their mem- 
ory in such sort as they cannot remember themselves even of their 
own very names, as now it proves done in your highness, which 
forgets itself that you are called the Princess Micomicona, lawful 
inheritrix of the great kingdom of Micomicon. And with this note, 
you may easily reduce into your doleful memory all that which 
you shall please to rehearse.' 


'It is very true,' quoth the damsel, 'and from henceforth I think 
it will not be needful to prompt me any more, for I will arrive 
into a safe port with the narration of my authentic history; which 
is, that my father, who was called the wise Tinacrio, was very 
expert in that which was called art magic, and he knew by his 
science that my mother, who was called Queen Xaramilla, should 
die before he deceased, and that he should also pass from this life 
within a while after, and leave me an orphan; but he was wont to 
say how that did not afflict his mind so much, as that he was very 
certain that a huge giant, lord of a great island near unto my king- 
dom, called Pandafilando of the Dusky Sight (because, although 
his eyes stood in their right places, yet do they still look asquint, 
which he doth to terrify the beholders), I say that my father knew 
that this giant, when he should hear of his death, would pass with a 
main power into my land, and deprive me thereof, not leaving me 
the least village wherein I might hide my head; yet might all this 
be excused if I would marry with him. But, as he found out by his 
science, he knew I would never condescend thereunto, or incline 
mine affection to so unequal a marriage; and herein he said nothing 
but truth, for it never passed once my thought to espouse that giant, 
nor with any other, were he ever so unreasonable, and great, and 
mighty. My father likewise added then, that after his death I should 
see Pandafilando usurp my kingdom, and that I should in no wise 
stand to my defence, for that would prove my destruction; but, 
leaving to him the kingdom freely without troubles, if I meant to 
excuse mine own death, and the total ruin of my good and loyal 
subjects (for it would be impossible to defend myself from the 
devilish force of the giant), I should presently direct my course 
towards Spain, where I should find a redress of my harms by en- 
countering with a knight-errant whose fame should extend itself 
much about that time throughout that kingdom, and his name 
should be, if I forgot not myself, Don Azote or Don Gigote.' 

'Lady, you would say Don Quixote,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'or, as 
he is called by another name, the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' 
'You have reason,' replied Dorothea. 'He said, moreover, that he 
should be high of stature, have a withered face, and that on the 
right side, a little under the left shoulder, or thereabouts, he should 


have a tawny spot with certain hairs like to bristles.' Don Quixote, 
hearing this, said to his squire, 'Hold my horse here, son Sancho, 
and help me to take off mine apparel; for I will see whether I be 
the knight of whom the wise king hath prophesied.' 'Why would 
you now put off your clothes.''' quoth Dorothea. 'To see whether 
I have that spot which your father mentioned,' answered Don 
Quixote. 'You need not undo your apparel for that purpose,' said 
Sancho, 'for I know already that you have a spot with the tokens 
she named on the very ridges of your back, and argues you to be a 
very strong man.' 'That is sufficient,' quoth Dorothea; 'for we must 
not look too near, or be over<urious in our friends' affairs; and 
whether it be on the shoulder, or ridge of the back, it imports but 
little, for the substance consists only in having such a mark, and not 
wheresoever it shall be, seeing all is one and the self-same flesh; and, 
doubtlessly, my good father did aim well at all, and I likewise in 
commending myself to Don Quixote; for surely he is the man of 
whom my father spoke, seeing the signs of his face agree with those 
of the great renown that is spread abroad of this knight, not only in 
Spain, but also in Ethiopia; for I had no sooner landed in Osuna, 
when I heard so many of his prowesses recounted, as my mind gave 
me presently that he was the man in whose search I travelled.' 'But 
how did you land in Osuna, good madam,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'seeing it is no sea town.^' 'Marry, sir,' quoth the curate, anticipating 
Dorothea's answer, 'the princess would say that after she had landed 
in Malaga, but the first place wherein she heard tidings of you was 
at Osuna.' 'So I would have said,' quoth Dorothea. 'And it may 
be very well,' quoth the curate; 'and I desire your majesty to con- 
tinue your discourse.' 'There needs no further continuation,' quoth 
Dorothea, 'but that, finally, my fortune hath been so favourable in 
finding of Don Quixote, as I do already hold and account myself for 
queen and lady of all mine estate, seeing that he, of his wonted 
bounty and magnificence, hath promised me the boon to accompany 
me wheresoever I shall guide him, which shall be to none other 
place than to set him before Pandafilando of the dusky sight, to the 
end you may slay him, and restore me to that which he hath so 
wrongfully usurped; for all will succeed in the twinkling of an eye, 
as the wise Tinacrio, my good father, hath already foretold, who 


said moreover, and also left it written in Chaldaical or Greek char- 
acters (for I cannot read them), that if the knight of the prophecy, 
after having beheaded the giant, would take me to wife, that I should 
in no sort refuse him, but instantly admitting him for my spouse, 
make him at once possessor of myself and my kingdom.' 

'What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho?' quoth Don Quixote 
then, when he heard her say so. 'How likest thou this point? Did 
not 1 tell thee thus much before? See now, whether we have not 
a kingdom to command, and a queen whom we may marry.' '1 
swear as much,' quoth Sancho. 'A p)ox on the knave that will not 
marry as soon as Master Pandahilado his windpipes are cut! Mount, 
then, and see whether the queen be ill or no. I would to God all 
the fleas of my bed were turned to be such!' And, saying so, he gave 
two or three friskles in the air, with very great signs of contentment, 
and presently went to Dorothea, and, taking her mule by the bridle, 
he withheld it, and, laying himself down on his knees before her, 
requested her very submissively to give him her hands to kiss them, 
in sign that he received her for his queen and lady. Which of the 
beholders could abstain from laughter, perceiving the master's 
madness and the servant's simplicity? To be brief, Dorothea must 
needs give them unto him, and promised to make him a great 
lord in her kingdom, when Heaven became so propitious to her as 
to let her once recover and possess it peaceably. And Sancho re- 
turned her thanks with such words as made them all laugh anew. 

'This is my history, noble sirs,' quoth Dorothea, 'whereof only 
rests untold that none of all the train which I brought out of my 
kingdom to attend on me is now extant but this well-bearded squire; 
for all of them were drowned in a great storm that overtook us in 
the very sight of the harbour, whence he and I escaped, and came 
to land by the help of two planks, on which we laid hold, almost 
by miracle; as also the whole discourse and mystery of my life 
seems none other than a miracle, as you might have noted. And if 
in any part of the relation I have exceeded, or not observed a due 
decorum, you must impute it to that which master Hcentiate said 
to the first of my history, that continual pains and afflictions of 
mind deprives them that suffer the like of their memory.' 'That 
shall not hinder me, O high and valorous lady!' quoth Don Quixote, 


'from enduring as many as I shall suffer in your service, be they 
never so great or difScult; and therefore I do anew ratify and confirm 
the promise I have made, and do swear to go with you to the end 
of the world, until I find out your fierce enemy, whose proud head I 
mean to slice off, by the help of God and my valorous arm, with 
the edge of this (I will not say a good) sword, thanks be to Gines 
of Passamonte, which took away mine own.' This he said mur- 
muring to himself, and then prosecuted, saying, 'And after I have 
cut it off, and left you peaceably in the possession of your state, it 
shall rest in your own will to dispose of your person as you like 
best; for as long as I shall have my memory possessed, and my 

will captivated, and my understanding yielded to her 1 will say 

no more; it is not possible that ever I may induce myself to marry 
any other, although she were a Phoenix.' 

That which Don Quixote had said last of all, of not marrying, 
disliked Sancho so much, as, lifting his voice with great anger, he 
said, 'I vow and swear by myself that you are not in your right 
wits. Sir Don Quixote; for how is it possible that you can call the 
matter of contracting so high a princess as this is in doubt ? Do you 
think that fortune will offer you, at every corner's end, the like hap 
of this which is now proffered? Is my Lady Dulcinea, fjerhaps, 
more beautiful? No, certainly, nor half so fair; nay, I am rather 
about to say that she comes not to her shoe that is here present. 
In an ill hour shall I arrive to possess that unfortunate earldom 
which I expect, if you go thus seeking for mushrubs in the bottom 
of the sea. Marry, marry yourself presently, the devil take you for 
me, and take that kingdom comes into your hands, and being a king, 
make me presently a marquis or admiral, and instantly after let 
the devil take all if he pleaseth.' 

Don Quixote, who heard such blasphemies spoken against his 
Lady Dulcinea, could not bear them any longer; and therefore, 
lifting up his javelin, without speaking any word to Sancho, gave 
him therewithal two such blows as he overthrew him to the earth; 
and had not Dorothea cried to him to hold his hand, he had doubt- 
lessly slain him in the place. 

'Thinkest thou,' quoth he after a while, 'base peasant! that I 
shall have always leisure and disposition to thrust my hand into 


my pouch, and that there be nothing else but thou still erring and 
I pardoning? And dost not thou think of it, excommunicated rascal! 
for certainly thou art excommunicated, seeing thou hast talked so 
broadly of the peerless Dulcinea! And dost not thou know, base 
slave! vagabond! that if it were not for the valour she infuseth 
into mine arm, that I should not have sufficient forces to kill a flea ? 
Say, scoffer with the viper's tongue! who dost thou think hath 
gained this kingdom, and cut the head off this giant, and made thee 
a marquis (for I give all this for done already, and for a matter 
ended and judged), but the worths and valour of Dulcinea, using 
mine arm as the instrument of her act? She fights under my per- 
son, and overcomes in me; and 1 live and breathe in her, and from 
her I hold my Hfe and being. O whoreson villain! how ungrateful 
art thou, that seest thyself exalted out from the dust of the earth to 
be a nobleman, and yet dost repay so great a benefit with de- 
tracting the person that bestowed it on thee!' 

Sancho was not so sore hurt but that he could hear all his master's 
reasons very well; wherefore, arising somewhat hastily, he ran 
behind Dorothea her palfrey, and from thence said to his lord, 
'Tell me, sir, if you be not determined to marry with this princess, 
it is most clear that the kingdom shall not be yours; and if it be 
not, what favours can you be able to do to me? It is of this that I 
complain me. Marry yourself one for one with this princess, now 
that we have her here as it were rained to us down from heaven, 
and you may after turn to my Lady Dulcinea; for I think there 
be kings in the world that keep lemans. As for beauty, I will not 
intermeddle; for, if I must say the truth, each of both is very fair, 
although I have never seen the Lady Dulcinea.' 'How! hast thou 
not seen her, blasphemous traitor?' quoth Don Quixote, 'As if 
thou didst but even now bring me a message from her!' 'I say,' 
quoth Sancho, 'I have not seen her so leisurely as I might particu- 
larly note her beauty and good parts one by one, but yet in a clap, 
as I saw them, they liked me very well.' 'I do excuse thee now,' 
said Don Quixote, 'and pardon me the displeasure which I have 
given unto thee, for the first motions are not in our hands.' 'I 
see that well,' quoth Sancho, 'and that is the reason why talk is 
in me of one of those first motions, and I cannot omit to speak 


once, at least, that which comes to my tongue.' 'For all that, 
Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'see well what thou speakest; for 
"the earthen pitcher goes so oft to the water" — I will say no more.' 

'Well, then,' answered Sancho, 'God is in heaven, who seeth all 
these guiles, and shall be one day judge of him that sins most — 
of me in not speaking well, or of you by not doing well.' 'Let there 
be no more,' quoth Dorothea, 'but run, Sancho, and kiss your 
lord's hand, and ask him forgiveness, and from henceforth take 
more heed how you praise or dispraise anybody, and speak no 
ill of that Lady Toboso, whom I do not know otherwise than to do 
her service; and have confidence in God, for thou shalt not want a 
lordship wherein thou mayst live like a king.' Sancho went with 
his head hanging downward, and demanded his lord's hand, which 
he gave unto him with a grave countenance; and after he had kissed 
it, he gave him his blessing, and said to him that he had somewhat 
to say unto him, and therefore bade him to come somewhat for- 
ward, that he might speak unto him. Sancho obeyed; and both of 
them going a little aside, Don Quixote said unto him, 'I have not had 
leisure after thy coming to demand of thee in particular concerning 
the ambassage that thou carriedst, and the answer that thou broughtst 
back; and therefore, now fortune lends us some opportunity and 
leisure, do not deny me the happiness which thou mayst give me 
by thy good news.' 

'Demand what you please,' quoth Sancho, 'and I will answer 
you; and I request you, good my lord, that you be not from hence- 
forth so wrathful.' 'Why dost thou say so, Sancho?' quoth Don 
Quixote. 'I say it,' replied Sancho, 'because that these blows which 
you bestowed now, were rather given in revenge of the dissension 
which the devil stirred between us two the other night, than for 
anything I said against my Lady Dulcinea, whom I do honour 
and reverence as a relique, although she be none, only because 
she is yours.' 'I pray thee, good Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'fall 
not again into those discourses, for they offend me. I did pardon 
thee then, and thou knowest that a new offence must have a new 

As they talked thus, they espied a gallant coming towards them, 
riding on an ass, and when he drew near he seemed to be aa 


Egyptian; but Sancho Panza, who, whensoever he met any asses, 
followed them with his eyes and his heart, as one that thought still 
on his own, had scarce eyed him when he knew that it was Gines 
of Passamonte, and, by the look of the Egyptian, found out the 
fleece of his ass, as in truth it was; for Gines came riding on his 
grey ass, who, to the end he might not be known, and also have 
commodity to sell his beast, attired himself like an Egyptian, whose 
language and many others he could speak as well as if they were 
his mother tongue. Sancho saw him and knew him; and scarce had 
he seen and taken notice of him, when he cried out aloud, 'Ah! 
thief, Ginesillo! leave my goods behind thee, set my life loose, and 
do not intermeddle with my ease! Leave mine ass, leave my com- 
fort! Fly, villain! absent thyself, thief! and abandon that which is 
none of thine!' He needed not to have used so many words and 
frumps, for Gines leapwd down at the very first, and beginning a 
trot, that seemed rather to be a gallop, he absented himself, and fled 
far enough from them in a moment. Sancho went then to his ass, 
and, embracing him, said, 'How hast thou done hitherto, my 
darling and treasure, grey ass of mine eyes, and my dearest com- 
panion?' and with that stroked and kissed him as if it were a 
reasonable creature. The ass held his peace, and permitted Sancho 
to kiss and cherish him, without answering a word. All the rest 
arrived, and congratulated with Sancho for the finding of his ass, 
but chiefly Don Quixote, who said unto him that notwithstanding 
that he found his ass, yet would not he therefore annul his warrant 
for the three colts; for which Sancho returned him very great 

Whilst they two travelled together discoursing thus, the curate 
said to Dorothea that she had very discreetly discharged herself, 
as well in the history as in her brevity and imitation thereof to the 
phrase and conceits of books of knighthood. She answered that 
she did ofttimes read books of that subject, but that she knew not 
where the provinces lay, nor seaports, and therefore did only say 
at random that she had landed in Osuna. 'I knew it was so,' quoth 
the curate, 'and therefore I said what you heard, wherewithal the 
matter was soldered. But is it not a marvellous thing to see with 
what facility the unfortunate gentleman believes all these inventions 


and lies, only because they bear the style and manner of the follies 
laid down in his books?' 'It is,' quoth Cardenio, 'and that so rare 
and beyond all conceit, as I believe, if the like were to be invented, 
scarce could the sharpest wits devise such another.' 

'There is yet,' quoth the curate, 'as marvellous a matter as that; 
for, leaving apart the simplicities which this good gentleman sp>eaks 
concerning his frenzy, if you will commune with him of any other 
subject whatsoever, he will discourse on it with an excellent method, 
and show himself to have a clear and pleasing understanding; so 
that, if he be not touched by matters of chivalry, there is no man 
but will deem him to be of a sound and excellent judgment.' 

Don Quixote on the other side prosecuted his conversing with 
his squire whilst the others talked together, and said to Sancho, 
'Let us two, friend Panza, forget old injuries, and say unto me 
now, without any rancour or anger, where, how, and when didst 
thou find my Lady Dulcinea? What did she when thou earnest? 
What saidst thou to her? What answered she? What countenance 
showed she as she read my letter? And who writ it out fairly for 
thee? And every other thing that thou shah think worthy of notice 
in this affair to be demanded or answered, without either addition 
or lying, or soothing adulation; and on the other side do not ab- 
breviate it, lest thou shouldst defraud me thereby of expected 
delight.' 'Sir,' answered Sancho, 'if I must say the truth, none copied 
out the letter for me; for I carried no letter at all.' 

'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for I found the tablets 
wherein it was written with myself two days after thy departure, 
which did grieve me exceedingly, because I knew not what thou 
wouldst do when thou didst perceive the want of the letter, and 1 
always made full account that thou wouldst return again from the 
place where thou shouldst first miss it.' 'I had done so,' quoth Sancho, 
'if I had not borne it away in memory, when you read it to me, 
in such sort as I said to a clerk of a vestry, who did copy it out of 
my understanding so point by point, as he said that he never in 
all the days of his life, although he had read many a letter of ex- 
communication, read or seen so fine a letter as it was.' 'And dost 
thou hold it yet in memory, Sancho?' quoth Don Quixote. 


'No, sir,' said Sancho; 'for after I gave it, seeing it served for none 
other purpose, I did willingly forget it; and if I remember anything, 
it is that of the "mouldy" — I would say "sovereign lady"; and the 
end, "yours until death, the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face"; and 
I put between these two things in the letter three hundred souls, 
and lives, and sweet eyes.' 


Of the Pleasant Discourses Continued Between Don Quixote 
AND His Squire Sancho Panza, with Other Adventures 

* A LL this liketh me well,' said Don Quixote; 'therefore say on. 

/ % Thou arrivedst, and what was that queen of beauty doing 
jL JL then? I daresay that thou foundest her threading of pearls, 
or embroidering some curious device with Venice gold, for me her 
captive knight.' 'No, that I did not,' quoth Sancho; 'but winnowing 
two bushels of wheat in the yard of her house.' 

'Why, then,' said Don Quixote, 'thou mayst make account that 
each corn of that wheat was a grain of p)earl, seeing they were 
touched by her delicate hand. And, friend, didst thou note well 
what the wheat was, whether of the best or ordinary?' 'It was not, 
but red,' said Sancho. 'Well, then, I assure thee,' answered Don 
Quixote, 'that being sifted by her hands, it must needs make very 
fair bread and white. But pass forward. When thou didst deliver 
my letter, did she kiss it ? Did she set it on her head ? Did she use 
any ceremony worthy of such a letter? Or what did she?' 'When 
I went to give it unto her,' said Sancho, 'she was holding up of her 
arms with a good quantity of wheat that she had in her sieve, and 
therefore said unto me, "Friend, lay down that letter there on the 
sack, for I cannot read it until I have winnowed all that is here." ' 
'O discreet lady,' quoth Don Quixote; 'she surely did that because she 
might read it at leisure, and recreate herself therewithal. Forward, 
Sancho. And as long as she was thus busied, what discourses passed 
she with thee? What did she demand of thee concerning me? 
And thou, what didst thou answer? Say all, good Sancho, say all; 
recount to me every particularity, and let not the least [minuity] 
remain in the inkhorn.' 

'She demanded nothing of me,' quoth Sancho; 'but I recounted 
unto her the state I had left you in for her sake, doing of penance, 
all naked from the girdle upward, among these rocks, like a brute 



beast, sleeping on the ground, and eating your bread without table- 
cloths, and that you never combed your beard, but was weeping 
and cursing your fortune.' 'There thou saidst ill,' quoth Don 
Quixote; 'for I do not curse my fortune, but rather bless it, and will 
bless it as long as I shall live, seeing it hath made me worthy to 
merit the love of so high a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso.' 'She is in 
good faith so high,' answered Sancho, 'as she surpasseth me almost 
by a whole cubit.' 'Why, how now, Sancho?' said the knight; 'hast 
thou measured thyself with her?' 'I did measure myself with her in 
this manner,' replied Sancho, 'that coming over to help her to lift 
up a sack of wheat on an ass, we joined so near as I well perceived 
that she was more than a great span higher than myself.' 'That is 
true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but thinkest thou not that the tallness 
of her extended stature is adorned with a thousand millions of graces 
and endowments of the soul ? But, Sancho, thou canst not deny me 
one thing: when thou didst thus approach her, didst thou not feel 
a most odoriferous smell, an aromatical fragrancy, an — I cannot 
tell what, so pleasing as 1 know not how to term it — I say such a scent 
as if thou wert in some curious perfumer's shop?' 'That which I 
know,' quoth Sancho, 'is that I felt a little unsavoury scent, some- 
what rammish and man-like, and I think the reason was because 
she had sweat a little doing of that exercise.' 'It was not so,' quoth 
Don Quixote, 'but either thou hadst the mur, or else did smell 
thyself; for I know very well how that rose among thorns dost 
scent, that lily of the field, and that chosen amber.' 'It may well be,' 
said Sancho, 'as you have said, for I have had many times such a 
smell as methought the Lady Dulcinea had then; and though she 
smclled too it were no marvel, for one devil is like another.' 

'And well,' quoth Don Quixote, 'see here, she hath sifted her 
corn, and sent it to the mill; what did she after she had read the 
letter?' 'The letter?' said Sancho. 'She read it not, for she said she 
could neither read nor write; and therefore she tore it into small 
pieces, and would have no man to read it, lest those of the village 
should know her secrets, and [said] that what I had told her by word 
of mouth of your love and extraordinary penance, which you re- 
mained doing for her sake, was sufficient; and, finally, she con- 
cluded, commanding me to say unto you that she had her com- 


mended unto you, and that she remained with greater desire to see 
you than to write unto you, and therefore she requested and willed 
you, as you tendered her affection, that presently upon sight hereof 
you should abandon these shrubby groves, leave off your frenzy, and 
take presently the way of Toboso, if some matter of greater im- 
portance did not occur, for she had very great desire to see and 
talk with you. She laughed heartily when I told her that you 
named yourself "the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face." I demanded 
of her whether the beaten Biscaine came there, and she answered 
that he did, and affirmed withal that he was a very honest man, 
I asked also for the galley-slaves, but she told me that she had seen 
none of them as yet.' 

'All goes well till this,' said Don Quixote; 'but tell me, I pray 
thee, what jewel did she bestow on thee at thy departure, for 
reward of the news thou carriedst unto her of me? For it is an 
usual and ancient custom among knights and ladies errant, to 
bestow on squires, damsels, or dwarfs, which bring them any good 
tidings of their ladies, or servants, some rich jewel, as a reward 
and thanks of their welcome news.' 

'It may well be,' quoth Sancho, 'and I hold it for a very laudable 
custom; but I think it was only used in times past, for I think the 
manner of this our age is only to give a piece of bread and cheese; 
for this was all that my lady Dulcinea bestowed on me, and that 
over the yard walls, when I took my leave with her, and in sign 
thereof (well fare all good tokens) the cheese was made of sheep's 
milk.' 'She is marvellous liberal,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and if she 
gave thee not a jewel of gold, it was, without doubt, because she 
had none then about her. But it is not lost ihat comes at last; I will 
see her, and then all things shall be amended. Knowest thou, Sancho, 
whereat I wonder? It is at this sudden return; for it seems to me 
thou wast gone and hast come back again in the air; for thou hast 
been away but a little more than three days, Toboso being more than 
thirty leagues from hence; and therefore I do believe that the wise 
enchanter who takes care of mine affairs, and is my friend (for 
there is such a one of force, and there must be, under pain that I 
else should not be a good knight-errant), — I say I verily think that 
wise man holp thee to trample unawares of thyself; for there are 


wise men of that condition which will take a knight-errant sleeping 
in his bed, and without knowing how or in what manner, he will 
wake the next day a thousand leagues from that place where he fell 
asleep; and were it not for this, knights-errant could not succour 
one another in their most dangerous exigents, as they do now at 
every step. For it ofttimes befals that a knight is fighting in the 
mountains of Armenia, with some devilish fauno, some dreadful 
shadow, or fierce knight, where he is like to have the worst, and in 
this point of death, when he least expects it, there appears there, 
on the top of a cloud or riding in a chariot of fire, another knight 
his friend, who was but even then in England, and helps him, and 
delivers him from death; and returns again that night to his own 
lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite; and yet, for all 
that, is there wont to be two or three thousand leagues from the 
one to the other country. All which is compassed by the industry 
and wisdom of those skilful enchanters that take care of the said 
valorous knights. So that, friend Sancho, I am not hard of belief 
in giving thee credit that thou hast gone and returned in so short a 
time from this place to Toboso, seeing, as I have said, some wise 
man my friend hath (belike) transported thee thither by stealth, and 
unaware of thyself.' 

'I easily think it,' replied Sancho; 'for Rozinante travelled, in good 
faith, as lustily as if he were an Egyptian's ass, with quicksilver in 
his ears.* 'And thinkest thou not,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that he had 
not quicksilver in his ears.' yes, and a legion of devils also to help 
it.' who are folk that do travel and make others go as much as they 
list without any weariness. But, leaving all this apart, what is thine 
opinion that I should do now concerning my lady's commandment 
to go and see her? For, although I know that I am bound to obey 
her behests, yet do I find myself disabled at this time to accomplish 
them by reason of the grant I have made the princess that comes 
with us; and the law of arms doth compel me to accomplish my 
word rather than my will. On the one side, I am assaulted and 
urged by a desire to go and see my lady; on the other, my promised 
faith, and the glory I shall win in this enterprise, do incite and call 
me away. But that which I resolve to do is to travel with all speed, 
that I may quickly arrive to the place where that giant is, and will 


cut off his head at my coming; and when I have peaceably installed 
the princess in her kingdom, will presendy return to see the light 
that doth lighten my senses; to whom I will yield such forcible 
reasons of my so long absence, as she shall easily condescend to 
excuse my stay, seeing all doth redound to her glory and fame; for 
all that I have gained, do win, or shall hereafter achieve, by force 
of arms in this life, proceeds wholly from the gracious favour she 
pleaseth to bestow upon me, and my being hers.' 

'O God!' quoth Sancho, 'I {jerceive that you are greatly diseased 
in the pate. I pray you, sir, tell me whether you mean to go this 
long voyage for nought, and let slip and lose so rich and so noble 
a preferment as this, where the dowry is a kingdom, which is in 
good faith, as I have heard say, twenty thousand leagues in compass, 
and most plentifully stored with all things necessary for the sus- 
taining of human life, and that it is greater than Portugal and 
Castile joined together? Peace, for God's love, and blush at your 
own words, and take my counsel, and marry presently in the first 
village that hath a parish priest; and if you will not do it there, 
can you wish a better commodity than to have our own master 
licentiate, who will do it most excellently ? And note that I am old 
enough to give counsel, and that this which I now deliver is as fit 
for you as if it were expressly cast for you in a mould; for a sparrow 
in the fist is worth more than a flying bittor. 

' "For he that can have good and evil doth choose. 
For ill that betides him, must not patience lose" ' 

'Why, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'if thou givest me counsel 
to marry to the end I may become a king, after I have slain the 
giant, and have commodity thereby to promote thee, and give thee 
what I have promised, I let thee to understand that I may do all that 
most easily without marrying myself; for, before I enter into the 
battle, I will make this condition, that when I come away victor, 
although I marry not the princess, yet shall a part of the kingdom be 
at my disposition to bestow upon whom I please; and when I receive 
it, upon whom wouldst thou have me bestow it but on thyself?* 
'That is manifest,' said Sancho; 'but I pray you, sir, have care to 
choose that part you would reserve towards the seaside, to the end 


that if the living do not please me, I may embark my black vassals, 
and make the benefit of them which I have said. And hkewise I 
pray you not to trouble your mind thinking to go and see my Lady 
Dulcinea at this time, but travel towards the place where the giant 
is, and kill him, and conclude that business first; for I swear unto 
you that I am of opinion it will prove an adventure of very great 
honour and profit.' '1 assure thee, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 
'thou art in the right, and I will follow thy counsel in rather going 
first with the princess to visit Dulcinea. And I warn thee not to 
speak a word to anybody, no, not to those that ride with us, of 
that which we have here spoken and discoursed together; for, 
since Dulcinea is so wary and secret as she would not have her 
thoughts discovered, it is no reason that I, either by myself or any 
other, should detect them.' 

'If that be so,' quoth Sancho, 'why, then, do you send all those 
which you vanquish by virtue of your arm to present themselves 
to my Lady Dulcinea, seeing this is as good as subsignation of your 
handwriting, that you wish her well, and are enamoured on her? 
And seeing that those which go to her must forcibly lay them down 
on their knees before her presence, and say that they come from you 
to do her homage, how then can the thoughts of you both be hidden 
and concealed?' 'Oh, how great a fool art thou, and how simple!' 
quoth Don Quixote. 'Dost not thou perceive, Sancho, how all this 
results to her greater glory? For thou oughtest to wit that, in our 
knightly proceedings, it is great honour that one lady alone have 
many knights-errant for her servitors, without extending their 
thoughts any further than to serve her only for her high worths, 
without attending any other reward of their many and good desires, 
than that she will deign to accept them as her servants and knights.* 
'I have heard preach,' said Sancho, 'that men should love our Saviour 
with that kind of love only for His own sake, without being moved 
thereunto either by the hope of glory or the fear of pain; although, 
for my part, I would love and serve Him for what He is able to do.' 
'The devil take thee for a clown!' quoth Don Quixote; 'how sharp 
and pertinently dost thou speak now and then, able to make a man 
imagine that thou hast studied!' 'Now, by mine honesty,' quoth 
Sancho, 'I can neither read nor write.' 


Master Nicholas perceiving them drowned thus in their discourses, 
cried out to them to stay and drink of a Httie fountain that was by 
the way. Don Quixote rested, to Sancho's very great contentment, 
who was already tired with telling him so many lies, and was afraid 
his master would entrap him in his own words; for, although he 
knew Dulcinea to be of Toboso, yet had he never seen her in his 
life. And Cardenio had by this time put on the apparel Dorothea 
wore when they found her in the mountains, which, though they 
were not very good, yet exceeded with great advantage those which 
he had himself before. And, alighting hard by the fountain, they 
satisfied with the provision the curate had brought with him from 
the inn, although it were but little, the great hunger that pressed 
them. And whilst they took their ease there, a certain young strip- 
ling that travelled past by, who, looking very earnestly on all those 
which sat about the fountain, he ran presently after to Don Quixote, 
and, embracing his legs, he said, weeping downright, 'Oh, my lord, 
do not you know me? hook well upon me; for I am the youth 
Andrew whom you unloosed from the oak whereunto I was tied.' 
Don Quixote presently knew him, and, taking him by the hands, 
he turned to those that were present and said, 'Because you may see 
of how great importance it is that there be knights-errant in the 
world, to undo wrongs and injuries that are committed in it by the 
insolent and bad men which live therein, thou shall wit that a few 
days past, as I rode through a wood, I heard certain lamentable 
screeches and cries, as of some needful and afflicted person. I forth- 
with occurred, borne away by my profession, towards the place 
from whence the lamentable voice sounded, and I found tied to 
an oaken tree this boy whom you see here in our presence, for which 
I am marvellous glad, because if I shall not say the truth he may 
check me. I say that he was tied to the oak, stark naked from the 
middle upward, and a certain clown was opening his flesh with 
cruel blows that he gave him with the reins of a bridle, which clown, 
as I after understood, was his master. And so, as soon as I saw him, 
I demanded the cause of those cruel stripes. The rude fellow 
answered that he beat him because he was his servant, and that 
certain negligences of his proceeded rather from being a thief than 
of simplicity. To which this child answered, "Sir, he whips me for 


no other cause but by reason that I demand my wages of him." His 
master replied I know not now what speeches and excuses, the 
which although I heard, yet were they not by me admitted. In 
resolution, I caused him to be loosed, and took the clown's oath that 
he would take him home, and pay him there his wages, one real 
upon another — ay, and those also perfumed. Is it not true, son 
Andrew? Didst thou not note with what a domineering counte- 
nance I commanded it, and with what humility he promised to 
accomplish all that I imposed, commanded, and desired? Answer 
me; be not ashamed, nor stagger at all, but tell what passed to these 
gentlemen, to the end it may be manifestly seen how necessary it 
is, as I have said, to have knights-errant up and down the highways.' 
'All that which you have said,' quoth the boy, 'is very true; but 
the end of the matter succeeded altogether contrary to that which 
you imagined.' 'How contrary?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Why, hath 
not the peasant paid thee?' 'He not only hath not paid me,' answered 
the boy, 'but rather, as soon as you were past the wood, and that we 
remained both alone, he turned again and tied me to the same tree, 
and gave me afresh so many blows, as I remained another St. Bar- 
tholomew, all flayed; and at every blow he said some jest or other 
in derision of you; so that, if I had not felt the pain of the stripes 
so much as I did, I could have found it in my heart to have laughed 
very heartily. In fine, he left me in such pitiful case as I have been 
ever since curing myself in an hospital of the evil which the wicked 
peasant did then unto me. And you are in the fault of all this, for 
if you had ridden on your way, and not come to the place where 
you were not sought for, nor intermeddled yourself in other men's 
affairs, perhaps my master had contented himself with giving me 
a dozen or two of strokes, and would presently after have loosed me 
and paid me my wages. But by reason you dishonoured him so 
much without cause, and said to him so many villains, his choler 
was inflamed, and, seeing he could not revenge it on you, finding 
himself alone, he disburdened the shower on me so heavily as I 
greatly fear that I shall never again be mine own man.' 'The hurt 
consisted in my departure,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for I should not 
have gone from thence until I had seen thee paid; for I might have 
very well known, by many experiences, that there is no clown that 


will keep his word, if he see the keeping of it can turn any way 
to his damage. But yet, Andrew, thou dost remember how I swore 
that if he paid thee not, 1 would return and seek him out, and like- 
wise find him, although he conveyed himself into a whale's belly.' 
'That's true,' quoth Andrew; 'but all avails not.' 'Thou shalt see 
whether it avails or no presently,' quoth Don Quixote; and, saying 
so, got up very hastily, and commanded Sancho to bridle Rozinante, 
who was feeding whilst they did eat. Dorothea demanded of him 
what he meant to do. He answered that he would go and find out 
the villain, and punish him for using such bad proceedings, and cause 
Andrew to be paid the last denier, in despite of as many p)easants as 
lived in the world. To which she answered, entreating him to re- 
member that he could not deal with any other adventure, according 
to his promise, until hers were achieved; and seeing that he him- 
self knew it to be true better than any other, that he should pacify 
himself until his return from her kingdom. 

'You have reason,' said Don Quixote, 'and therefore Andrew must 
have patience perforce until my return, as you have said, madam; 
and, when I shall turn again, I do swear unto him, and likewise 
renew my promise, never to rest until he be satisfied and paid.' 'I 
believe not in such oaths,' quoth Andrew, 'but would have as much 
money as might carry me to Seville, rather than all the revenges in 
the world. Give me some meat to eat, and carry away with me, and 
God be with you and all other knights-errant; and I pray God that 
they may prove as erring to themselves as they have been to me!' 

Sancho took out of his bag a piece of bread and cheese, and, giving 
it to the youth, said, 'Hold, brother Andrew, for every one hath his 
part of your misfortune.' 'I pray you what part thereof have you.'' 
said Andrew. 'This piece of bread and cheese that I bestow on thee,' 
quoth Sancho; 'for, God only knows whether I shall have need of 
it again or no; for tiiou must wit, friend, that we the squires of 
knights-errant are very subject to great hunger and evil luck; yea, 
and to other things, which are better felt than told.' Andrew laid 
hold on his bread and cheese, and, seeing that nobody gave him 
any other thing, he bowed his head, and went on his way. True it 
is that he said to Don Quixote at his departure, 'For God's love, good 
sir knight-errant, if you shall ever meet me again in the plight you 


have done, although you should see me torn in pieces, yet do not 
succour or help me, but leave me in my disgrace; for it cannot be 
so great but that a greater will result from your help, upon whom, 
and all the other knights-errant that are born in the world, I pray 
God His curse may alight!' Don Quixote thought to arise to chas- 
tise him, but he ran away so swiftly as no man durst follow him; 
and our knight remained marvellously ashamed at Andrew's tale; 
wherefore the rest with much ado suppressed their desire to laugh, 
lest they should thoroughly confound him. 


Treating of That Which Befel All Don Quixote His Train in 

THE Inn 

THE dinner being ended, they saddled and went to horse 
presently, and travelled all that day and the next without 
encountering any adventure of price, until they arrived at 
the only bug and scarecrow of Sancho Panza, and though he would 
full fain have excused his entry into it, yet could he in no wise 
avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, 
seeing Don Quixote and Sancho return, went out to receive them 
with tokens of great love and joy, and he entertained them with 
grave countenance and applause, and bade them to make him ready 
a better bed than the other which they had given unto him the time 
before. 'Sir,* quoth the hostess, 'if you would pay us better than the 
last time, we would give you one for a prince.' Don Quixote an- 
swered that he would. They prepared a reasonable good bed for 
him in the same wide room where he lay before; and he went 
presently to bed, by reason that he arrived much tired, and void of 
wit. And scarce was he gotten into his chamber, when the hostess 
leaping suddenly on the barber, and taking him by the beard, said, 
'Now, by myself blessed, thou shalt use my tail no more for a beard, 
and thou shalt turn me my tail; for my husband's comb goes thrown 
up and down the floor, that it is a shame to see it. I mean the comb 
that I was wont to hang up in my good tail.' The barber would not 
give it unto her for all her drawing, until the licentiate bade him to 
restore it, that they had now no more use thereof, but that he might 
now very well discover himself, and appear in his own shaf)e, and 
[say] to Don Quixote that after the galley-slaves had robbed him 
he fled to that inn; and if Don Quixote demanded by chance for 
the princess her squire, that they should tell him how she had sent 
him before to her kingdom, to give intelligence to her subjects that 
she returned, bringing with her him that should free and give them 



all liberty. With this the barber surrendered the tail willingly to 
the hostess, and likewise all the other borrowed wares which she 
had lent for Don Quixote's delivery. All those of the inn rested 
wonderful amazed at Dorothea's beauty, and also at the comeliness 
of the shepherd Cardenio. Then the curate gave order to make 
ready for them such meat as the inn could afford; and the inn- 
keeper, in hope of better payment, did dress very speedily for them 
a reasonable good dinner. Don Quixote slept all this while, and 
they were of opinion to let him take his rest, seeing sleep was more 
requisite for his disease than meat. At the table they discoursed (the 
innkeeper, his wife, daughter, and Maritornes, and all the other 
travellers being present) of Don Quixote's strange frenzy, and of 
the manner wherein they found him. The hostess, eftsoons, re- 
counted what had happened there, between him and the carrier; 
and looking to see whether Sancho were present, perceiving that he 
was away, she told likewise all the story of his canvassing, whereat 
they conceived no little content and pastime. And, as the curate said 
that the original cause of Don Quixote's madness proceeded from 
the reading of books of knighthood, the innkeeper answered, — 

'I cannot conceive how that can be, for, as I believe, there is no 
reading so delightful in this world, and I myself have two or three 
books of that kind with other papers, which do verily keep me 
alive, and not only me, but many other. For in the reaping times, 
many of the reapers repair to this place in the heats of mid-day, and 
there is evermore some one or other among them that can read, who 
takes one of these books in hand, and then some thirty or more of 
us do compass him about, and do listen to him with such pleasure, as 
it hinders a thousand hoary hairs; for I dare say, at least of myself, 
that when I hear tell of those furious and terrible blows that knights- 
errant give, it inflames me with a desire to become such a one myself, 
and could find in my heart to be hearing of them day and night.' 
'I am just of the same mind, no more, nor no less,' said the hostess, 
'for I never have any quiet hour in my house, but when thou art 
hearing those books whereon thou art so besotted, as then thou dost 
only forget to chide, which is thy ordinary exercise at other times.' 
'That is very true,' said Maritornes; 'and I in good sooth do take 
great delight to hear those things, for they are very fine, and espe- 


cially when they tell how such a lady lies embraced by her knight 
under an orange tree, and that a certain damsel keepeth watch all 
the while, ready to burst for envy that she hath not likewise her 
sweetheart, and very much afraid. I say that all those things are 
as sweet as honey to me.' 'And you,' quoth the curate to the inn- 
keeper's daughter, 'what do you think.'' 'I know not in good sooth, 
sir,' quoth she; 'but I do likewise give ear, and in truth, although 
I understand it not, yet do I take some pleasure to hear them; but I 
mislike gready those blows which please my father so much, and 
only delight in the lamentations that knights make being absent 
from their ladies; which in sooth do now and then make me weep 
through the compassion I take of them.' 'Well, then,' quoth Doro- 
thea, 'belike, fair maiden, you would remedy them, if such plaints 
were breathed for your own sake.?' 'I know not what I would do,' 
answered the girl, 'only this I know, that there are some of those 
ladies so cruel, as their knights call them tigers and lions, and a 
thousand other wild beasts. And, good Jesus, I know not what 
unsouled folk they be, and so without conscience, that because they 
will not once behold an honourable man, they suffer him either to 
die or run mad. And I know not to what end serves all that coyness. 
For if they do it for honesty's sake, let them marry with them, for 
the knights desire nothing more.' 'Peace, child,' quoth the hostess; 
'for it seems that thou knowest too much of those matters, and it is 
not decent that maidens should know or speak so much.' 'I speak,' 
quoth she, 'by reason that this good sir made me the demand; and 
I could not in courtesy omit to answer him.' 'Well,' said the curate, 
'let me entreat you, good mine host, to bring us here those books, 
for I would fain see them.' 

'I am pleased,' said the innkeeper; and then entering into his 
chamber, he brought forth a little old malet shut up with a chain; 
and, opening thereof, he took out three great books and certain 
papers written with a very fair letter. The first book he opened was 
that of Don Cirongilio of Thracia, the other, Felixmarte of Hir- 
cania, and the third, The History of the Great Captain, Gonzalo 
Hernandez of Cordova, with the life of Diego Garcia Paredes 
adjoined. As soon as the curate had read the titles of the two books, 
he said to the barber, 'We have now great want of our friends, the 


old woman and niece.' 'Not so much as you think,' quoth the 
barber; 'for I know also the way to the yard or the chimney, and, in 
good sooth, there is a fire in it good enough for that purpose.' 'Would 
you then,' quoth the host, 'burn my books?' 'No more of them,' 
quoth the curate; 'but these first two of Don Cirongilio and Felix- 
marte.' 'Are my books perhaps,' quoth the innkeeper, 'heretical or 
phlegmatical, that you would thus roughly handle them?' 'Schis- 
matical, thou shouldst have said,' quoth the barber, 'and not phleg- 
matical.' 'It is so,' said the innkeeper; 'but if you will needs burn 
any, I pray you, rather let it be that of the Great Captain, and of 
that Diego Garcia; for I would rather suffer one of my sons to be 
burned than any one of those other two.' 'Good friend, these two 
books are lying, and full of follies and vanities; but that of the 
Great Captain is true, and containeth the acts of Gonzalo Hernandez 
of Cordova, who for his sundry and noble acts merited to be termed 
by all the world the Great Captain, a name famous, illustrious, and 
only deserved by himself, and this other, Diego Garcia of Paredes, 
was a noble gentleman, born in the city of Truxillo in Estremadura, 
and was a most valorous soldier, and of so surpassing force, as he 
would detain a mill-wheel with one hand from turning in the 
midst of the speeJiest motion: and standing once at the end of a 
bridge, with a two-handed sword, defended the passage against a 
mighty army that attempted to pass over it; and did so many other 
things, that if another who were a stranger and unpassionate had 
written them, as he did himself who was the relater and histori- 
ographer of his own acts, and therefore recounted them with the 
modesty of a gentleman and proper chronicler, they would have 
drowned all the Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands in oblivion.' 

'There is a jest,' quoth the innkeeper. 'Deal with my father, I 
pray you see at what you wonder. A wise tale at the withholding 
of the wheel of a mill. I swear you ought to read that which is read 
in Felixmarte of Hircania, who with one thwart blow cut five mighty 
giants in halves, as if they were of beans, like to the little friars that 
children make of bean-cods; and set another time upon a great and 
most powerful army of more than a million and six hundred thou- 
sand soldiers, and overthrew and scattered them all like a flock of 
sheep. What, then, can you say to me of the good Cirongilio o£ 


Thracia, who was so animous and valiant, as may be seen in his 
book; wherein is laid down, that, as he sailed along a river, there 
issued out of the midst of the water a serpent of fire, and he, as soon 
as he perceived it, leaped upon her, and hanging by her scaly 
shoulders, he wrung her throat so straitly between both his arms, 
that the serpent, perceiving herself to be well-nigh strangled, had 
no other way to save herself but by diving down into the deeps, 
carrying the knight away with her, who would never let go his 
grip, and when they came to the bottom he found himself by a palace 
in such fair and pleasant gardens, as it was a wonder; and presently 
the serpent turned into an old man, which said to him such things 
as there is no more to be desired. Two figs for the Great Captain 
and that Diego Garcia of whom you sp)eak.' 

Dorothea, hearing him speak thus, said to Cardenio, 'Methinks 
our host wants but little to make up a second part of Don Quixote.' 
'So it seems to me likewise,' replied Cardenio; 'for, as we may con- 
jecture by his words, he certainly believes that everything written 
in those books passed just as it is laid down, and barefooted friars 
would be scarce able to persuade him the contrary.' 'Know, friend,' 
quoth the curate to the innkeeper, 'that there was never any such 
a man as Felixmarte of Hircania, or Don Cirongilio of Thracia, nor 
other such knights as books of chivalry recount; for all is but a 
device and fiction of idle wits that composed them, to the end that 
thou sayst, to pass over the time, as your readers do in reading of 
them. For I sincerely swear unto thee, that there were never such 
knights in the world, nor such adventures and ravings happened 
in it.' 'Cast that bone to another dog,' quoth the innkeeper, 'as 
though I knew not how many numbers are five, and where the shoe 
wrests me now. I pray you, sir, go not about to give me pap, for 
by the Lord I am not so white. Is it not a good spwrt that you labour 
to p)ersuade me, that all that which these good books say are but 
ravings and fables, they being printed by grace and favour of the 
Lords of the Privy Council; as if they were folk that would permit 
so many lies to be printed at once, and so many battles and enchant- 
ments, as are able to make a man run out of his wits.' 'I have told 
thee already, friend,' said the curate, 'that this is done for the recre- 
ation of our idle thoughts, and so even as, in well-governed common- 


wealths, the plays at chess, tennis, and trucks are tolerated for the 
pastime of some men which have none other occupation, and either 
ought not or cannot work, even so such books are permitted to be 
printed; presuming (as in truth they ought, that no man would be 
found so simple and ignorant as to hold any of these books for a 
true history. And if my leisure permitted, and that it were a thing 
requisite for this auditory, I could say many things concerning the 
subject of books of knighthood, to the end that they should be well 
contrived, and also be pleasant and profitable to the readers; but I 
hope sometime to have the commodity to communicate my conceit 
with those that may redress it. And in the meanwhile, you may 
believe, good mine host, what I have said, and take to you your 
books, and agree with their truths or leasings as you please, and 
much good may it do you; and I pray God that you halt not in time 
on the foot that your guest Don Quixote halteth.' 'Not so,' quoth 
the innkeeper, 'for I will never be so wood as to become a knight- 
errant, for I see well that what was used in the times of these famous 
knights is now in no use nor request.' 

Sancho came in about the midst of this discourse, and rested much 
confounded and pensative of that which he heard them say, that 
knights-errant were now in no request, and that the books of chivalry 
only contained follies and lies, and purposed with himself to see the 
end of that voyage of his lord's, and that if it sorted not the wished 
success which he expected, he resolved to leave him and return home 
to his wife and children and accustomed labour. The innkeeper 
thought to take away his books and budget, but the curate withheld 
him, saying, 'Stay a while, for I would see what papers are those 
which are written in so fair a character.' The host took them out 
and gave them to him to read, being in number some eight sheets, 
with a title written in text letters, which said. The History of the 
Curious-Impertinent. The curate read two or three lines softly to 
himself, and said after, 'Truly the title of this history doth not mis- 
like me, and therefore I am about to read it through.' The innkeeper 
hearing him, said, 'Your reverence may very well do it, for I assure 
you that some guests which have read it here, as they travelled, did 
commend it exceedingly, and have begged it of me as earnestly, but 
I would never bestow it, hoping some day to restore it to the owner 


of this malet, who forgot it here behind him with these books and 
papers, for it may be that he will sometime return, and although 
I know that I shall have great want of the books, yet will I make 
to him restitution, for although I am an innkeeper, yet God be 
thanked I am a Christian therewithal.' 'You have great reason, my 
friend,' quoth the curate; 'but yet notwithstanding, if the taste like 
me, thou must give me leave to take a copy thereof.' 'With all my 
heart,' replied the host. And as they two talked, Cardenio, taking 
the book, began to read a little of it, and, it pleasing him as much 
as it had done the curate, he requested him to read it in such sort 
as they might all hear him. 'That 1 would willingly do,' said the 
curate, 'if the time were not now more fit for sleeping than reading.' 
'It were sufficient repwse for me,* said Dorothea, 'to pass away the 
time listening to some tale or other, for my spirit is not yet so well 
quieted as to afford me licence to sleep, even then when nature 
exacteth it.' 'If that be so,' quoth the curate, 'I will read it, if it 
were but for curiosity; perhaps it containeth some delightful matter.' 
Master Nicholas and Sancho entreated the same. The curate, seeing 
and knowing that he should therein do them all a pleasure, and he 
himself likewise receive as great, said, 'Seeing you will needs hear 
it, be all of you attentive, for the history beginneth in this manner.* 

Wherein Is Rehearsed the History of the Curious-Impertinent 

'"TN Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy, in the province 
I called Tuscany, there dwelt two rich and principal gentlemen 
J. called Anselmo and Lothario, which two were so great friends, 
as they were named for excellency, and by antonomasia, by all those 
that knew them, the Two Friends. They were both bachelors, and 
much of one age and manners; all which was of force to make them 
answer one another with reciprocal amity. True it is that Anselmo 
was somewhat more inclined to amorous dalliance than Lothario, 
who was altogether addicted to hunting. But when occasion exacted 
it, Anselmo would omit his own pleasures, to satisfy his friend's; 
and Lothario likewise his, to please Anselmo. And by this means 
both their wills were so correspondent, as no clock could be better 
ordered than were their desires. Anselmo being at last deeply 
enamoured of a principal and beautiful young lady of the same city, 
called Camilla, being so worthily descended, and she herself of 
such merit therewithal, as he resolved (by the consent of his friend 
Lothario, without whom he did nothing) to demand her of her 
parents for wife; and did put his purpose in execution; and Lothario 
himself was the messenger, and concluded the matter so to his 
friend's satisfaction, as he was shortly after put in possession of his 
desires; and Camilla so contented to have gotten Anselmo, as she 
ceased not to render Heaven and Lothario thanks, by whose means 
she had obtained so great a match. The first days, as all marriage 
days are wont to be merry, Lothario frequented, according to the 
custom, his friend Anselmo's house, endeavouring to honour, feast, 
and recreate him all the ways he might possibly. But after the 
nuptials were finished, and the concourse of strangers, visitations, and 
congratulations somewhat ceased, Lothario also began to be some- 
what more slack than he wonted in going to Anselmo his house, 
deeming it (as it is reason that all discreet men should) not so con- 



venient to visit or haunt so often the house of his friend after mar- 
riage as he would, had he still remained a bachelor. For although 
true amity neither should nor ought to admit the least suspicion, yet 
notwithstanding a married man's honour is so delicate and tender 
a thing, as it seems it may be sometimes impaired, even by very 
brethren; and how much more by friends? Anselmo noted the 
remission of Lothario, and did grievously complain thereof, saying 
that, if he had wist by marriage he should thus be deprived of his 
dear conversation, he would never have married; and that since 
through the uniform correspondency of them both being free, they 
had deserved the sweet title of the Two Friends, that he should not 
now permit (because he would be noted circumspect without any 
other occasion) that so famous and pleasing a name should be lost; 
and therefore he requested him (if it were lawful to use such a 
term between them two) to return and be master of his house, and 
come and go as he had done before his marriage, assuring him 
that his spouse Camilla had no other pleasure and will, than that 
which himself pleased she should have; and that she, after having 
known how great was both their friendships, was not a little amazed 
to see him become so strange. 

'To all these and many other reasons alleged by Anselmo, to 
persuade Lothario to frequent his house, he answered with so great 
prudence, discretion, and wariness, as Anselmo remained satisfied 
of his friend's good intention herein; and they made an agreement 
between them two, that Lothario should dine at his house twice a 
week, and the holy days besides. And although this agreement had 
passed between them, yet Lothario purposed to do that only which 
he should find most expedient for his friend's honour, whose reputa- 
tion he tendered much more dearly than he did his own; and was 
wont to say very discreetly, that the married man, unto whom 
Heaven had given a beautiful wife, ought to have as much heed of 
his friends which he brought to his house, as he should of the women 
friends that visited his wife; for that which is not done nor agreed 
upon in the church or market, nor in public feasts or stations (being 
places that a man cannot lawfully hinder his wife from frequenting 
sometimes at least) are ofttimes facilitated and contrived in a friend's 
or kinswoman's house, whom perhaps we never suspected. Anselmo 


on the other side affirmed, that therefore married men ought every 
one of them to have some friend who might advertise them of the 
faults escaped in their manner of proceeding; for it befalls many 
times, that through the great love which the husband bears to his 
wife, either he doth not take notice, or else he doth not advertise 
her, because he would not offend her to do or omit to do 
certain things, the doing or omitting whereof might turn to his 
honour or obloquy; to which things, being advertised by his friend, 
he might easily apply some remedy. But where might a man find 
a friend so discreet, loyal, and trusty as Anselmo demands ? I know 
not truly, if not Lothario: for he it was that with all solicitude and 
care regarded the honour of his friend; and therefore endeavoured 
to cHp and diminish the number of the days promised, lest he should 
give occasion to the idle vulgar, or to the eyes of vagabonds and 
malicious men to judge any sinister thing, viewing so rich, comely, 
noble, and qualified a young man as he was, to have so free access 
into the house of a woman so beautiful as Camilla. For though his 
virtues and modest carriage were sufficiently able to set a bridle to 
any malignant tongue, yet notwithstanding he would not have his 
credit, nor that of his friends, called into any question; and there- 
fore would spend most of the days that he had agreed to visit his 
friend, in other places and exercises; yet feigning excuses so plausible, 
as his friend admitted them for very reasonable. And thus the time 
passed on in challenges of unkindness of the one side, and lawful 
excuses of the other. 

'It so fell out, that, as both the friends walked on a day together 
in a field without the city, Anselmo said to Lothario these words 
ensuing: "I know very well, friend Lothario, that among all the 
favours which God of His bounty hath bestowed upon me by 
making me the son of such parents, and giving to me with so liberal 
a hand, both the goods of nature and fortune; yet as I cannot 
answer Him with sufficient gratitude for the benefits already re- 
ceived, so do I find myself most highly bound unto Him above all 
others, for having given me such a friend as thou art, and so beauti- 
ful a wife as Camilla, being both of you such pawns, as if I esteem 
you not in the degree which I ought, yet do I hold you as dear as 
I may. And yet, possessing all those things which are wont to be 


the all and some that are wont and may make a man happy, I live 
notwithstanding the most sullen and discontented life of the world, 
being troubled, I know not since when, and inwardly wrested with 
so strange a desire, and extravagant, from the common use of others, 
as I marvel at myself, and do condemn and rebuke myself when I 
am alone, and do labour to conceal and cover mine own desires; 
all which hath served me to as little effect, as if I had proclaimed 
mine own errors purposely to the world. And seeing that it must 
finally break out, my will is, that it be only communicated to the 
treasury of thy secret; hoping by it and mine own industry, which, 
as my true friend, thou wilt use to help me, I shall be quickly freed 
from the anguish it causeth, and by thy means my joy and con- 
tentment shall arrive to the pass that my discontents have brought 
me through mine own folly." 

'Lothario stood suspended at Anselmo's speech, as one that could 
not imagine to what so prolix a prevention and preamble tended; 
and although he revolved and imagined sundry things in his mind 
which he deemed might afflict his friend, yet did he ever shoot wide 
from the mark which in truth it was; and that he might quickly 
escape that agony, wherein the suspension held him, he said, that 
his friend did notable injury to their amity, in searching out wreath- 
ings and ambages in the discovery of his most hidden thoughts to 
him, seeing he might assure himself certainly, either to receive 
counsels of him how to entertain, or else remedy and means how to 
accomplish them. 

' "It is very true," answered Anselmo, "and with that confidence 
I let thee to understand, friend Lothario, that the desire which 
vexeth me is a longing to know whether my wife Camilla be as 
good and perfect as I do account her, and I cannot wholly rest satis- 
fied of this truth, but by making trial of her, in such sort as it may 
give manifest argument of the degree of her goodness, as the fire 
doth show the value of gold; for I am of opinion, O friend, that a 
woman is of no more worth or virtue than that which is in her, 
after she hath been solicited; and that she alone is strong who can- 
not be bowed by the promises, gifts, tears, and continual impor- 
tunities of importunate lovers. For what thanks is it," quoth he, 
"£or a woman to be good, if nobody say or teach her ill.^ What 


wonder that she be retired and timorous, if no occasion be ministered 
to her of dissolution, and chiefly she that knows she hath a husband 
ready to kill her for the least argument of lightness? So that she 
which is only good for fear or want of occasion, will I never hold 
in that estimation, that I would the other solicited and pursued, who, 
notwithstanding, comes away crowned with the victory. And there- 
fore, being moved as well by these reasons as by many other which 
I could tell you, which accredit and fortify mine opinion, I desire 
that my wife Camilla do also pass through the pikes of those proofs 
and difficulties, and purify and refine herself in the fire of being 
requested, solicited, and pursued, and that by one whose worths 
and valour may deserve acceptance in her opinion; and if she bear 
away the palm of the victory, as I believe she will, I shall account 
my fortune matchless, and may brag that my desires are in their 
height, and will say that a strong woman hath fallen to my lot, of 
whom the wise man saith, 'Who shall find her?' And when it shall 
succeed contrary to mine expectation, I shall, with the pleasure that 
I will conceive to see how rightly it jumps with mine opinion, bear 
very indifferent [ly] the grief which in all reason this so costly a 
trial must stir in me. And presupposing that nothing which thou 
shah say to me shall be available to hinder my design, or dissuade 
me from putting my purpose in execution, I would have thyself, 
dear friend Lxithario, to provide thee to be the instrument that shall 
labour this work of my liking, and I will give thee opportunity 
enough to perform the same, without omitting anything that may 
further thee in the solicitation of an honest, noble, wary, retired, 
and passionless woman. 

' "And I am chiefly moved to commit this so hard an enterprise 
to thy trust, because I know that, if Camilla be vanquished by thee, 
yet shall not the victory arrive to the last push and upshot, but only 
to that of accounting a thing to be done, which shall not be done 
for many good respects. So shall I remain nothing offended, and 
mine injury concealed in the virtue of thy silence; for I know thy 
care to be such in matters concerning me, as it shall be eternal, like 
that of death. And therefore if thou dcsirest that I may lead a life 
deserving that name, thou must forthwith provide thyself to enter 
into this amorous conflict, and that not languishing or slothfully, 


but with that courage and diligence which my desire expecteth, and 
the confidence I have in our amity assureth me." 

'These were the reasons used by Anselmo to Lothario, to all 
which he was so attentive, as, until he ended, he did not once unfold 
his lips to speak a word save those which we have above related; 
and seeing that he spoke no more, after he had beheld him a good 
while, as a thing that he had never before, and did therefore strike 
him into admiration and amazement, he said, "Friend Anselmo, I 
cannot persuade myself that the words you have spoken be other 
than jests, for, had I thought that thou wert in earnest, I would not 
have suffered thee to pass on so far, and by lending thee no ear 
would have excused this tedious oration. I do verily imagine that 
either thou dost not know me, or I thee; but not so, for I know thee 
to be Anselmo, and thou that I am Lx)thario. The damage is, that 
I think thou art not the Anselmo thou was wont to be, and perhaps 
thou deemest me not to be the accustomed Lothario that I ought 
to be; for the things which thou hast spoken are not of that An- 
selmo my friend, nor those which thou seekest ought to be de- 
manded of that Lothario, of whom thou hast notice. For true 
friends ought to prove and use their friends, as the poet said, usque 
ad aras, that is, that they should in no sort employ them or implore 
their assistance in things offensive unto God; and if a Gentile was 
of this opinion in matters of friendship, how much greater reason 
is it that a Christian should have that feeling, sp)ecially knowing 
that the celestial amity is not to be lost for any human friendship 
whatsoever. And when the friend should throw the bars so wide, 
as to set heavenly respects apart, for to compliment with his friend, 
it must not be done on light grounds, or for things of small moment, 
but rather for those whereon his friend's life and honour wholly 
depend. Then tell me now, Anselmo, in which of these two things 
art thou in danger, that I may adventure my person to do thee a 
pleasure, and attempt so detestable a thing as thou dost demand.? 
None of them truly, but rather dost demand, as I may conjecture, 
that I do industriously labour to deprive thee of thine honour and 
life together, and, in doing so, I likewise deprive myself of them 
both. For if I must labour to take away thy credit, it is most evident 
that I despoil thee of life, for a man without reputation is worse than 


a dead man, and I being the instrument, as thou desirest that I 
should be, of so great harm unto thee, do not I become Hkewise 
thereby dishonoured, and by the same consequence also without 
life? Hear me, friend Anselmo, and have patience not to answer me 
until I have said all that I think, concerning that which thy mind 
exacteth of thee; for we shall have after leisure enough, wherein 
thou mayst reply, and I have patience to listen unto thy reasons." 
' "I am pleased," quoth Anselmo; "say what thou likest." And 
Lothario prosecuted his speech in this manner: "Methinks, Anselmo, 
that thou art now of the Moors' humours, which can by no means 
be made to understand the error of their sect, neither by citations of 
the Holy Scripture, nor by reasons which consist in speculations of 
the understanding, or that are founded in the Articles of the Faith, 
but must be won by palpable examples, and those easy, intelligible, 
demonstrative, and doubtless, by mathematical demonstrations, 
which cannot be denied. Even as when we say, 'If from two equal 
parts we take away two parts equal, the parts that remain are also 
equal.' And when they cannot understand this, as in truth they do 
not, we must demonstrate it to them with our hands, and lay it 
before their eyes, and yet for all this nought can avail to win them 
in the end to give credit to the verities of our religiori; which very 
terms and manner of proceeding I must use with thee, by reason 
that the desire which is sprung in thee doth so wander and stray 
from all that which bears the shadow only of reason, as I doubt 
much that I shall spend my time in vain, which I shall bestow, to 
make thee understand thine own simplicity, for I will give it no 
other name at this present; and, in good earnest, I was almost per- 
suaded to leave thee in thine humour, in punishment of thine inordi- 
nate and unreasonable desire, but that the love which I bear towards 
thee doth not consent I use to thee such rigour, or leave thee in so 
manifest a danger of thine own perdition. And, that thou mayst 
clearly see it, tell me, Anselmo, hast not thou said unto me, that I 
must solicit one that stands upon her reputation; persuade an honest 
woman; make proffers to one that is not passionate or engaged; and 
serve a discreet woman? Yes, thou hast said all this. Well, then, if 
thou knowest already that thou hast a retired, honest, unpassionate, 
and prudent wife, what seekest thou more? And, if thou thinkest 


that she will rest victorious, after all mine assaults, as doubtless 
she will, what better titles wouldst thou after bestow upon her, than 
those she possesseth already? Either it proceeds, because thou dost 
not think of her as thou sayst, or else because thou knowest not 
what thou demandest. If thou dost not account her such as thou 
praisest her, to what end wouldst thou prove her? But rather, as 
an evil person, use her as thou likest best. But, if she be as good 
as thou believest, it were an impertinent thing to make trial of 
truth itself. For, after it is made, yet it will still rest only with the 
same reputation it had before. Wherefore, it is a concluding reason, 
that, to attempt things, whence rather harm may after result unto 
us than good, is the part of rash and discourseless brains; and prin- 
cipally when they deal with those things whereunto they are not 
compelled or driven, and that they see even afar off, how the attempt- 
ing the like is manifest folly. Difficult things are undertaken for 
God, or the world, or both. Those that are done for God are the 
works of the saints, endeavouring to lead angels' lives, in frail and 
mortal bodies. Those of the world are the travels and toils of such 
as cross such immense seas, travel through so adverse regions, and 
converse with so many nations, to acquire that which we call the 
goods of fortune. And the things acted for God and the world 
together are the worthy exploits of resolute and valorous martial 
men, which scarce perceive so great a breach in the adversary wall, 
as the cannon bullet is wont to make; when, leaving all fear apart, 
without making any discourse, or taking notice of the manifest 
danger that threatens them, borne away, by the wings of desire and 
honour, to serve God, their nation and prince, do throw themselves 
boldly into the throat of a thousand menacing deaths which expect 

'"These are things wont to be practised; and it is honour, glory, 
and profit to attempt them, be they never so full of inconveniences 
and danger; but that which thou sayst thou will try and put in 
practice shall never gain thee God's glory, the goods of fortune, or 
renown among men; for, suppose that thou bringest it to pass 
according to thine own fantasy, thou shah remain nothing more 
contented, rich, or honourable than thou art already; and, if thou 
dost not, then shalt thou see thyself in the greatest misery of any 


wretch living; for it will little avail thee then to think that no man 
knows the disgrace befallen thee, it being sufficient both to afflict 
and dissolve thee that thou knowest it thyself. And, for greater 
confirmation of this truth, I will repeat unto thee a stanza of the 
famous poet Luigi Tansillo, in the end of his first part of St. Peter's 
Tears, which is: 

" 'The grief increaseth, and withal the shame 
In Peter when the day itself did show: 
And though he no man sees, yet doth he blame 
Himself because he had offended so. 
For breasts magnanimous, not only tame. 
When that of others they are seen, they know; 
But of themselves ashamed they often be. 
Though none but Heaven and earth their error see.' 

So that thou canst not excuse thy grief with secrecy, be it never so 
great, but rather shall have continual occasion to weep, if not watery 
tears from thine eyes, at least tears of blood from thy heart, such 
as that simple doctor wept, of whom our poet makes mention, who 
made trial of the vessel, which the prudent Reynaldos, upon maturer 
discourse, refused to deal withal. And, although it be but a poetical 
fiction, yet doth it contain many hidden morals, worthy to be noted, 
understood, and imitated; how much more, seeing that by what I 
mean to say now, I hope thou shalt begin to conceive the great error 
which thou wouldest wittingly commit. 

' "Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or thy fortunes had made thee 
lord and lawful possessor of a most precious diamond, of whose 
goodness and quality all the lapidaries that had viewed the same 
would rest satisfied, and that all of them would jointly and uniformly 
affirm that it arrived in quaUty, goodness, and fineness to all that 
to which the nature of such a stone might extend itself, and that 
thou thyself didst believe the same without witting anything to the 
contrary; would it be just that thou shouldest take an humour to 
set that diamond between an anvil and a hammer, and to try there 
by very force of blows whether it be so hard and so fine as they say ? 
And further: when thou didst put thy design in execution, put the 
case that the stone made resistance to thy foolish trial, yet wouldest 
thou add thereby no new value or esteem to it. And if it did break, 


as it might befall, were not then all lost? Yes, certainly, and that 
leaving the owner, in all men's opinion, for a very poor ignorant 
person. Then, friend Anselmo, make account that Camilla is a 
most precious diamond as well in thine as in other men's estimation; 
and it is no reason to put her in contingent danger of breaking, 
seeing that, although she remain in her integrity, she cannot mount 
to more worth than she hath at the present; and if she faltered, or 
did not resist, consider even at this present what state you would be 
in then, and how justly thou mightest then complain of thyself for 
being cause of her perdition and thine own. See how there is no 
jewel in the world comparable to the modest and chaste woman, 
and that all women's honour consists in the good opinion that's had 
of them; and seeing that of thy spouse is so great, as it arrives to 
that sum of jjerfection which thou knowest, why wouldest thou call 
this verity in question? Know, friend, that a woman is an imper- 
fect creature, and should therefore have nothing cast in her way to 
make her stumble and fall, but rather to clear and do all encum- 
brances away out of it, to the end she may without impeachment 
run with a swift course to obtain the perfection she wants, which 
only consists in being virtuous. 

' "The naturalists recount that the ermine is a little beast that hath 
a most white skin; and that, when the hunters would chase him, 
they use this art to take him. As soon as they find out his haunt, 
and places where he hath recourse, they thwart them with mire and 
dirt, and after when they descry the little beast, they pursue him 
towards those places which are defiled; and the ermine, espying 
the mire, stands still, and permits himself to be taken and captived 
in exchange of not passing through the mire, or staining of his 
whiteness, which it esteems more than either liberty or life. The 
honest and chaste woman is an ermine, and the virtue of chastity is 
whiter and purer than snow; and he that would not lose it, but 
rather desires to keep and preserve it, must proceed with a different 
style from that of the ermine. For they must not propose and lay 
before her the mire of the passions, flatteries, and services of im- 
portunate lovers; for jjerhaps she shall not have the natural impulse 
and force, which commonly through proper debility is wont to 
stumble, to pass over those encumbrances safely; and therefore it 


is requisite to free the passage and take them away, and lay before 
her the clearness of virtue and the beauty comprised in good fame. 
The good woman is also like unto a bright and clear mirror of 
crystal, and therefore is subject to be stained and dimmed by every 
breath that toucheth it. The honest woman is to be used as relics 
of saints, to wit, she must be honoured but not touched. The good 
woman is to be kept and prized like a fair garden full of sweet 
flowers and roses, that is held in estimation, whose owner permits 
no man to enter and trample or touch his flowers, but holds it to 
be sufficient that they, standing afar off, without the rails, may joy 
at the delightful sight and fragrance thereof. Finally I will repeat 
certain verses unto thee that have now come to my memory, the 
which were rep)eated of late in a new play, and seem to me very fit 
for the purpose of which we treat. A prudent old man did give a 
neighbour of his that had a daughter counsel to keep and shut her 
up; and among many other reasons he used these: 

" 'Truly woman is of glass; 

Therefore no man ought to try 

If she broke or not might be, 
Seeing all might come to pass. 
Yet to break her 'tis more easy; 

And it is no wit to venture 

A thing of so brittle temper, 
That to solder is so queasy. 
And I would have all men dwell 

In this truth and reason's ground. 

That if Danaes may be found. 
Golden showers are found as well.' 

' "All that which I have said to thee, Anselmo, until this instant, 
hath been for that which may touch thyself; and it is now high 
time that somewhat be heard concerning me. And if by chance I 
shall be somewhat prolix, I pray thee to pardon me; for the laby- 
rinth wherein thou hast entered, and out of which thou wouldest have 
me to free thee, requires no less. Thou boldest me to be thy friend, 
and yet goest about to despoil me of mine honour, being a thing 
contrary to all amity; and dost not only pretend this, but dost like- 
wise endeavour that I should rob thee of the same. That thou 


wouldest deprive me of mine is evident; for when Camilla shall 
perceive that 1 solicit her as thou demandest, it is certain that she 
will esteem of me as of one quite devoid of wit and discretion, seeing 
I intend and do a thing so repugnant to that which the being that 
him I am, and thine amity do bind me unto. That thou wouldest 
have me rob thee thereof is as manifest, for Camilla, seeing me thus 
to court her, must imagine that I have noted some lightness in her 
which lent me boldness thus to discover unto her my depraved 
desires, and she holding herself to be thereby injured and dis- 
honoured, her disgrace must also concern thee as a principal part 
of her. And hence springs that which is commonly said, That the 
husband of the adulterous wife, although he know nothing of her 
lewdness, nor hath given any occasion to her to do what she ought 
not, nor was able any way to hinder by diligence, care, or other 
means, his disgrace, yet is entitled with a vituperous name, and is 
in a manner beheld by those that know his wife's malice with the 
eyes of contempt; whereas they should indeed regard him rather 
with those of compassion, seeing that he falls into that misfortune 
not so much through his own default, as through the light fantasy 
of his wicked consort. But I will show thee the reason why a bad 
woman's husband is justly dishonoured and contemned, although 
he be ignorant and guiltless thereof, and cannot prevent, nor hath 
given to it any occasion. And be not grieved to hear me, seeing the 
benefit of the discourse shall redound unto thyself. 

'"When God created our first parent in the terrestrial paradise, 
the Holy Scripture saith. That God infused sleep into Adam, and 
that, being asleep, He took out a rib out of his left side, of which 
He formed our mother Eve; and as soon as Adam awaked and 
beheld her, he said, 'This is flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bones.' 
And God said, 'For this cause shall a man leave his father and his 
mother, and they shall be two in one flesh.' And then was the divine 
ordinance of matrimony first instituted, with such indissoluble 
knots as only may be by death dissolved. And this marvellous ordi- 
nance is of such efficacy and force, as it makes two different pyersons 
to be one very flesh; and yet operates further in good married folk; 
for, although they have two souls, yet it makes them to have but 
one will. And hence it proceeds, that by reason the wife's flesh is 


one and the very same with her husband's, the blemishes or defects 
that taint it do also redound into the husband's, although he, as we 
have said, have ministered no occasion, to receive that damage. For 
as all the whole body feels any pain of the foot, head, or any other 
member, because it is all one flesh, and the head smarts at the grief 
of the ankle, although it hath not caused it; so is the husband par- 
ticipant of his wife's dishonour, because he is one and the selfsame 
with her. And by reason that all the honours and dishonours of 
the world are, and spring from flesh and blood, and those of the 
bad woman be of this kind, it is forcible, that part of them fall to 
the husband's share, and that he be accounted dishonourable, al- 
though he wholly be ignorant of it. See then, Anselmo, to what peril 
thou dost thrust thyself by seeking to disturb the quietness and 
repose wherein thy wife lives, and for how vain and impertinent 
curiosity thou wouldest stir up the humours which are now quiet 
in thy chaste spouse's breast. Note how the things thou dost adven- 
ture to gain are of small moment; but that which thou shalt lose so 
great, that I must leave it in his point, having no words sufficiently 
able to endear it. But if all that I have said be not able to move thee 
from thy bad purpose, thou mayst well seek out for some other 
instrument of thy dishonour and mishaps; for I mean not to be one, 
although I should therefore lose thine amity, which is the greatest 
loss that might any way befall me." 

'Here the prudent Lothario held his peace, and Anselmo remained 
so confounded and melancholy, as he could not answer a word to 
him for a very great while. But in the end he said, "I have listened, 
friend Lothario, to all that which thou hast said unto me, with the 
attention which thou hast noted, and have perceived in thy reasons, 
examples, and similitudes the great discretion wherewithal thou art 
endowed, and the perfection of amity that thou hast attained; and 
do also confess and see, that, if I follow not thine advice, but should 
lean unto mine own, I do but shun the good, and pursue the evil. 
Yet oughtest thou likewise to consider, how herein I suffer the 
disease which some women are wont to have, that long to eat earth, 
lime, coals, and other far worse and loathsome things even to the very 
sight, and much more to the taste; so that it is behooveful to use 
some art by which I may be cured; and this might be easily done 


by beginning only to solicit Camilla, although you did it but weak 
and feignedly; for I know she will not be so soft and pliable as to 
dash her honesty about the ground at the first encounters, and I will 
rest satisfied with this commencement alone; and thou shalt herein 
accomplish the obligation thou owest to our friendship, by not only 
restoring me to life, but also by persuading me not to despoil myself 
of mine honour. And thou art bound to do this, for one reason that 
I shall allege, to wit, that I being resolved, as indeed I am, to make 
this experience, thou oughtest not to permit, being my friend, that 
I should bewray my defect herein to a stranger, whereby I might very 
much endanger my reputation, which thou labourest so much to 
preserve; and though thy credit may lose some degrees in Camilla's 
opinion whilst thou dost solicit her, it matters not very much, or 
rather nothing; for very shortly, when we shall espy in her the 
integrity that we expect, thou mayst open unto her sincerely the 
drift of our practice, by which thou shalt again recover thine im- 
paired reputation. Therefore seeing the adventure is little, and the 
pleasure thou shalt do me by the enterprising thereof so, too great, 
I pray thee do it, though ever so many encumbrances represent 
themselves to thee, for, as I have promised, with only thy beginning, 
I will rest satisfied and account the cause concluded." 

'Lothario perceiving the firm resolution of Anselmo, and nothing 
else occurring forcibly dissuasive, not knowing what other reasons 
to use that might hinder this his precipitate resolution, and noting 
withal how he threatened to break the matter of this his indiscreet 
desires to a stranger, he determined, to avoid greater inconvenience, 
to give him satisfaction, and perform his demand, with purp)ose and 
resolution to guide the matter so discreetly, as, without troubling 
Camilla's thoughts, Anselmo should rest contented; and therefore 
entreated him not to open his mind to any other, for he himself 
would undertake that enterprise, and begin it whensoever he pleased. 
Anselmo embraced him very tender and lovingly, and gratified him 
as much for that promise as if he had done him some very great 
favour, and there they accorded between them that he should begin 
the work the very next day ensuing; for he would give him place 
and leisure to sp)eak alone with Camilla, and would likewise pro- 
vide him of money, jewels, and other things to present unto her. 


He did also admonish him to bring music under her windows by 
night, and write verses in her praise, and if he would not take the 
pains to make them, he himself would compose them for him. 
Lothario promised to perform all himself, yet with an intention 
far wide from Anselmo's; and with this agreement they returned 
to Anselmo's house, where they found Camilla somewhat sad and 
careful, expecting her husband's return, who had stayed longer 
abroad that day than his custom. Lothario, leaving him at his house, 
returned to his own, as pensive as he had left Anselmo contented, 
and knew not what plot to lay, to issue out of that impertinent af?air 
with prosperous success. But that night he bethought himself of a 
manner how to deceive Anselmo without offending Camilla; and 
so the next day ensuing he came to his friend's house to dinner, 
where Camilla, knowing the great good-will her husband bore 
towards him, did receive and entertain him very kindly with the 
like. Dinner being ended, and the table taken up, Anselmo requested 
Lothario to keep Camilla company until his return, for he must 
needs go about an affair that concerned him greatly, but would 
return again within an hour and a half. Camilla entreated her hus- 
band to stay, and Lothario proffered to go and keep him company; 
but nothing could prevail with Anselmo, but rather he importuned 
his friend Lothario to remain and abide there till his return, because 
he must go to treat of a matter of much consequence. He also com- 
manded Camilla not to leave Lothario alone until he came back. 
And so he departed, leaving Camilla and Lothario together at the 
table, by reason that all the attendants and servants were gone to 

'Here Lothario saw that he was entered into the lists which his 
friend so much desired, with his adversary before him, who was 
with her beauty able to overcome a whole squadron of armed 
knights; see then if Lothario had not reason to fear himself; but 
that which he did at the first onset was to lay his elbow on the arm 
of his chair and his hand on his cheek, and, desiring Camilla to bear 
with his respectlessness therein, he said he would repose a little 
whilst he attended Anselmo's coming. Camilla answered that she 
thought he might take his ease better on the cushions of state; and 
therefore prayed him he would enter into the parlour and lie on 


them. But he excused himself, and so remained asleep in the same 
place until Anselmo's return, who, coming in, and finding his wife 
in her chamber and Lothario asleep, made full account that, by 
reason of his long stay, they had time enough both to talk and 
repose; and therefore expected very greedily the hour wherein his 
friend should awake, to go out with him and learn what success he 
had. All succeeded as he wished; for Lothario arose, and both of 
them went abroad; and then he demanded of him what he desired. 
And Lothario answered that it seemed not to him so good to discover 
all his meaning at the first; and therefore had done no other thing 
at that time than speak a little of her beauty and discretion; for it 
seemed to him that this was the best preamble he could use to gain 
by little and little some interest and possession in her acceptance, 
to dispose her thereby the better to give ear again to his words more 
willingly, imitating therein the devil's craft when he means to 
deceive any one that is vigilant and careful; for then he translates 
himself into an angel of light, being one of darkness, and laying 
before him apparent good, discovers what he is in the end, and 
brings his intention to pass, if his guiles be not at the beginning 
detected. All this did greatly like Anselmo, who said that he would 
afford him every day as much leisure, although he did not go abroad; 
for he would spend the time so at home as Camilla should never 
be able to suspect his drift. 

'It therefore befel that many days passed which Lothario did 
willingly overslip, and said nothing to Camilla; yet did he ever 
soothe Anselmo, and told him that he had spoken to her, but could 
never win her to give the least argument of flexibility, or make way 
for the feeblest hope that might be; but rather affirmed that she 
threatened him that, if he did not repel his impertinent desires, she 
would detect his indirect proceedings to her husband. "It is well," 
quoth Anselmo. "Hitherto Camilla hath resisted words; it is there- 
fore requisite to try what resistance she will make against works. 
I will give thee to-morrow four thousand crowns in gold, to the 
end thou mayst offer, and also bestow them on her; and thou shah 
have as many more to buy jewels wherewithal to bait her; for 
women are naturally inclined, and specially if they be fair (be they 
ever so chaste), to go brave and gorgeously attired; and if she can 


overcome this temptation, I will remain pleased, and put thee to no 
more trouble." Lothario answered, that, seeing he had begun, he 
would bear his enterprise on to an end, although he made full 
account that he should depart from the conflict both tired and van- 
quished. He received the four thousand crowns the next day, and 
at once with them four thousand perplexities, for he knew not what 
to invent to lie anew; but concluded finally to tell his friend how 
Camilla was as inflexible at gifts and promises as at words; and 
therefore it would be in vain to travail any more in her pursuit, 
seeing he should do nothing else but spend the time in vain. 

'But fortune, which guided these affairs in another manner, so 
disposed, that Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla alone, as 
he was wont, entered secretly into a chamber, and through the 
crannies and chinks did listen and see what they would do; where 
he perceived that Lothario, in the space of half-an-hour, spoke not 
a word to Camilla, nor yet would he have spoken, though he had 
remained there a whole age, and thereupwn surmised straight that 
all that which his friend had told him of Camilla's answers and his 
own speech were but fictions and untruths; and that he might the 
more confirm himself, and see whether it were so, he came forth, 
and, calling Lothario apart, he demanded of him what Camilla had 
said, and in what humour she was at the present? Lothario an- 
swered, that he meant not ever any more to sound her in that 
matter; for she replied unto him so untowardly and sharply, as he 
durst not attempt any more to speak unto her of such things. 

' "Oh," quoth Anselmo, "Lothario, Lothario! how evil dost thou 
answer to the affection thou owest me, or to the confidence I did 
repose in thee? I have stood beholding thee all this while through 
the hole of that lock, and saw how thou never spokest one word 
to her. Whereby I do also collect that thou hast not yet once ac- 
costed her; and if it be so, as doubtlessly it is, say, why dost thou 
deceive me? or why goest thou about fraudulently to deprive me 
of those means whereby I may obtain my desires?" Anselmo said 
no more, yet what he said was sufficient to make Lothario confused 
and ashamed, who, taking it to be a blemish to his reputation to 
be found in a lie, swore to Anselmo that he would from thence- 
forward so endeavour to please his mind, and tell him no more 


leasings, as he himself might perceive the success thereof, if he did 
again curiously lie in watch for him; a thing which he might well 
excuse, because his most serious labour to satisfy his desire should 
remove all shadow of suspicion. Anselmo believed him, and that 
he might give him the greater commodity, and less occasion of fear, 
he resolved to absent himself from his house some eight days, and 
go to visit a friend of his that dwelt in a village not far from the 
city; and therefore dealt with his friend, that he should send a 
messenger to call for him very earnestly, that, under that pretext, 
he might find an excuse to Camilla for his departure. 

'O unfortunate and inconsiderate Anselmo! what is that which 
thou dost? what dost thou contrive? or what is that thou goest 
about? Behold, thou workest thine own ruin, laying plots of thine 
own dishonour, and giving order to thy proper perdition. Thy wife 
Camilla is good; thou dost possess her in quiet and fjeaceable man- 
ner; no man surpriseth thy delights, her thoughts transgress not the 
limits of her house. Thou art her heaven on earth, and the goal to 
which her desires aspire. Thou art the accomplishment and sum of 
her delectation. Thou art the square by which she measureth and 
directeth her will, adjusting wholly with thine and with that of 
Heaven. Since then the mines of her honour, beauty, modesty, and 
recollection bountifully afford thee, without any toil, all the treasures 
contained in them, or thou canst desire, why wouldst thou dig the 
earth and seek out new veins and ne'er-seen treasures, expwsing thy- 
self to the danger that thy labours may turn to wreck, seeing, in 
fine, that they are only sustained by the weak supporters of her frail 
nature? Remember how he that seeks the impossible may justly be 
refused of that which is possible, according to that which the poet 

" 'In death for life I seek, 

Health in infirmity; 

For issue in a dungeon deep, 

In jails for liberty, 

And in a treachour loyalty. 

" 'But envious fate, which still 
Conspires to work mine ill, 
With heaven hath thus decreed, 
TTiat easy things should be to me denied 
'Cause I crave the impossible.' " 


'Anselmo departed the next day following to the village, telling 
Camilla, at his departure, that, whilst he was absent, his friend 
Lothario would come and see to the affairs of his house, and to 
eat with her, and desired her therefore to make as much of him 
as she would do of his own person. Camilla, like a discreet and 
modest woman, was grieved at the order her husband did give to 
her, and requested him to render how indecent it was that any one 
should possess the chair of his table, he being absent, and if he did 
it as doubting her sufficiency to manage his household affairs, that 
at least he should make trial of her that one time, and should clearly 
perceive how she was able to discharge matters of far greater conse- 
quence. Anselmo replied, that what he commanded was his pleasure, 
and therefore she had nothing else to do but hold down the head 
and obey it. Camilla answered, that she would do so, although it 
was very much against her will. In fine, her husband departed, and 
Lothario came the next day following to the house, where he was 
entertained by Camilla very friendly, but would never treat with 
Lothario alone, but evermore was compassed by her servants and 
waiting maidens, but chiefly by one called Leonela, whom she loved 
dearly, as one that had been brought up with her in her father's 
house, even from their infancy, and when she did marry Anselmo 
she brought her from thence in her company. 

'The first three days Lothario spoke not a word, although he 
might, when the tables were taken up, and that the folk of the 
house went hastily to dinner, for so Camilla had commanded, and 
did give Leonela order besides to dine before herself, and that she 
should still keep by her side; but the girl, who had her fancy other- 
wise employed in things more pleasing her humour, and needed 
those hours and times for the accomplishing of them, did not always 
accomplish so punctually her lady's command, but now and then 
would leave her alone, as if that were her lady's behest. But the 
honest presence of Camilla, the gravity of her face, and the modesty 
of her carriage, was such, that it served as a bridle to restrain 
Lothario's tongue. But the benefit of Camilla's many virtues, setting 
silence to Lothario's speech, resulted afterward to both their harms; 
for though the tongue spoke not, yet did his thoughts discourse, and 
had leisure afforded them to contemplate, part by part, all the 
extremes of worth and beauty that were cumulated in Camilla, 


potent to inflame a statue of frozen marble, how much more a heart 
of flesh! Lothario did only behold her in the time and space he 
should speak unto her, and did then consider how worthy she was 
to be loved. And this consideration did by little and little give 
assaults to the respects which he ought to have borne towards his 
friend Anselmo; a thousand times did he determine to absent him- 
self from the city, and go where Anselmo should never see him, nor 
he Camilla; but the delight he took in beholding her did again 
withhold and hinder his resolutions. When he was alone, he would 
condemn himself of his mad design, and term himself a bad friend 
and worse Christian; he made discourses and comparisons between 
himself and Anselmo, all which did finish in this point, that An- 
selmo's foolhardiness and madness were greater than his own in- 
fidelity, and that, if he might be as easily excused before God, for 
that he meant to do, as he would be before men, he needed not to 
fear any punishment should be inflicted on him for the crime. 
Finally, Camilla's beauty and worth, assisted by the occasion which 
the ignorant husband had thrust into his fists, did wholly ruin and 
overthrow Lothario his loyalty; and therefore, without regarding 
any other thing than that to which his pleasure conducted him, 
about three days after Anselmo's departure (which time he had spent 
in a continual battle and resistance of his contending thoughts), he 
began to solicit Camilla with such trouble of the spirits and so 
amorous words, as she was strucken almost beside herself with 
wonder, and made him no other answer, but, arising from the table, 
flung away in a fury into her chamber. But yet, for all this dryness, 
Lothario his hope (which is wont evermore to be born at once with 
love) was nothing dismayed, but rather accounted the more of 
Camilla, who, perceiving that in Lothario which she never durst 
before to imagine, knew not what she might do; but, it seeming 
unto her to be a thing neither secure nor honest, to give him occa- 
sion or leisure to speak unto him again, determined to send one 
unto her husband Anselmo the very same night, as indeed she did, 
with a letter to recall him home to her house. The subject of her 
letter was this. 

Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the Curious-Impertinent 

' ""■ ^ VEN as it is commonly said, that an army seems not well 
r^ without a general, or a castle without a constable, so do 
^ -^ I affirm, that it is much more indecent to see a young 
married woman without her husband, when he is not jusdy detained 
away by necessary aHairs. I find myself so ill disposed in your 
absence, and so impatient and impotent to endure it longer, as, if 
you do not speedily return, I shall be constrained to return back 
unto my father, although I should leave your house without any 
keeping; for the guard you appointed for me, if it be so that he may 
deserve that title, looks more, I believe, to his own pleasure, than 
to that which concerns you. Therefore, seeing you have wit enough, 
I will say no more; nor ought I say more in reason." 

'Anselmo received the letter, and by it understood that Lothario 
had begun the enterprise, and that Camilla had answered to him 
according as he had hoped. And, marvellous glad at the news, he 
answered his wife by word of mouth, that she should not remove 
in any wise from her house; for he would return with all speed. 
Camilla was greatly admired at his answer, which struck her into 
a greater perplexity than she was at the first, being afraid to stay 
at home, and also to go to her father. For by staying she endangers 
her honesty; by going she would transgress her husband's com- 
mand. At last she resolved to do that which was worst, which was 
to remain at home, and not to shun Lothario's presence, lest she 
should give her servants occasion of suspicion. And now she was 
grieved to have written what she did to her husband, fearful lest 
he should think that Lothario had noted in her some token of light- 
ness, which might have moved him to lose the respect which other- 
wise was due unto her. But, confident in her innocency, she cast 
her hopes in God and her good thoughts, wherewithal she thought 



to resist all Lothario's words, and by holding her silent without 
making him any answer, without giving any further account of 
the matter to her husband, lest thereby she might plunge him in 
new difficulties and contention with his friend, and did therefore 
bethink her how she might excuse Lothario to Anselmo, when he 
should demand the occasion that moved her to write unto him that 

'With these more honest than profitable or discreet resolutions, 
she gave ear the second day to Lothario, who charged her with 
such resolution, as her constancy began to stagger, and her honesty 
had enough to do recurring to her eyes to contain them, lest they 
should give any demonstration of the amorous compassion which 
Lothario's words and tears had stirred in her breast. Lothario noted 
all this, and it inflamed him the more. Finally, he thought that it 
was requisite [to] the time and leisure which Anselmo's absence 
afforded him, to lay closer siege to that fortress; and so he assaulted 
her presumptuously, with the praises of her beauty, for there is 
nothing which with such facility doth rend and raze to the ground 
the proudly-crested turrets of women's vanity, than the same vanity 
being dilated on by the tongue of adulation and flattery. To be 
brief, he did with all diligence undermine the rock of her integrity 
with so warlike engines, as although Camilla were made of brass, 
yet would she be overthrown, for Lothario wept, entreated, prom- 
ised, flattered, persisted and feigned so feelingly, and with such 
tokens of truth, as, traversing Camilla's care of her honour, he came 
in the end to triumph over that which was least susf)ected, and he 
most desired; for she rendered herself — even Camilla rendered her- 
self. But what wonder if Lothario's amity could not stand on foot ? 
A clear example, plainly demonstrating that the amorous passion 
is only vanquished by shunning it, and that nobody ought to adven- 
ture to wrestle with so strong an adversary; for heavenly forces are 
necessary for him that would confront the violence of that passion, 
although human. None but Leonela knew the weakness of her 
lady, for from her the two bad friends and new lovers could not 
conceal the matter; nor yet would Lothario discover to Camilla her 
husband's pretence, or that he had given him wittingly the oppor- 


tunity whereby he arrived to that pass, because she should not 
imagine that he had gotten her lightly, and by chance, and did not 
purposely solicit her. 

'A few days after, Anselmo arrived to his house, and did not 
perceive what wanted therein, to wit, that which it had lost, and 
he most esteemed. From thence he went to see his friend Lothario, 
whom he found at home, and, embracing one another, he demanded 
of him the news of his life or of his death. "The news which I can 
give thee, friend Anselmo," quoth Lothario, "are, that thou has a 
wife who may deservedly be the example and garland of all good 
women. The words that I spoke unto her were spent on the air, 
my proffers contemned, and my gifts repulsed, and besides, she hath 
mocked me notably for certain feigned tears that I did shed. In 
resolution, even as Camilla is the pattern of all beauty, so is she a 
treasury wherein modesty resides, courtesy and wariness dwell, and 
all the other virtues that may beautify an honourable woman, or 
make her fortunate. Therefore, friend, take back thy money, for 
here it is ready, and I never had occasion to employ it; for Camilla's 
integrity cannot be subdued with so base things as are gifts and 
promises. And, Anselmo, content thyself now with the proofs made 
already, without attempting to make any further trial. And seeing 
thou hast passed over the sea of difficulties and suspicions with a 
dry foot, which may and are wont to be had of women, do not 
eftsoons enter into the profound depths of new inconveniences, nor 
take thou any other pilot to make experience of the goodness and 
strength of the vessel that Heaven hath allotted to thee, to pass 
therein through the seas of this world; but make account that thou 
art harboured in a safe haven, and there hold thyself fast with the 
anchor of good consideration, and so rest thee until death come 
to demand his debt, from the payment whereof no nobility or privi- 
lege whatsoever can exempt us." Anselmo rested singularly satisfied 
at Lothario's discourse, and did believe it as firmly as if it were de- 
livered by an oracle; but did entreat him notwithstanding to prose- 
cute his attempt, although it were only done for curiosity, and to 
pass away the time; yet not to use so efficacious means as he hitherto 
practised; and that he only desired him to write some verses in her 


praise under the name of Chloris, for he would make Camilla 
believe that he was enamoured on a certain lady, to whom he did 
appropriate that name, that he might celebrate her praises with the 
respect due to her honour; and that if he would not take the pains 
to invent them, then he himself would willingly compose them. 
"That is not needful," quoth Lothario, "for the Muses are not so 
alienated from me, but that they visit me sometimes in the year. 
Tell you unto Camilla what you have divined of my loves, and as 
for the verses, I will make them myself; if not so well as the subject 
deserves, yet at the least as artificially as 1 may devise them." The 
impertinent-curious man and his treacherous friend having thus 
agreed, and Anselmo returned to his house, he demanded of Ca- 
milla that which she marvelled he had not asked before, that she 
should tell unto him the occasion why she sent unto him the letter? 
Camilla made answer, because it seemed unto her that Lothario 
beheld her somewhat more immodestly than when he was at home; 
but that now she did again dissuade herself, and believed that it 
was but a light surmise, without any ground, because that she per- 
ceived Lothario to loathe her presence, or [to] be by any means 
alone with her. Anselmo told her that she might very well live secure 
for him, for that he knew Lothario's affections were bestowed else- 
where, and that ujxjn one of the noblest damsels of the city, whose 
praises he solemnized under the name of Chloris, and that although 
he were not, yet was there no cause to doubt of Lothario's virtue, 
or the amity that was between them both. Here, if Camilla had not 
been premonished by Lothario that the love of Chloris was but 
feigned, and that he himself had told it to Anselmo to blind him, 
that he might with less difficulty celebrate her own praises under 
the name of Chloris, she had without doubt fallen into the desperate 
toils of jealousy; but being already advertised, she posted over that 
assault lightly. The day following, they three sitting together at 
dinner, Anselmo requested Lothario to repeat some one of the verses 
that he had made to his beloved Chloris; for, seeing that Camilla 
knew her not, he might boldly say what he pleased. "Although she 
knew her," quoth Lothario, "yet would I not therefore suppress 
any part of her praises. For when any lover praiseth his lady for 
her beauty, and doth withal tax her of cruelty, her credit incurs no 


danger. But befall what it list, I composed yesterday a sonnet of 
the ingratitude of Chloris, and is this ensuing: 

" 'A Sonnet. 

" 'Amidst the silence of the darkest night. 

When sweetest sleep invadeth mortal eyes; 
I poor account, to Heaven and Chloris bright, 

Give of the richest harms, which ever rise. 

And at the time we Phoebus may devise, 
Shine through the roseal gates of the Orient bright, 

With deep accents and sighs, in wonted guise, 
I do my plaints renew, with main and might. 

And when the sun, down from his starry seat, 
Directest rays toward the earth doth send. 

My sighs I double and my sad regreet; 
And night returns; but of my woes no end. 

For I hnd always, in my mortal strife. 

Heaven without ears, and Chloris likewise deaf.' " 

'Camilla liked the sonnet very well, but Anselmo best of all; for 
he praised it, and said, that the lady must be very cruel that would 
not answer such perspicuous truths with reciprocal aflection. But 
then Camilla answered, "Why, then, belike, all that which enam- 
oured poets say is true.?" "Inasmuch as poets," quoth Lothario, 
"they say not truth; but as they are enamoured, they remain as short 
as they are true." "That is questionless," quoth Anselmo, all to 
underprop and give Lothario more credit with Camilla, who was as 
careless of the cause (her husband said so) as she was enamoured 
of Lothario; and therefore with the delight she took in his com- 
positions, but chiefly knowing that his desires and labours were 
addressed to herself, who was the true Chloris, she entreated him to 
repeat some other sonnet or ditty, if he remembered any. "Yes, that 
I do," quoth Lothario; "but I believe that it is not so good as the 
first, as you may well judge; for it is this: 

'"A Sonnet. 

" 'I die, and if I cannot be believed. 

My death's most certain, as it is most sure 
To see me, at thy feet, of life deprived; 

Rather than grieve, this thraldom to endure. 
Well may I (in oblivious shades obscure) 


Of glory, life, and favour be denied. 

And yet even there, shall in my bosom pure. 
The shape of thy fair face, engraved, be eyed. 

For that's a relic, which I do reserve 
For the last trances my contentions threaten. 

Which 'midst thy rigour doth itself preserve. 
O woe's the wight, that is by tempests beaten 

By night, in unknown seas, in danger rife 

For want of North, or haven, to lose his life.' " 

'Anselmo commended also this second sonnet as he had done 
the first, and added by that means one link to another in the chain 
wherewith he entangled himself, and forged his own dishonour; 
seeing, when Lothario dishonoured him most of all, he said unto 
him then that he honoured him most. And herewithal Camilla 
made all the links, that verily served only to abase her down to the 
centre of contempt, seem to mount her in her husband's opinion 
up to the height of virtue and good fame. 

'It befel soon after, that Camilla, finding herself alone with her 
maiden, said to her, "I am ashamed, friend Leoncla, to see how 
Uttle I knew to value myself, seeing that I made not Lothario spend 
some time at least in the purchasing the whole possession of me, 
which I, with a prompt will, bestowed upon him so speedily. I fear 
me that he will impute my hastiness to lightness, without considering 
the force he used towards me, which wholly hindered and dis- 
abled my resistance." "Let not that afflict you, madam," quoth 
Leonela; "for it is no sufficient cause to diminish estimation, that 
that be given quickly which is to be given, if that in efTect be good 
that is given, and be in itself worthy of estimation; for it is an old 
proverb, 'that he that gives quickly, gives twice.' " "It is also said 
as well," quoth Camilla, "'that that which costeth little is less 
esteemed.'" "That reason hath no place in you," quoth Leonela, 
"forasmuch as love, according as some have said of it, doth some- 
times fly, other times it goes; it runs with this man, and goes 
leisurely with the other; it makes some key-cold, and inflames others; 
some it wounds, and some it kills; it begins the career of his desires 
in an instant, and in the very same it concludes it likewise. It is 
wont to lay siege to the fortress in the morning, and at night it 
makes it to yield, for there's no force able to resist it; which being 


SO, what do you wonder? or what is it that you fear, if the same 
hath befallen Lothario, seeing that love made of my lord's absence 
an instrument to vanquish us? And it was forcible, that in it we 
should conclude on it which love had before determined, without 
giving time itself any time to lead Anselmo that he might return, 
and with his presence leave the work imperfect. For love hath none 
so officious or better a minister to execute his desires than is occa- 
sion. It serves itself of occasion in all his act, but most of all at the 
beginning. And all this that I have said I know rather by experience 
than hearsay, as I will some day let you to understand; for, madam, 
I am likewise made of flesh and lusty young blood. And as for you. 
Lady Camilla, you did not give up and yield yourself presently, but 
stayed until you had first seen in Lothario's eyes, his sighs, in his 
discourses, in his promises, and gifts, all his soul, in which, and in 
his perfections, you might read how worthy he is to be loved. And 
seeing this is so, let not these scruples and nice thoughts assault or 
further disturb your mind, but persuade yourself that Lothario 
esteems you as much as you do him, and lives with content and 
satisfaction, seeing that it was your fortune to fall into the amorous 
snare, that it was his good luck to catch you with his valour and 
deserts; who not only hath the four S's which they say every good 
lover ought to have, but also the whole ABC, which if you will 
not credit, do but listen to me a while, and I will repeat it to you 
by rote. He is, as it seems, and as far as I can judge. Amiable, 
Bountiful, Courteous, Dutiful, Enamoured, Firm, Gallant, Honour- 
able, Illustrious, Loyal, Mild, Noble, Honest, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, 
and the S's which they say; and besides True, Valorous. The X doth 
not quader well with him, because it sounds harshly. Y he is 
Young, and the Z he is Zealous of thine honour." Camilla laughed 
at her maiden's ABC, and accounted her to be more practised in 
love-matters than she herself had confessed, as indeed she was; for 
then she revealed to her mistress how she and a certain young man, 
well-born, of the city, did treat of love one with another. Hereat 
her mistress was not a little troubled in mind, fearing that her 
honour might be greatly endangered by that means; she demanded 
whether her affection had passed further than words? And 
the maid answered very shamelessly and freely that they did; for 

334 ^^N QUIXOTE 

it is most certain, that this kind of reccheless mistress do also make 
their maidens careless and impudent; who, when they perceive their 
ladies to falter, are commonly wont to halt likewise themselves, and 
care not that the world do know it. 

'Camilla, seeing that error past remedy, could do no more but 
entreat Leonela not to reveal anything of their affairs to him she 
said was her sweetheart, and that she should handle her matters 
discreetly and secretly, lest they might come to Anselmo or Lo- 
thario's notice. Leonela promised to perform her will, but did 
accomplish her promise in such sort, as she did confirm Camilla's 
fears that she should lose her credit by her means. For the dishonest 
and bold girl, after she had perceived that her mistress's proceedings 
were not such as they were wont, grew so hardy, as she gave en- 
trance and brought her lover into her master's house, presuming 
that, although her lady knew it, yet would she not dare to discover 
it. For this among other harms follows the sins of mistresses, that it 
makes them slaves to their own servants, and doth oblige them to 
conceal their dishonest and base proceedings, as it fell out in 
Camilla, who, although she espied Leonela, not once only, but 
sundry times together, with her lover in a certain chamber of the 
house, she not only dared not to rebuke her for it, but rather gave 
her opportunity to hide him, and would remove all occasion out 
of her husband's way, whereby he might suspect any such thing. 

'But all could not hinder Lothario from espying him once, as 
he departed out of the house at the break of the day; who, not 
knowing him, thought at the first it was a spirit, but when he saw 
him post away, and cast his cloak over his face, lest he should be 
known, he, abandoning his simple surmise, fell into a new sus- 
picion which had overthrown them all, were it not that Camilla 
did remedy it. For Lothario thought that he whom he had seen 
issue out of Anselmo's house at so unseasonable an hour, had not 
entered into it for Leonela's sake, nor did he remember then that 
there was such a one as Leonela in the world, but only thought that, 
as Camilla was lightly gotten by him, so belike she was won by 
some other. For the wickedness of a bad woman bringeth usually 
all these additions, that she loseth her reputation even with him, to 
whom prayed and persuaded she yieldeth herself; and he believeth 


that she will as easily, or with more facility, consent to others, and 
doth infallibly credit the least suspicion which thereof may be 

'And it seems that Lothario in this instant was wholly deprived 
of all reasonable discourse, and quite despoiled of his understanding; 
for, without pondering of the matter, impatient and kindled by the 
jealous rage that inwardly gnawed his bowels, fretting with desire 
to be revenged on Camilla, who had never offended him, he came 
to Anselmo before he was up, and said to him, "Know, Anselmo, 
that I have had these many days a civil conflict within myself 
whether I should speak or no, and I have used as much violence as 
I might to myself, not to discover a thing unto you, which now it is 
neither just nor reasonable I should conceal. Know that Camilla's 
fortress is rendered, and subject to all that I please to command; and 
if I have been somewhat slow to inform thee this of truth, it was 
because I would first see whether it proceeded of some light appetite 
in her, or whether she did it to try me, and see whether that love was 
still constantly continued, which I first began to make unto her by 
thy order and licence. I did also believe that if she had been such as 
she ought to be, and her that we both esteemed her, she would have 
by this time acquainted you with my importunacy; but seeing that 
she lingers therein, I presume that her promises made unto me 
are true, that when you did again absent yourself out of town, she 
would speak with me in the wardrobe" (and it was true, for there 
Camilla was accustomed to talk with him), "yet would not I have 
thee run rashly to take revenge, seeing the sin is not yet otherwise 
committed than in thought, and perhaps between this and the 
opportunity she might hope to put it in execution, her mind would 
be changed, and she repent herself of her folly. And therefore seeing 
thou hast ever followed mine advice partly or wholly, follow and 
keep one counsel that I will give unto thee now, to the end that thou 
mayst after, with careful assurance and without fraud, satisfy thine 
own will as thou likest best. Feign thyself to be absent two or three 
days as thou art wont, and then convey thyself cunningly into the 
wardrobe, where thou mayst very well hide thyself behind the 
tapestry, and then thou shalt see with thine own eyes, and I with 
mine, what Camilla will do; and if it be that wickedness which 


rather ought to be feared than hoped for, thou mayst, with wisdom, 
silence, and discretion, be the proper executioner of so injurious a 

'Anselmo remained amazed, and almost besides himself, hearing 
his friend Lothario so unexpectedly to acquaint him with those 
things in a time wherein he least expected them; for now he es- 
teemed Camilla to have escaped victress from the forged assaults 
of Lothario, and did himself triumph for glory of her victory. Sus- 
pended thus and troubled, he stood silent a great while looking 
on the earth, without once removing his eyes from it; and finally, 
turning towards his friend, he said, "Lothario, thou hast done all 
that which I could expect from so entire amity, and I do therefore 
mean to follow thine advice in all things precisely. Do therefore 
what thou pleasest, and keep that secret which is requisite in so 
weighty and unexpected an event." "All that I do promise," quoth 
Lothario; and so departed, wholly repented for that he had told to 
Anselmo, seeing how foolishly he had proceeded, since he might 
have revenged himself on Camilla very well, without taking a 
way so cruel and dishonourable. There did he curse his little wit, 
and abased his light resolution, and knew not what means to use 
to destroy what he had done, or give it some reasonable and con- 
trary issue. In the end he resolved to acquaint Camilla with the 
whole matter, and by reason that he never missed of opportunity 
to speak unto her, he found her alone the very same day; and she, 
seeing likewise that she had fit time to speak unto him, said, "Know, 
friend Lothario, that a certain thing doth pinch my heart in such 
manner, as it seems ready to burst in my breast, as doubtlessly I 
fear me that in time it will, if we cannot set a remedy to it. For 
such is the immodesty of Leonela, as she shuts up a lover of hers 
every night in this house, and remains with him until daylight, 
which so much concerns my credit, as it leaves open a spacious 
field to him that sees the other go out of my house at so unseason- 
able times, to judge of me what he pleaseth; and that which most 
grieves me is, that I dare not punish or rebuke her for it. For she 
being privy to our proceedings, sets a bridle on me, and constrains 
me to conceal hers; and hence I fear will bad success befall us." 
Lothario at the first suspected that Camilla did speak thus to make 


him believe that the man whom he had espied was Leonela's 
friend, and none of hers; but seeing her to weep indeed, and be 
greatly afflicted in mind, he began at last to give credit unto the 
truth, and, believing it, was greatly confounded and grieved for 
that he had done. And yet, notwithstanding, he answered Camilla 
that she should not trouble or vex herself any more; for he would 
take such order, as Leonela's impudence should be easily crossed 
and suppressed; and then did recount unto her all that he had said 
to Anselmo, spurred on by the furious rage of jealous indignation, 
and how her husband had agreed to hide himself behind the tapestry 
of the wardrobe, that he might from thence clearly perceive the 
little loyalty she kept towards him; and demanded pardon of her 
for that folly, and counsel to redress it, and come safely out of the 
intricate labyrinth whereinto his weak-eyed discourse had con- 
ducted him. 

'Camilla, having heard Lothario's discourse, was afraid and 
amazed, and with great anger and many and discreet reasons did 
rebuke him, reviling the baseness of his thoughts, and the simple 
and little consideration that he had. But as women have naturally 
a sudden wit for good or bad, much more prompt than men, al- 
though when indeed they would make discourses, it proves defective; 
so Camilla found in an instant a remedy for an affair in appearance 
so irremediable and helpless, and therefore bade Lothario to induce 
his friend Anselmo to hide himself the next day ensuing, for she 
hoped to take commodity out of his being there for them both to 
enjoy one another with more security than ever they had before; 
and without wholly manifesting her proverb to him, she only ad- 
vertised him to have care that, after Anselmo were hidden, he should 
presently come when Leonela called for him, and that he should 
answer her as directly to every question she proposed, as if Anselmo 
were not in place. Lothario did urge her importunately to declare 
her design unto him, to the end he might with more security and 
advice obscure all that was necessary. "I say," quoth Camilla, "there 
is no other observance to be had, than only to answer me directly to 
what I shall demand." For she would not give him account before- 
hand of her determination, fearful that he would not conform 
himself to her opinion, which she took to be so good, or else lest 


he would follow or seek any other, that would not prove after so well. 
Thus departed Lothario; and Anselmo, under pretext that he would 
visit his friend out of town, departed, and returned covertly back 
again to hide himself, which he could do the more commodiously, 
because Camilla and Leonela did purjMDsely afford him opportunity. 
Anselmo having hidden himself with the grief that may be imagined 
one would conceive, who did expect to see with his own eyes an 
anatomy made of the bowels of his honour, and was in danger to 
lose the highest felicity that he accounted himself to possess in his 
beloved Camilla; Camilla and Leonela, being certain that he was 
hidden within the wardrobe, entered into it, wherein scarce had 
Camilla set her foot, when, breathing forth of a deep sigh, she 
spoke in this manner: 

'"Ah, friend Leonela! were it not better that, before I put in exe- 
cution that which I would not have thee to know, lest thou shouldest 
endeavour to hinder it, that thou takest Anselmo's poniard that I 
have sought of thee, and pass this infamous breast of mine through 
and through? but do it not, for it is no reason that I should suffer 
for other men's faults. I will know, first of all, what the bold and 
dishonest eyes of Lothario noted in me, that should stir in him the 
presumption to discover unto me so unlawful a desire as that which 
he hath revealed, so much in contempt of his friend, and to my dis- 
honour. Stand at that window, Leonela, and call him to me, for I 
do infallibly believe that he stands in the street awaiting to effect 
his wicked purpose. But first my cruel yet honourable mind shall 
be performed." "Alas, dear madam," quoth the wise and crafty 
Leonela, "what is it that you mean to do with that poniard? Mean 
you perhaps to deprive either your own or Lothario's life there- 
withal? for whichsoever of these things you do, shall redound to 
the loss of your credit and fame. It is much better that you dis- 
semble your wrong, and give no occasion to the bad man now to 
enter into this house, and find us here in it alone. Consider, good 
madam, how we are but weak women, and he is a man, and one 
resolute, and by reason that he comes blinded by his bad and 
passionate intent, he may peradventure, before you be able to put 
yours in execution, do somewhat that would be worse for you 
than to deprive you of your Ufe. Evil befall my master Anselmo, 


that ministers so great occasion to Impudency thus to discover her 
visage in our house. And if you should kill him by chance, madam, 
as I suspect you mean to do, what shall we do after with the dead 
carcase?" What said Camilla? "We would leave him here that 
Anselmo might bury him; for it is only just that he should have 
the agreeable task of interring his own infamy. Make an end, then, 
and call him, for methinks that all the time which I spend untaking 
due revenge for my wrong, turns to the prejudice of the loyalty 
which I owe unto my spouse." 

'Anselmo listened very attentively all the while, and at every word 
that Camilla said, his thoughts changed. But when he understood 
that she was resolved to kill Lothario, he was about to come out and 
discover himself, to the end that such a thing should not be done; 
but the desire that he had to see wherein so brave and honest a 
resolution would end, withheld him, determining then to sally out 
when his presence should be needful to hinder it. Camilla about 
this time began to be very weak and dismayed, and casting herself, 
as if she had fallen into a trance, upon a bed that was in the room, 
Leonela began to lament very bitterly, and to say, "Alas! wretch 
that I am, how unfortunate should I be, if the flower of the world's 
honesty, the crown of good women, and the pattern of chastity 
should die here between my hands!" Those and such other things 
she said so dolefully, as no one could hear her that would not deem 
her to be one of the most esteemed and loyal damsels of the world, 
and take her lady for another new and persecuted Penelope. Soon 
after Camilla returned to herself, and said presently, "Why goest 
thou not, Leonela, to call the most disloyal friend of a friend that 
ever the sun beheld, or the night concealed? Make an end, run, 
make haste, and let not the fire of my choler be through thy stay con- 
sumed and spent, nor the just revenge, which I hof)e to take, pass 
over in threats or maledictions." "I go to call him, madam," quoth 
Leonela; "but, first of all, you must give me that poniard, lest you 
should do with it in mine absence somewhat that would minister 
occasion to us, your friends, to deplore you all the days of our lives." 
"Go away boldly, friend Leonela," said Camilla, "for I shall do 
nothing in thine absence; for although I be in thine opinion both 
simple and bold enough to turn for mine honour, yet mean I not 


to be so much as the celebrated Lucretia, of whom it is recorded that 
she slew herself, without having committed any error, or slain him 
first who was the principal cause of her disgrace. I will die, if I 
must needs die, but 1 will be satisfied and revenged on him that 
hath given me occasion to come into this place to lament his bold- 
ness, sprung without my default." 

'Leonela could scarce be entreated to go and call Lothario, but 
at last she went out, and in the meantime Camilla remained, 
speaking to herself these words: "Good God! had not it been more 
discretion to have dismissed Lothario, as I did many times before, 
than thus to possess him, as I have done, with an opinion that I 
am an evil and dishonest woman, at least all the while that passeth, 
until mine acts shall undeceive him, and teach him the contrary? 
It had been doubtlessly better; but then should not I be revenged, 
nor my husband's honour satisfied, if he were permitted to bear 
away so clearly his malignity, or escape out of the snare wherein 
his wicked thoughts involved him. Let the traitor pay with his 
life's defrayment that which he attempted with so lascivious a 
desire. Let the world know (if it by chance shall come to know 
it) that Camilla did not only conserve the loyalty due to her lord, 
but also took revenge of the intended spoil thereof. But yet I 
believe that it were best to give Anselmo first notice thereof; but 
I did already touch it to him in the letter which I wrote to him to 
the village, and I believe his not concurring to take order in this 
so manifest an abuse, proceeds of his too sincere and good mean- 
ing, which would not, nor cannot believe that the like kind of 
thought could ever find entertainment in the breast of so firm a 
friend, tending so much to his dishonour. And what marvel if I 
myself could not credit it for a great many days together? Nor 
would I ever have thought it, if his insolency had not arrived to 
that pass, which the manifest gifts, large promises, and continual 
tears he shed do give testimony. But why do I make now these 
discourses? Hath a gallant resolution perhaps any need of advice? 
No, verily; therefore avaunt treacherous thoughts, here we must use 
revenge. Let the false man come in, arrive, die, and end, and let 
after befall what can befall. I entered pure and untouched to his 
possession, whom Heaven bestowed on me for mine, and I will 


depart from him purely. And if the worst befall, I shall only be 
defiled by mine own chaste blood, and the impure gore of the 
falsest friend that ever amity saw in this world." And saying of this, 
she pranced up and down the room with the poniard naked in her 
hand, with such long and unmeasurable strides, and making withal 
such gestures, as she rather seemed defective of wit, and a desperate 
ruffian than a delicate woman. 

'All this Anselmo perceived very well from behind the arras that 
covered him, which did not a little admire him, and he thought 
that what he had seen and heard was a sufficient satisfaction of far 
greater suspicions than he had, and could have wished with all 
his heart that the trial of Lothario's coming might be excused, 
fearing greatly some sudden bad success. And as he was ready to 
manifest himself, and to come out and embrace and dissuade his 
wife, he withdrew himself, because he saw Leonela return, bringing 
Lotharia in by the hand. And as soon as Camilla beheld him, she 
drew a great stroke with the point of the poniard athwart the ward- 
robe, saying, "Lothario, note well what I mean to say unto thee, 
for if by chance thou beest so hardy as to pass over this line which 
thou seest, ere I come as far as it, I will in the very same instant 
stab myself into the heart with this poniard which I hold in my 
hand. And before thou dost speak or answer me any word, I would 
first have thee to listen to a few of mine; for after, thou mayest say 
what thou pleasest. 

' "First of all, I would have thee, O Lothario! to say whether thou 
knowest my husband, Anselmo, and what opinion thou hast of 
him? And next I would have thee to tell me if thou knowest my- 
self? Answer to this without delay, nor do stand long thinking 
on what thou art to answer, seeing they are no deep questions which 
I propose unto thee." Lothario was not so ignorant, but that from 
the very beginning, when Camilla requested him to persuade her 
husband to hide himself behind the tapestry, he had not fallen on 
the drift of her invention; and therefore did answer her intention 
so aptly and discreetly, as they made that untruth pass between 
them for a more than manifest verity; and so he answered to Camilla 
in this form: "I did never conjecture, beautiful Camilla, that thou 
wouldest have called me here to demand of me things so wide from 


the purpose for which I come. If thou dost it to defer yet the 
promised favour, thou mightest have entertained it yet further ofl, 
for the good desired afflicteth so much the more, by how much the 
hope to possess it is near. But because thou mayest not accuse me 
for not answering to thy demands, I say that I know thy husband 
Anselmo, and both of us know one another even from our tender 
infancy, and I will not omit to say that which thou also knowest of 
our amity, to make me thereby a witness against myself of the 
wrong which love compels me to do unto him, yet love is a sufficient 
excuse and excuser of greater errors than are mine. Thee do I like- 
wise know and hold in the same possession that he doth; for were it 
not so, I should never have been won by less perfections than thine, 
to transgress so much that which I owe to myself and to the holy 
laws of true amity, now broken and violated by the tyranny of so 
powerful an adversary as love hath proved." "If thou dost ac- 
knowledge that," replied Camilla, "O mortal enemy of all that 
which justly deserveth love! with what face darest thou then appear 
before that which thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he looks, 
in whom thou also oughtest to behold thyself, to the end thou 
mightest perceive upon how little occasion thou dost wrong him? 
But, unfortunate that I am, I fall now in the reason which hath 
moved thee to make so little account of thine own duty, which was 
perhaps some negligent or light behaviour of mine, which I will 
not call dishonesty, seeing that, as I presume, it hath not proceeded 
from me deliberately, but rather through the carelessness that 
women which think they are not noted do sometimes unwittingly 
commit. If not, say, traitor, when did I ever answer thy prayers with 
any word or token that might awake in thee the least shadow of 
hope to accomplish thine infamous desires? When were not thine 
amorous entreaties reprehended and dispersed by the roughness 
and rigour of mine answers? When were thy many promises and 
larger gifts ever believed or admitted? But forasmuch as I am per- 
suaded that no man can persevere long time in the amorous con- 
tention, who hath not been sustained by some hof)e, I will attrib- 
ute the fault of thine impertinence to myself; for doubtlessly some 
carelessness of mine hath hitherto sustained thy care, and there- 
fore I will chastise and give to myself the punishment which thy 


fault deserveth. And because thou mightest see that I, being so 
inhuman towards myself, could not possibly be other than cruel to 
thee, I thought fit to call thee to be a witness of the sacrifice which 
I mean to make to the offended honour of my most honourable 
husband, tainted by thee with the blackest note that thy malice 
could devise, and by me, through the negligence that I used, to 
shun the occasion, if I gave thee any, thus to nourish and canonise 
thy wicked intentions. I say again, that the suspicion I have, that my 
little regard hath engendered in thee these distracted thoughts, is 
that which afflicteth me most, and that which I mean to chastise 
most with mine own hands; for if another executioner punished 
me, then should my crime become more notorious. But before I 
do this, I, dying, will kill, and carry him away with me, that shall 
end and satisfy the greedy desire of revenge which 1 hope for, and 
I have; seeing before mine eyes, wheresoever I shall go, the punish- 
ment which disengaged justice shall inflict, it still remaining 
unbowed or suborned by him, who hath brought me to so desperate 

'And having said these words, she flew upon Lothario with in- 
credible force and lightness, and her fxjniard naked, giving such 
arguments and tokens that she meant to stab him, as he himself 
was in doubt whether her demonstrations were false or true; where- 
fore he was driven to help himself by his wit and strength, for to 
hinder Camilla from striking of him, who did so Uvely act her 
strange guile and fiction, as to give it colour, she would give it a 
blush of her own blood: for perceiving, or else feigning that she 
could not hurt Lothario, she said, "Seeing that adverse fortune will 
not satisfy thoroughly my just desires, yet at least it shall not be 
potent wholly to cross my designs." And then striving to free the 
dagger hand, which Lothario held fast, she snatched it away, and 
directing the point to some place of her body, which might hurt 
her, but not very grievously, she stabbed herself, and hid it in her 
apparel near unto the left shoulder, and fell forthwith to the 
ground, as if she were in a trance. Lothario and Leonela stood 
amazed at the unexpected event, and still rested doubtful of the 
truth of the matter, seeing Camilla to lie on the ground bathed in 
her blood. Lothario ran, all wan and pale, very hastily to her, to 


take out the poniard, and seeing how little blood followed, he lost 
the fear that he had conceived of her greater hurt, and began anew 
to admire the cunning wit and discretion of the beautiful Camilla; 
but yet that he might play the part of a friend, he began a long and 
doleful lamentation over Camilla's body, even as she were dead, 
and began to breathe forth many curses and execrations not only 
against himself, but also against him that had employed him in that 
unfortunate affair. And knowing that his friend Anselmo did 
listen unto him, he said such things as would move a man to take 
more compassion of him than of Camilla herself, although they 
accounted her dead. Leonela took her up between her arms, and 
laid her on the bed, and entreated Lothario to go out, and find 
some one that would undertake to cure her secretly. She also de- 
manded of him his advice, touching the excuse they might make to 
Anselmo concerning her mistress her wound, if he came to town 
before it were fully cured. 

'He answered, that they might say what they pleased, for he was 
not in a humour of giving any counsel worth the following; and 
only said this, that she should labour to stanch her lady's blood; 
for he meant to go there whence they should hear no news of him 
ever after. And so departed out of the house with very great 
tokens of grief and feeling; and when he was alone in a place where 
nobody perceived him, he blest himself a thousand times to think 
of Camilla's art, and the gestures, so propter and accommodated to 
the purpose, used by her maid Leonela. He considered how assured 
Anselmo would remain that he had a second Portia to wife, and 
desired to meet him, that they might celebrate together the fiction, 
and the best dissembed truth that could be ever imagined. Leonela, 
as is said, stanched her lady's blood, which was just as much as 
might serve to colour her invention and no more; and, washing 
the wound with some wine, she tied it up the best that she could, 
saying such words whilst she cured her as were able, though nothing 
had been done before, to make Anselmo believe that he had an 
image of honesty in Camilla. To the plaints of Leonela, Camilla 
added others, terming herself a coward of base spirit, since she 
wanted time (being a thing so necessary) to deprive her life which 
she hated so mortally; she demanded counsel of her maiden, whether 


she would tell or conceal all that success to her beloved spouse. 
And she answered, that it was best to conceal it, lest she should 
engage her husband to be revenged on Lothario, which would not 
be done without his very great peril, and that every good wife was 
bound, not to give occasion to her husband of quarrelling, but 
rather to remove from him as many as was possible. Camilla 
answered, that she allowed of her opinion, and would follow it; 
and that in any sort they must study some device to cloak the 
occasion of her hurt from Anselmo, who could not choose but espy 
it. To this Leonela answered, that she herself knew not how to 
lie, no, not in very jest itself. "Well, friend," quoth Camilla, "and I, 
what do I know ? for I dare not to forge or report an untruth if my 
life lay on it. And if we know not how to give it a better issue, it 
will be better to report the naked truth than to be overtaken in a 
leasing." "Do not trouble yourself, madam," quoth Leonela; "for 
I will bethink myself of somewhat between this and to-morrow 
morning, and perhaps the wound may be concealed from him, by 
reason that it is in the place where it is; and Heaven perhaps may be 
pleased to favour our so just and honourable thoughts. Be quiet, 
good madam, and labour to appease your alteration of mind, that 
my lord at his return may not find you perplexed; and leave all 
the rest to God's and my charge, who doth always assist the just." 
'With highest attention stood Anselmo listening and beholding 
the tragedy of his dying honours, which the personages thereof 
had acted with so strange and forcible effects, as it verily seemed 
that they were transformed into the opposite truth of their well- 
contrived fiction. He longed greatly for the night and leisure to 
get out of his house, that he might go and congratulate with his 
good friend Lothario, for the precious jewel that he had found in 
this last trial of his wife. The mistress and maiden had as great 
care to give him the opportunity to depart; and he, fearing to 
lose it, issued out in a trice, and went presently to find Lothario, 
who being found, it is not possible to recount the embracements he 
gave unto him, the secrets of his contentment that he revealed, or the 
attributes and praises that he gave to Camilla. All which Lothario 
heard, without giving the least argument of love; having repre- 
sented to his mind at that very time, how greatly deceived his 


friend lived, and how unjustly he himself injured him. And al- 
though that Anselmo noted that Lxjthario took no delight at his 
relation, yet did he believe that the cause of his sorrow proceeded 
from having left Camilla wounded, and he himself given the occa- 
sion thereof; and therefore, among many other words, said unto 
him, that there was no occasion to grieve at Camilla's hurt, it doubt- 
lessly being but light, seeing she and her maid had agreed to hide 
it from him; and that according unto this there was no great cause 
of fear, but that from thenceforward he should live merrily and con- 
tentedly with him, seeing that by his industry and means he found 
himself raised to the highest felicity that might be desired; and 
therefore would from thenceforth spend his idle times in writing of 
verses in Camilla's praise, that he might eternise her name, and 
make it famous in ensuing ages. Lothario commended his resolu- 
tion therein, and said that he for his part would also help to raise 
up so noble an edifice; and herewithal Anselmo rested the most 
soothingly and contentedly deceived that could be found in the 
world. And then himself took by the hand to his house, believing 
that he bore the instrument of his glory, the utter perdition of his 
fame. Camilla entertained him with a frowning countenance, but 
a cheerful mind. The fraud rested unknown a while, until, at 
the end of certain months, fortune turned the wheel, and the wicked- 
ness that was so artificially cloaked, issued to the public notice of the 
world; and Anselmo his impertinent curiosity cost him his life.' 


Wherein Is Ended the History of the Curious-Impertinent: And 
Likewise Recounted the Rough Encounter and Conflict 
Passed Between Don Quixote and Certain Bags of Red Wine 

A LITTLE more of the novel did rest unread, when Sancho 
/ \ Panza, all perplexed, ran out of the chamber where his lord 
X .m. reposed, crying as loud as he could, 'Come, good sirs, speed- 
ily, and assist my lord, who is engaged in one of the most terrible 
battles that ever mine eyes have seen. I swear that he hath given 
such a blow to the giant, my lady the Princess Micomicona her 
enemy, as he hath cut his head quite off as round as a turnip.' 

'What sayst thou, friend?' quoth the curate (leaving off at that 
word to prosecute the reading of his novel). 'Art thou in thy wits, 
Sancho? What a devil, man, how can that be, seeing the giant 
dwells at least two thousand leagues from hence?' By this they 
heard a marvellous great noise within the chamber, and that Don 
Quixote cried out aloud, 'Stay, false thief! robber, stay! for since 
thou art here, thy scimitar shall but little avail thee.' And there- 
withal it seemed that he struck a number of mighty blows on the 
walls. And Sancho said, 'There is no need to stand thus listening 
abroad, but rather that you go in and part the fray, or else assist 
my lord; although I think it be not very necessary, for the giant is 
questionless dead by this, and giving account for the ill life he led; 
for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head cut off, 
which is as great as a great wine bag.' 'I am content to be hewn in 
pieces,' quoth the innkeeper, hearing of this, 'if Don Quixote or 
Don devil have not given some blow to one of the wine-bags that 
stood filled at his bed's head, and the shed wine must needs be that 
which seems blood to this good man.* And saying so, he entered 
into the room, and all the rest followed him, where they found Don 
Quixote in the strangest guise that may be imagined. He was in 
his shirt, the which was not long enough before to cover his thighs, 



and it was six fingers shorter behind. His legs were very long and 
lean, full of hair, and horribly dirty. He wore on his head a little 
red but very greasy nightcap, which belonged to the innkeeper. 
He had wreathed on his left arm the coverlet of his bed; on which 
Sancho looked very often and angrily, as one that knew well the 
cause of his own malice to it: and in his right hand he gripped his 
naked sword, wherewithal he laid round about him many a thwack; 
and withal spake as if he were in battle with some giant. And the 
best of all was, that he held not his eyes open; for he was indeed 
asleep, and dreaming that he was in fight with the giant. For the 
imagination of the adventure which he had undertaken to finish, 
was so bent upon it, as it made him to dream that he was already 
arrived at the kingdom of Micomicon, and that he was then in 
combat with his enemy, and he had given so many blows on the 
wine-bags, supposing them to be giants, as all the whole chamber 
flowed with wine. Which being perceived by the host, all inflamed 
with rage, he set upon Don Quixote with dry fists, and gave unto 
him so many blows that if Cardenio and the curate had not taken 
him away, he would doubtlessly have finished the war of the giant; 
and yet with all this did not the poor knight awake, until the barber 
brought in a great kettle full of cold water from the well, and threw 
it all at a clap up>on him, and therewithal Don Quixote awaked, 
but not in such sort as he p)erceived the manner wherein he was. 
Dorothea, seeing how short and how thin her champion was arrayed, 
would not go in to see the conflict of her combatant and his 

Sancho went up and down the floor searching for the giant's 
head, and seeing that he could not find it he said, 'Now I do see 
very well that all the things of this house are enchantments, for the 
last time that I was here, in this very same room, I got many blows 
and buffets, and knew not who did strike me, nor could I see any 
body; and now the head app)ears not, which I saw cut off with mine 
own eyes, and yet the blood ran as swiftly from the body as water 
would from a fountain.' 'What blood, or what fountain dost thou 
tattle of here, thou enemy of God and His saints?' quoth the inn- 
keeper. 'Thou thief, dost thou not see that the blood and the foun- 
tain is no other thing than these wine-bags which are slashed here, 


and the wine red that swims up and down this chamber? And I 
wish that I may see his soul swimming in hell which did bore them!' 
'I know nothing,' replied Sancho, 'but this, that if I cannot find the 
giant's head, I shall become so unfortunate, as mine earldom will 
dissolve like salt cast into water.' And certes, Sancho awake was in 
worse case than his master sleeping, so much had his lord's prom- 
ises distracted him. The innkeeper, on the other side, was at his 
wits' end, to see the humour of the squire and unhappiness of his 
lord, and swore that it should not succeed with them now as it had 
done the other time, when they went away without payment; and 
that now the privileges of chivalry should not any whit avail him, 
but he should surely pay both the one and the other — yea, even for 
the very patches that were to be set on the bored wine-bags. 

The curate held fast Don Quixote by the hands, who believing 
that he had achieved the adventure, and was after it come into the 
Princess Micomicona her presence, he laid himself on his knees 
before the curate, saying, 'Well may your greatness, high and 
famous lady, live from henceforth secure from any danger that this 
unfortunate wretch may do unto you; and I am also freed from 
this day forward from the promise that I made unto you, seeing I 
have, by the assistance of the heavens, and through her favour by 
whom I live and breathe, so happily accomplished it.' 'Did not I 
say so?' quoth Sancho, hearing of his master. 'Yea, I was not drunk. 
See if my master hath not powdered the giant by this? The matter 
is questionless, and the earldom is mine own.' Who would not 
laugh at these raving fits of the master and man? All of them 
laughed save the innkeeper, who gave himself for anger to the 
devil more than a hundred times. And the barber, Cardenio, and 
the curate, got Don Quixote to bed again, not without much ado, 
who presently fell asleep with tokens of marvellous weariness. They 
left him sleeping, and went out to comfort Sancho Panza for the 
grief he had, because he could not find the giant's head; but yet 
had more ado to pacify the innkeejjer, who was almost out of his 
wits for the unexpected and sudden death of his wine-bags. 

The hostess, on the other side, went up and down whining and 
saying, 'In an ill season and an unlucky hour did this knight-errant 
enter into my house, alas! and I would that mine eyes had never 


seen him, seeing he costs me so dear. The last time that he was 
here, he went away scot free for his supper, bed, straw, and barley, 
both for himself and his man, his horse and his ass, saying that he 
was a knight-adventurer (and God give to him ill venture, and to 
all the other adventurers of the world!) and was not therefore 
bound to pay anything, for so it was written in the statutes of 
chivalry. And now for his cause came the other gentleman, and 
took away my good tail, and hath returned it me back with two 
quarters of damage; for all the hair is fallen off, and it cannot 
stand my husband any more in stead for the purpose he had it; 
and for an end and conclusion of all, to break my wine-bags and 
shed my wine: I wish I may see as much of his blood shed. And do 
not think otherwise; for, by my father's old bones and the life of 
my mother, they shall pay me every doit, one quart upon another, 
or else I will never be called as I am, nor be mine own father's 

These and such like words spake the innkeeper's wife with very 
great fury, and was seconded by her good servant Maritornes. The 
daughter held her peace, and would now and then smile a little. 
But master parson did quiet and pacify all, by promising to satisfy 
them for the damages as well as he might, as well for the wine as 
for the bags, but chiefly for her tail, the which was so much accounted 
of and valued so highly. Dorothea did comfort Sancho, saying to 
him, that whensoever it should be verified that his lord had slain 
the giant, and established her quietly in her kingdom, she would 
bestow upon him the best earldom thereof. With this he took cour- 
age, and assured the princess that he himself had seen the giant's 
head cut off; and for a more certain token thereof, he said that he 
had a beard that reached him down to his girdle; and that if the 
head could not now be found, it was by reason that all the affairs 
of that house were guided by enchantment, as he had made expe- 
rience to his cost the last time that he was lodged therein. Dorothea 
replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him to be of 
good cheer, for all would be well ended to his heart's desire. All 
parties being quiet, the curate resolved to finish the end of his novel, 
because he perceived that there rested but a little unread thereof. 
Cardenio, Dorothea, and all the rest entreated him earnestly to finish 


it. And he desiring to delight them all herein and recreate himself, 
did prosecute the tale in this manner: 

'It after befel that Anselmo grew so satisfied of his wife's honesty 
as he led a most contented and secure life. And Camilla did for the 
nonce look sourly upon Lothario, to the end Anselmo might con- 
strue her mind amiss. And for a greater confirmation thereof, 
Lothario requested Anselmo to excuse his coming any more to his 
house, seeing that he clearly perceived how Camilla could neither 
brook his company nor presence. But the hoodwinked Anselmo 
answered him that he would in no wise consent thereunto; and in 
this manner did weave his own dishonour a thousand ways, think- 
ing to work his contentment. In this season, such was the delight 
that Leonela took also in her affections, as she suffered herself to be 
borne away by them heaaiongly, without any care or regard, 
confident because her lady did cover it, yea, and sometimes in- 
structed her how she might put her desires in practice, without any 
fear or danger. But finally, Anselmo heard on a night somebody 
walk in Leonela's chamber, and, being desirous to know who it was, 
as he thought to enter, he felt the door to be held fast against him, 
which gave him a greater desire to open it; and therefore he strug- 
gled so long and used such violence, as he threw open the door, 
and entered just at the time that another leaped out at the window; 
and therefore he ran out to overtake him, or see wherein he might 
know him, but could neither compass the one nor the other, by 
reason that Leonela, embracing him hardly, withheld him and said, 
"Pacify yourself, good sir, and be not troubled, nor follow him that 
was here; for he is one that belongs to me, and that so much, as he 
is my spouse." Anselmo would not believe her, but rather, blind 
with rage, he drew out his pwniard and would have wounded her, 
saying, that she should presently tell him the truth, or else he would 
kill her. She, distracted with fear, said, without noting her own 
words, "Kill me not, sir, and I will acquaint you with things which 
concern you more than you can imagine." "Say quickly, then," 
quoth Anselmo, "or else thou shalt die." "It will be impossible," 
replied Leonela, "for me to speak anything now, I am so affrighted; 
but give respite till morning, and I will recount unto you things 
that will marvellously astonish you; and in the meantime rest 


secure, that he which leaped out of the window is a young man of 
this city betwixt whom and me hath passed a promise of marriage." 
Anselmo was somewhat satisfied by these words, and therefore re- 
solved to expect the term which she had demanded to open her 
mind; for he did not suspect that he should hear anything of 
Camilla, by reason he was already so assured of her virtue. And so, 
departing out of the chamber, and shutting up Leonela therein, 
threatening her withal that she should never depart thence until 
she had said all that she promised to reveal unto him, he went 
presently to Camilla, to tell unto her all that which his maiden had 
said, and the promise she had passed, to disclose greater and more 
important things. Whether Camilla, hearing this, were perplexed 
or no, I leave to the discreet reader's judgment; for such was the 
fear which she conceived, believing certainly (as it was to be 
doubted) that Leonela would tell to Anselmo all that she knew of 
her disloyalty, as she had not the courage to expect and see whether 
her surmise would become false or no. But the very same night, as 
soon as she perceived Anselmo to be asleep, gathering together her 
best jewels and some money, she departed out of her house unper- 
ceived of any, and went to Lothario's lodging, to whom she re- 
counted all that had passed, and requested him either to leave her 
in some safe place, or both of them to depart to some place where 
they might live secure out of Anselmo's reach. The confusion that 
Camilla struck into Lothario was such as he knew not what to say, 
and much less how to resolve himself what he might do. But at last 
he determined to carry Camilla to a monastery wherein his sister 
was prioress; to which she easily condescended: and therefore Lo- 
thario departed, and left her there with all the speed that the case 
required, and did also absent himself presently from the city, with- 
out acquainting anybody with his departure. 

'Anselmo, as soon as it was day, without heeding the absence of 
his wife, arose and went to the place where he had shut up Leonela, 
with desire to know of her what she had promised to acquaint him 
withal. He opened the chamber door, and entered, but could find 
nobody therein, but some certain sheets knit together and tied to 
the window, as a certain sign how Leonela had made an escape by 
that way. Wherefore he returned very sad to tell to Camilla the 


adventure; but when he could neither find her at bed nor in the 
whole house, he remained astonied, and demanded for her of his 
servants, but none of them could tell him anything. And as he 
searched for her, he happened to see her coffers lie open and most of 
her jewels wanting; and herewithal fell into the true account of his 
disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune, and 
so departed out of his house sad and pensive, even as he was, half 
ready and unapparelled, to his friend Lothario, to recount unto him 
his disaster: but when he found him to be likewise absented, and 
that the servants told him how their master was departed the very 
same night, and had borne away with him all his money, he was 
ready to run out of his wits. And to conclude, he returned to his 
own house again, wherein he found no creature, man or woman, 
for all his folk were departed, and had left the house alone and 
desert. He knew not what he might think, say, or do; and then his 
judgment began to fail him. There he did contemplate and behold 
himself in an instant, without a wife, a friend, and servants; aban- 
doned (to his seeming) of Heaven that covered him, and chiefly 
without honour; for he clearly noted his own perdition in Camilla's 
crime. In the end he resolved, after he had bethought himself a 
great while, to go to his friend's village, wherein he had been all 
the while that he afforded the leisure to contrive that disaster. And 
so, shutting up his house, he mounted a-horseback, and rode away 
in languishing and doleful wise. And scarce had he ridden the half- 
way, when he was so fiercely assaulted by his thoughts, as he was 
constrained to alight, and, tying his horse to a tree, he leaned him- 
self to the trunk thereof, and breathed out a thousand pitiful and 
dolorous sighs; and there he abode until it was almost night, about 
which hour he espied a man to come from the city a-horseback by 
the same way, and, having saluted him, he demanded of him what 
news he brought from Florence. The citizen replied, "The strang- 
est that had happened there many a day; for it is there reported 
publicly that Lothario, the great friend of the rich man, hath carried 
away the said Anselmo's wife Camilla this night, for she is also 
missing: all which a waiting-maid of Camilla's hath confessed, 
whom the governor apprehended yesternight as she slipped down 
at a window by a pair of sheets out of the said Anselmo's house. 


I know not particularly the truth of the aflair, but well I wot that 
all the city is annazed at the accident; for such a fact would not be 
as much as surmised from the great and familiar amity of them 
two, which was so much as they were called, 'The Two Friends.' " 
"Is it perhaps yet known," replied Anselmo, "which way Lothario 
and Camilla have taken?" "In no wise!" quoth the citizen, "al- 
though the governor hath used all possible diligence to find them 
out." "Farewell, then, good sir," said Anselmo. "And with you, 
sir," said the traveller. And so departed. 

'With these so unfortunate news poor Anselmo arrived, not only 
to terms of losing his wits, but also well-nigh of losing his life; and 
therefore, arising as well as he might, he came to his friend's house, 
who had heard nothing yet of his disgrace; but perceiving him to 
arrive so wan, pined, and dried up, he presently conjectured that 
some grievous evil afflicted him. Anselmo requested him presently 
that he might be carried to his chamber, and provided of paper and 
ink to write withal. All was done, and he left in bed, and alone, 
for so he desired them; and also that the door should be fast locked. 
And being alone, the imagination of his misfortune gave him such 
a terrible charge, as he clearly perceived that his life would shordy 
fail him, and therefore resolved to leave notice of the cause of his 
sudden and unexpected death; and therefore he began to write it; 
but before he could set an end to his discourse, his breath failed, 
and he yielded up his life into the hands of sorrow, which his 
impertinent curiosity had stirred up in him. The gentleman of the 
house, seeing that it grew late, and that Anselmo had not called, 
determined to enter, and know whether his indisposition passed 
forward, and he found him lying on his face, with half of his body 
in the bed, and the other half leaning on the table whereon he lay, 
with a written paper unfolded, and held the pen also yet in his 
hand. His host drew near unto him and, first of all, having called 
him, he took him by the hand; and seeing that he answered not, 
and that it was cold, he knew that he was dead; and greatly per- 
plexed and grieved thereat, he called in his people, that they might 
also be witnesses of the disastrous success of Anselmo; and after all, 
he took the paper and read it, which he knew to be written with his 
own hand, the substance whereof was this: 


'"A foolish and impertinent desire hath despoiled me of life. 
If the news of my death shall arrive to Camilla, let her also know 
that I do pardon her, for she was not bound to work miracles; nor 
had I any need to desire that she should work them. And seeing 
I was the builder and contriver of mine own dishonour, there is 
no reason" — 

'Hitherunto did Anselmo write, by which it appeared that his 
life ended in that point, ere he could set an end to the reason he 
was to give. The next day ensuing, the gentleman his friend ac- 
quainted Anselmo's kinsfolk with his death; the which had already 
knowledge of his misfortune, and also of the monastery wherein 
Camilla had retired herself, being almost in terms to accompany 
her husband in that forcible voyage; nor for the news of his death, 
but for grief of others which she had received of her absent friend. 
It is said that although she was a widow, yet would she neither 
depart out of the monastery, nor become a religious woman, imtil 
she had received within a few days after news how Lothario was 
slain in a battle given by Monsieur de Lautrec, to the great Captain 
Gonzalo Fernandez of Cordova, in the kingdom of Naples; and 
that was the end of the late repentant friend, the which being 
known to Camilla, she made a profession, and shortly after deceased 
between the rigorous hands of sorrow and melancholy: and this 
was the end of them all, sprung from a rash and inconsiderate 

'This novel,' quoth the curate, having read it, 'is a pretty one; 
but yet I cannot persuade myself that it is true, and if it be a fiction, 
the author erred therein; for it cannot be imagined that any husband 
would be so foolish as to make so costly an experience as did An- 
selmo; but if this accident had been devised betwixt a gentleman 
and his love, then were it possible; but being between man and 
wife, it contains somewhat that is impossible and unlikely, but yet 
I can take no exception against the manner of recounting thereof.' 

Which Treats of Many Rare Successes Befallen in the Inn 

WHILST they discoursed thus, the innkeeper, who stood 
all the while at the door, said, 'Here comes a fair troop 
of guests, and if they will here alight we may sing Gau- 
deamus.' 'What folk is it?' quoth Cardenio. 'Four men on horse- 
back,' quoth the host, 'and ride jennet-wise, with lances and targets, 
and masks on their faces; and with them comes likewise a 
woman apparelled in white, in a side-saddle, and her face also 
masked, and two lackeys that run with them a-foot.' 'Are they 
near?' quoth the curate. 'So near,' replied the innkeeper, 'as they 
do now arrive.' Dorothea hearing him say so, covered her face, 
and Cardenio entered into Don Quixote's chamber; and scarce had 
they leisure to do it, when the others of whom the host spake, 
entered into the inn, and the four horsemen alighting, which were 
all of very comely and gallant disposition, they went to help down 
the lady that rode in the side-saddle, and one of them taking her 
down in his arms, did seat her in a chair that stood at the chamber 
door, into which Cardenio had entered: and all this while neither 
she nor they took off their masks, or spake a word, only the gentle- 
woman, at her sitting down in the chair, breathed forth a very deep 
sigh, and let fall her arms like a sick and dismayed person. The 
lackeys carried away their horses to the stable. Master curate seeing 
and noting all this, and curious to know what they were that came 
to the inn in so unwonted an attire, and kept such profound silence 
therein, went to the lackeys and demanded of one of them that 
which he desired to know, who answered, 'In good faith, sir, I can- 
not tell you what folk this is: only this I know, that they seem to be 
very noble, but chiefly he that went and took down the lady in his 
arms that you see there; and this I say, because all the others do 
respect him very much, and nothing is done but what he ordains 
and commands.' 'And the lady, what is she?' quoth the curate. 



'I can as hardly inform you,' quoth the lackey, 'for I have not once 
seen her face in all this journey; yet I have heard her often groan 
and breathe out so profound sighs, as it seems she would give up 
the ghost at every one of them. And it is no marvel that we should 
know no more than we have said, for my companion and myself 
have been in their company but two days; for they encountered 
us on the way, and prayed and persuaded us to go with them unto 
Andalusia, promising that they would recompense our pains largely.' 
'And hast thou heard them name one another?' said the curate. 
'No, truly,' answered the lackey; 'for they all travel with such silence, 
as it is a wonder; for you shall not hear a word among, but the 
sighs and throbs of the poor lady, which do move in us very great 
compassion. And we do questionless persuade ourselves that she 
is forced wheresoever she goes: and as it may be collected by her 
attire, she is a nun, or, as is most probable, goes to be one; and per- 
haps she goeth so sorrowful as it seems because she hath no desire 
to become religious.' 'It may very well be so,' quoth the curate. 
And so leaving them, he returned to the place where he had left 
Dorothea; who, hearing the disguised lady to sigh so often, moved 
by the native compassion of that sex, drew near her and said, 'What 
ails you, good madam ? I pray you think if it be any of those incon- 
veniences to which woman be subject, and whereof they may have 
use and experience to cure them, I do offer unto you my service, 
assistance, and good-will to help you, as much as lies in my power.' 
To all those compliments the doleful lady answered nothing; and 
although Dorothea made her again larger offers of her service, yet 
stood she, ever silent, until the bemasked gentleman (whom the 
lackey said the rest did obey) came over and said to Dorothea, 'Lady, 
do not trouble yourself to offer anything to that woman, for she is 
of a most ungrateful nature, and is never wont to gratify any 
courtesy, nor do you seek her to answer unto your demands, if you 
would not hear some lie from her mouth.' 'I never said any,' quoth 
the silent lady, 'but rather because I am so true and sincere, without 
guiles, I am now drowned here in those misfortunes; and of this 
I would have thyself bear witness, seeing my pure truth makes thee 
to be so false and disloyal.' 
Cardenio overheard those words very clear and distinctly, as one 


that Stood so near unto her that said them, as only Don Quixote's 
chamber door stood between them. And instantly when he heard 
them, he said with a very loud voice, 'Good God! what is this that 
I hear? What voice is this that hath touched mine ear?' The lady, 
moved with a sudden passion, turned her head at those outcries, 
and seeing she could not perceive him that gave them, she got up, 
and would have entered into the room, which the gentleman espying, 
withheld her, and would not let her stir out of the place: and with 
the alteration and sudden motion the mask fell off her face, and 
she discovered an incomparable beauty, and an angelical counte- 
nance, although it was somewhat wan and pale, and turned here and 
there with her eyes to every place so earnestly as she seemed to be 
distracted; which motions, without knowing the reason why they 
were made, struck Dorothea and the rest that beheld her into very 
great compassion. The gendeman holding her very strongly fast by 
the shoulders, the mask he wore on his own face was falling; and he 
being so busied could not hold it up, but in the end [it] fell wholly. 
Dorothea, who had likewise embraced the lady, lifting up her eyes 
by chance, saw that he which did also embrace the lady was her 
spouse Don Fernando; and scarce had she known him, when, breath- 
ing out a long and most pitiful 'Alas!* from the bottom of her heart, 
she fell backward in a trance; and if the barber had not been by 
good hap at hand, she would have fallen on the ground with all 
the weight of her body. The curate presently repaired to take off 
the veil of her face and cast water thereon: and as soon as he did 
discover it, Don Fernando, who was he indeed that held fast the 
other, knew her, and looked like a dead man as soon as he viewed 
her, but did not all this while let go Lucinda, who was the other 
whom he held so fast, and that laboured so much to escape out of 
his hands. Cardenio likewise heard the 'Alas!' that Dorothea said 
when she fell into a trance, and, believing that it was his Lucinda, 
issued out of the chamber greatly altered, and the first he espied 
was Don Fernando, which held Lucinda fast, who forthwith knew 
him. And all the three — Lucinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea — stood 
dumb and amazed, as folk that knew not what had befallen unto 
them. All of them held their peace, and beheld one another; Doro- 
thea looked on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Car- 


denio on Lucinda, and Lucinda again on Cardenio; but Lucinda 
was the first that broke silence, speaking to Don Fernando in this 
manner: 'Leave me off, Lord Fernando, I conjure thee, by that 
thou shouldst be; for that which thou art, if thou wilt not do it for 
any other resp)ect; let me cleave to the wall whose ivy I am; to the 
supporter from whom neither thy importunity nor threats, prom- 
ises or gifts, could once deflect me. Note how Heaven, by unusual, 
unfrequented, and from us concealed ways, hath set my true spouse 
before mine eyes; and thou dost know well, by a thousand costly 
experiences, that only death is potent to blot forth his remembrance 
out of my memory. Let, then, so manifest truths be of power (if 
thou must do none other) to convert thine affliction into rage, and 
thy good-will into despite, and therewithal end my life; for if I 
may render up the ghost in the presence of my dear spouse, I shall 
account it fortunately lost. Perhaps by my death he will remain 
satisfied of the faith which I have kept sincere towards him until 
the last period of my life.' By this time Dorothea was come to her- 
self, and listened to most of Lucinda's reasons, and by them came 
to the knowledge of herself. But seeing Don Fernando did not 
yet let her depart from between his arms, nor answer anything to 
her words, encouraging herself the best that she might, she arose, 
and, kneeling at his feet, and shedding a number of crystal and 
penetrating tears, she spoke to him thus: 

'If it be not so, my lord, that the beams of that sun which thou 
boldest eclipsed between thine arms do darken and deprive those 
of thine eyes, thou mightest have by this perceived how she that is 
prostrated at thy feet is the unfortunate (until thou shalt please) 
and the disastrous Dorothea. I am that poor humble countrywoman 
whom thou, either through thy bounty, or for thy pleasure, didst 
deign to raise to that height that she might call thee her own. I am 
she which, some time immured within the limits of honesty, did 
lead a most contented life, until it opened the gates of her recollec- 
tion and wariness to thine importunity, and seeming just and amor- 
ous requests, and rendered up to thee the keys of her liberty; a gift 
by thee so ill recompensed, as the finding myself in so remote a 
place as this wherein you have met with me, and I seen you, may 
clearly testify; but yet for all this, I would not have you to imagine 


that I come here guided by dishonourable steps, being only hitherto 
conducted by the tracts of dolour and feeling, to see myself thus 
forgotten by thee. It was thy will that I should be thine own, and 
thou didst desire it in such a manner, as although now thou wouldst 
not have it so, yet canst not thou possibly leave off to be mine. 
Know, my dear lord, that the matchless affections that I do bear 
towards thee may recompense and be equivalent to her beauty and 
nobility for whom thou dost abandon me. 

'Thou canst not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou art mine; 
nor she thine, forasmuch as she belongs to Cardenio; and it will 
be more easy, if you will note it well, to reduce thy will to love 
her that adores thee, than to address hers, that hates thee, to bear 
thee affection. Thou didst solicit my recchelessness, thou prayedst 
to mine integrity, and wast not ignorant of my quality; thou know- 
est also very well upon what terms I subjected myself to thy will, 
so as there remains no place nor colour to term it a fraud or deceit; 
and all this being so, as in verity it is, and that thou beest as Christian 
as thou art noble, why dost thou with these so many untoward 
wreathings dilate the making of mine end happy, whose commence- 
ment thou didst illustrate so much? And if thou wilt not have me 
for what I am, who am thy true and lawful spouse, yet at least take 
and admit me for thy slave, for so that I may be in thy possession 
I will account myself happy and fortunate. Do not permit that by 
leaving and abandoning me, meetings may be made to discourse 
of my dishonour. Do not vex thus the declining years of my parents, 
seeing that the loyal services which they ever have done as vassals 
to thine deserve not so [dis] honest a recompense. And if thou 
esteemest that thy blood by meddling with mine shall be stained 
or embased, consider how few noble houses, or rather none at all, 
are there in the world which have not run the same way, and that 
the woman's side is not essentially requisite for the illustrating of 
noble descents. How much more, seeing that true nobility consists 
in virtue, which if it shall want in thee, by refusing that which thou 
owest me so justly, I shall remain with many more degrees of 
nobility than thou shalt. And in conclusion, that which I will lasdy 
say is, that whether thou wilt or no, I am thy wife; the witnesses are 
thine own words, which neither should nor ought to lie, if thou 

Dorothea's appeal 361 

dost esteem thyself to have that for the want of which thou despisest 
me. Witness shall also be thine own handwriting. Witness Heaven, 
which thou didst invoke to bear witness of that which thou didst 
promise unto me: and when all this shall fail, thy very conscience 
shall never fail from using clamours, being silent in thy mirth and 
turning, for this truth which I have said to thee now shall trouble 
the greatest pleasure and delight.' 

These and many other like reasons did the sweetly grieved Doro- 
thea use with such feeling, as all those that were present, as well 
such as accompanied Don Fernando, and all the others that did 
accompany her, shed abundance of tears. Don Fernando listened 
unto her without replying a word, until she had ended her speech, 
and given beginning to so many sighs and sobs, as the heart that 
could endure to behold them without moving were harder than 
brass. Lucinda did also regard her, no less compassionate of her 
sorrow than admired at her discretion and beauty, and although 
she would have approached to her, and used some consolatory words, 
yet was she hindered by Don Fernando's arms, which held her 
still embraced, who, full of confusion and marvel, after he had 
stood very attentively beholding Dorothea a good while, opening 
his arms, and leaving Lucinda free, said, 'Thou hast vanquished, O 
beautiful Dorothea! thou hast vanquished me; for it is not possible 
to resist or deny so many united truths.' Lucinda, through her 
former trance and weakness, as Don Fernando left her, was like 
to fall, if Cardenio, who stood behind Don Fernando all the while 
lest he should be known, shaking off all fear and endangering his 
person, had not started forward to stay her from falling; and, clasp- 
ing her sweetly between his arms, he said, 'If pitiful Heaven be 
pleased, and would have thee now at last take some ease, my loyal, 
constant, and beautiful lady, 1 presume that thou canst not possess 
it more securely than between these arms which do now receive 
thee, as whilom they did when fortune was pleased that I might 
call thee mine own.' And then Lucinda, first severing her eyelids, 
beheld Cardenio, and having first taken notice of him by his voice, 
and confirmed it again by her sight, like one quite distracted, with- 
out further regarding modest resp)ects, she cast both her arms about 
his neck, and, joining her face to his, said, 'Yea, thou indeed art my 


lord; thou, the true owner of this poor captive, howsoever adverse 
fortune shall thwart it, or this life, which is only sustained and lives 
by thine, be ever so much threatened.' This was a marvellous spec- 
tacle to Don Fernando, and all the rest of the beholders, which did 
universally admire at this so unexpected an event. And Dorothea, 
perceiving Don Fernando to change colour, as one resolving to take 
revenge on Cardenio, for he had set hand to his sword, which she 
conjecturing, did with marvellous expedition kneel, and, catching 
hold on his legs, kissing them, she strained them with so loving 
embracements as he could not stir out of the place, and then, with 
her eyes overflown with tears, said unto him, 'What meanest thou 
to do, my only refuge in this unexpected trance? Thou hast here 
thine own spouse at thy feet, and her whom thou wouldst fain pos- 
sess is between her own husband's arms. Judge, then, whether it 
become thee, or is a thing possible, to dissolve that which Heaven 
hath knit, or whether it be anywise laudable to endeavour to raise 
and equal to thyself her who, contemning all dangers and incon- 
veniences, and confirmed in faith and constancy, doth in thy pres- 
ence bathe her eyes with amorous liquor of her true love's face and 
bosom. 1 desire thee for God's sake, and by thine own worths I 
request thee, that this so notorious a verity may not only assuage thy 
choler, but also diminish it in such sort, as thou mayst quietly and 
peaceably permit those two lovers to enjoy their desires without any 
encumbrance all the time that Heaven shall grant it to them; and 
herein thou shalt show the generosity of thy magnanimous and 
noble breast, and give the world to understand how reason pre- 
vaileth in thee, and domineereth over passion.' All the time that 
Dorothea spoke thus to Don Fernando, although Cardenio held 
Lucinda between his arms, yet did he never take his eyes off Don 
Fernando, with resolution that if he did see him once stir in his 
prejudice, he would labour both to defend himself and offend his 
adversary and all those who should join with him to do him any 
harm, as much as he could, although it were with the rest of his 
life. But Don Fernando's friends, the curate and barber, that were 
present and saw all that was passed, repaired in the mean season, 
without omitting the good Sancho Panza, and all of them together 
compassed Don Fernando, entreating him to have regard of the 


beautiful Dorothea's tears, and it being true (as they believed it 
was) that she had said, he should not permit her to remain de- 
frauded of her so just and lawful hopes, assuring him that it was 
not by chance, but rather by the particular providence and dis- 
position of the heavens, that they had all met together so unexpect- 
edly; and that he should remember, as master curate said very well, 
that only death could sever Lucinda from her Cardenio; and that 
although the edge of a sword might divide and part them asunder, 
yet in that case they would account their death most happy; and 
that, in irremediless events, it was highest prudence, by straining 
and overcoming himself, to show a generous mind, and that he 
might conquer his own will, by permitting these two to enjoy that 
good which Heaven had already granted to them; and that he 
should turn his eyes to behold the beauty of Dorothea, and he 
should see that few or none could for feature paragon with her, 
and much less excel her; and that he should confer her humility 
and extreme love which she bore to him with her other endowments: 
and principally, that if he gloried in the titles of nobility or Chris- 
tianity, he could not do any other than accomplish the promise that 
he had passed to her; and that by fulfilling it he should please God 
and satisfy discreet persons, which know very well how it is a 
special prerogative of beauty, though it be in an humble and mean 
subject, if it be consorted with modesty and virtue, to exalt and 
equal itself to any dignity, without disparagement of him which 
doth help to raise or unite it to himself. And when the strong laws 
of delight are accomplished (so that there intercur no sin in the 
acting thereof), he is not to be condemned which doth follow them. 
Finally, they added to these reasons others so many and forcible, 
that the valorous breast of Don Fernando (as commonly all those 
that are warmed and nourished by noble blood are wont) was molli- 
fied, and permitted itself to be vanquished by that truth which he 
could not deny though he would. And the token that he gave of 
his being overcome, was to stoop down and embrace Dorothea, 
saying unto her, 'Arise, lady; for it is not just that she be prostrate 
at my feet whose image I have erected in my mind. And if I have 
not hitherto given demonstrations of what I now aver, it hath 
perhaps befallen through the disposition of Heaven, to the end I 


might, by noting the constancy and faith wherewithal thou dost 
affect me, know after how to value and esteem thee according unto 
thy merits. And that which in recompense thereof I do entreat of thee 
is, that thou wilt excuse in me mine ill manner of proceeding and 
exceeding carelessness in repaying thy good-will; for the very occa- 
sion and violent passions that made me to accept thee as mine, the 
very same did also impel me again not to be thine; and for the 
more verifying of mine assertion, do but once behold the eyes of 
the now contented Lucinda, and thou mayst read in them a thou- 
sand excuses for mine error; and seeing she hath found and obtained 
her heart's desire, and I have in thee also gotten what is most con- 
venient — for I wish she may live securely and joyfully many and 
happy years with her Cardenio: for I will pray the same, that it 
will license me to enjoy my beloved Dorothea.' And saying so, he 
embraced her again, and joined his face to hers with so lovely 
motion, as it constrained him to hold watch over his tears, lest vio- 
lently bursting forth, they should give doubtless arguments of his 
fervent love and remorse. 

Cardenio, Lucinda, and almost all the rest could not do so, for the 
greater number of them shed so many tears, some for their private 
contentments, and others for their friends, as it seemed that some 
grievous and heavy misfortune had betided them all; even very 
Sancho Panza wept, although he excused it afterward, saying that 
he wept only because that he saw that Dorothea was not the Queen 
Micomicona, as he had imagined, of whom he hof>ed to have 
received so great gifts and favours. The admiration and tears joined, 
endured in them all for a pretty space; and presently after, Cardenio 
and Lucinda went and kneeled to Don Fernando, yielding him 
thanks for the favour that he had done to them, with so courteous 
compliments as he knew not what to answer, and therefore lifted 
them up, and embraced them with very great affection and kindness, 
and presently after he demanded of Dorothea how she came to that 
place, so far from her own dwelling. And she recounted unto him 
all that she had told to Cardenio; whereat Don Fernando and 
those which came with him took so great delight, as they could 
have wished that her story had continued a longer time in the 
telling than it did — so great was Dorothea's grace in setting out 


her misfortunes. And as soon as she had ended, Don Fernando told 
all that had befallen him in the city, after that he had found the 
scroll in Lucinda's bosom, wherein she declared Cardenio to be her 
husband, and that he therefore could not marry her; and also how 
he attempted to kill her, and would have done it, were it not that 
her parents hindered him; and that he therefore departed out of 
the house, full of shame and despite, with resolution to revenge 
himself more commodiously; and how he understood the next day 
following, how Lucinda was secretly departed from her father's 
house, and gone nobody knew where, but that he finally learned 
within a few months after, that she had entered into a certain 
monastery, with intention to remain there all the days of her life, 
if she could not pass them with Cardenio; and that as soon as he 
had learned that, choosing those three gentlemen for his associates, 
he came to the place where she was, but would not speak to her, 
fearing lest that, as soon as they knew of his being there, they would 
increase the guards of the monastery; and therefore expected until 
he found on a day the gates of the monastery ojsen, and leaving two 
of his fellows to keep the door, he with the other entered into the 
abbey in Lucinda's search, whom they found talking with a nun 
in the cloister; and, snatching her away ere she could retire herself, 
they brought her to a certain village, where they disguised them- 
selves in that sort they were; for so it was requisite for to bring her 
away: all which they did with the more facility, that the monastery 
was seated abroad in the fields, a good way from any village. He 
likewise told that, as soon as Lucinda saw herself in his fX)wer, she 
fell into a swoon; and that, after she had returned to herself, she never 
did any other thing but weep and sigh, without speaking a word; 
and that in that manner, accompanied with silence and tears, they 
had arrived to that inn, which was to him as grateful as an arrival 
to heaven, wherein all earthly mishaps are concluded and finished. 

Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the Famous Princess 


SANCHO gave ear to all this with no small grief of mind, 
seeing that all the hopes of his lordship vanished away like 
smoke, and that the fair Princess Micomicona was turned 
into Dorothea, and the giant into Don Fernando, and that his 
master slept so soundly, and careless of all that had happened. 
Dorothea could not yet assure herself whether the happiness that 
she possessed was a dream or no. Cardenio was in the very same 
taking, and also Lucinda's thoughts ran the same race. 

Don Fernando yielded many thanks to Heaven for having dealt 
with him so propitiously, and unwinding him out of the intricate 
labyrinth, wherein straying, he was at the point to have at once 
lost his soul and credit. And finally, as many as were in the inn 
were very glad and joyful of the success of so thwart, intricate, and 
desperate affairs. The curate compounded and ordered all things 
through his discretion, and congratulated every one of the good he 
obtained. But she that kept greatest jubilee and joy was the hostess, 
for the promise that Cardenio and the curate had made, to pay her 
the damages and harms committed by Don Quixote; only Sancho, 
as we have said, was afflicted, unfortunate, and sorrowful. And 
thus he entered with melancholy semblance to his lord, who did but 
then awake, and said unto him, — 

'Well and securely may you sleep, sir knight of the heavy counte- 
nance, as long as it shall please yourself, without troubling yourself 
with any care of killing any giant, or of restoring the queen to her 
kingdom; for all is concluded and done already.' 'I believe thee 
very easily,' replied Don Quixote; 'for I have had the monstrousest 
and most terrible battle with that giant that ever I think to have 
all the days of my life with any; and yet with one thwart blow, 
thwack I overthrew his head to the ground, and there issued so 



much blood as the streams thereof ran along the earth as if they 
were of water.' 'As if they were of red wine, you might better have 
said,' replied Sancho Panza; 'for I would let you to understand, if 
you know it not already, that the dead giant is a bored wine-bag, 
and the blood six-and-thirty gallons of red wine, which it contained 
in its belly. The head that was slashed off so neatly is the whore 
my mother; and let the devil take all away for me!' 'And what is 
this thou sayst, madman?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Art thou in thy 
right wits?' 'Get up, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'and you yourself shall 
see the fair stuff you have made, and what we have to pay; and 
you shall behold the queen transformed into a particular lady, called 
Dorothea, with other successes, which if you may once conceive 
them aright will strike you into admiration.' 'I would marvel at 
nothing,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for if thou beest well remembered, 
I told thee the other time that we were here, how all that succeeded 
in this place was done by enchantment. And what wonder, then, 
if now the like should eftsoons befall?' 'I could easily be induced 
to believe all,' replied Sancho, 'if my canvassing in the coverlet were 
of that nature. But indeed it was not, but most real and certain. 
And I saw well how the innkeeper that is here yet this very day 
alive, held one end of the coverlet, and did toss me up towards 
heaven with very good grace and strength, no less merrily than 
lightly. And where the notice of parties intercurs, I do believe, al- 
though I am a simple man and a sinner, that there is no kind of 
enchantment, but rather much trouble, bruising, and misfortune.' 
'Well, God will remedy all,' said Don Quixote. 'And give me mine 
apparel; for I will get up and go forth, and see those successes and 
transformations which thou speakest of.' Sancho gave him his 
clothes; and whilst he was a-making of him ready, the curate re- 
counted to Don Fernando and to the rest Don Quixote's mad pranks, 
and the guile he had used to bring him away out of the Poor Rock, 
wherein he imagined that he lived exiled through the disdain of 
his lady. He told them, moreover, all the other adventures which 
Sancho had discovered, whereat they did laugh not a little, and 
wonder withal, because it seemed to them all to be one of the 
extravagantest kinds of madness that ever befel a distracted brain. 
The curate also added, that seeing the good success of the Lady 


Dorothea did imfjeach the further prosecuting of their design, that 
it was requisite to invent and find some other way how to carry 
him home to his own village. Cardenio of?ered himself to prosecute 
the adventure, and Lucinda should represent Dorothea's person. 
'No,' quoth Don Fernando, 'it shall not be so; for I will have 
Dorothea to prosecute her own invention: for so that the village 
of this good gentleman be not very far off from hence, I will be 
very glad to procure his remedy.' 'It is no more than two days' 
journey from hence,' said the curate. 'Well, though it were more,' 
replied Don Fernando, 'I would be pleased to travel them, in ex- 
change of doing so good a work.' Don Quixote sallied out at this 
time completely armed with Mambrino's helmet (although with a 
great hole in it) on his head, his target on his arm, and leaned on 
his trunk or javelin. His strange countenance and gait amazed 
Don Fernando and his companions very much, seeing his ill- 
favoured visage so withered and yellow, the inequality and unsuit- 
ability of his arms, and his grave manner of proceeding; and stood 
all silent to see what he would; who, casting his eyes on the beauti- 
ful Dorothea, with very great gravity and staidness, said, — 

'I am informed, beautiful lady, by this my squire, that your great- 
ness is annihilated, and your being destroyed; for of a queen and 
mighty princess which you were wont to be, you are now become 
a particular damsel; which if it hath been done by particular order 
of the magical king your father, dreading that I would not be able 
to give you the necessary and requisite help for your restitution, I say 
that he neither knew nor doth know the one half of the enterprise, 
and that he was very little acquainted with histories of chivalry; for 
if he had read them, or passed them over with so great attention 
and leisure as I have done, and read them, he should have found 
at every other step, how other knights of a great deal less fame 
than myself have ended more desperate adventures, seeing it is 
not so great a matter to kill a giant, be he ever so arrogant; for 
it is not many hours since I myself fought with one, and what 
ensued I will not say, lest they should tell me that I do lie; but time, 
the detector of all things, will disclose it, when we do least think 

'Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, and not with a giant,' quoth 


the host at this season. But Don Fernando commanded him to be 
silent and not interrupt Don Quixote in any wise, who prosecuted 
his speech, saying, 'In fine, I say, high and disinherited lady, that 
if your father hath made this metamorphosis in your person for 
the causes related, give him no credit; for there is no peril so great 
on earth but my sword shall open a way through it, wherewithal 
I, overthrowing your enemy's head to the ground, will set your 
crown on your own head within a few days.' Here Don Quixote 
held his peace, and awaited the princess her answer, who, knowing 
Don Fernando's determination and will that she should continue 
the commenced guile until Don Quixote were carried home 
again, answered, with a very good grace and countenance, in this 
manner: 'Whosoever informed you, valorous Knight of the Ill- 
favoured Face, that I have altered and changed my being, hath not 
told you the truth, for I am the very same to-day that I was yester- 
day; true it is, that some unexpected yet fortunate successes have 
wrought some alteration in me, by bestowing on me better hap 
than I hoped for, or could wish myself; but yet for all that I have 
not left ofl to be that which [I was] before, or to have the very same 
thoughts which I ever had, to help myself by the valour of your 
most valorous and invincible arm. And therefore I request you, 
good my lord, of your accustomed bounty, to return my father his 
honour again, and account of him as of a very discreet and prudent 
man, seeing that he found by this skill so easy and so infallible a 
way to redress my disgraces; for I do certainly believe, that if it had 
not been by your means, I should never have happened to attain 
to the good fortune which now I possess, as all those noblemen 
present may witness; what therefore rests is, that to-morrow morn- 
ing we do set forward, for to-day is now already so overgone as 
we should not be able to travel very far from hence. As for the 
conclusion of the good success that I do hourly expect, I refer that 
to God and the valour of your invincible arm.' 

Thus much the discreet Dorothea said; and Don Quixote having 
heard her, he turned him to Sancho, with very manifest tokens of 
indignation, and said, 'Now I say unto thee, little Sancho, that 
thou art the veriest rascal that is in all Spain. Tell me, thief and 
vagabond, didst not thou but even very now say unto me that 


this princess was turned into a damsel, and that called Dorothea? 
and that the head which I thought I had slashed from a giant's 
shoulders was the whore that bore thee? with a thousand other 
follies, which did plunge me into the greatest confusion that ever 
I was in my Ufe? I vow' (and then he looked upon heaven, and 
did crash his teeth together) 'that I am about to make such a wreck 
on thee, as shall beat wit into the pates of all the lying squires that 
shall ever hereafter serve knights-errant in this world.' '1 pray you 
have patience, good my lord,' answered Sancho, 'for it may very 
well befall me to be deceived in that which toucheth the transmu- 
tation of the lady and Princess Micomicona; but in that which 
concerneth the giant's head, or at least the boring of the wine-bags, 
and that the blood was but red wine I am not deceived, I swear; 
for the bags lie yet wounded there within at your own bed's head, 
and the red wine hath made a lake in the chamber; and if it be not 
so, it shall be perceived at the frying of the eggs, I mean that you 
shall see it when master innkeeper's worship, who is here present, 
shall demand the loss and damage.' 'I say thee, Sancho,' quoth 
Don Quixote, 'that thou art a madcap; pardon me, and so it is 
enough.' 'It is enough indeed,' quoth Don Fernando, 'and there- 
fore let me entreat you to say no more of this, and seeing my lady 
the princess says she will go away to-morrow, seeing it is now too 
late to depart to-day, let it be so agreed on, and we will spend this 
night in pleasant discourses, until the approach of the ensuing day, 
wherein we will all accompany and attend on the worthy knight 
Sir Don Quixote, because we would be eye-witnesses of the valorous 
and unmatchable feats of arms which he shall do in the pursuit of 
this weighty enterprise which he hath taken upon him.' 'I am he 
that will serve and accompany you, good my lord,' replied Don 
Quixote; 'and I do highly gratify the honour that is done me, and 
the good opinion that is held of me, the which I will endeavour to 
verify and approve, or it shall cost me my life, or more, if more it 
might cost me.' 

Many other words of compliment and gratification passed between 
Don Quixote and Don Fernando, but a certain passenger imposed 
silence to them all, by his arrival to the inn in that very season, who 
by his attire showed that he was a Christian newly returned from 


among the Moors, for he was apparelled with a short-skirted cassock 
of blue cloth, sleeves reaching down half the arm, and without a 
collar; his breeches were likewise of blue linen, and he wore a bon- 
net of the same colour, a pair of date-coloured buskins, and a 
Turkish scimitar hanging at his neck in a scarf, which went athwart 
his breast. There entered after him, riding on an ass, a woman clad 
hke a Moor, and her face covered with a piece of the veil of her 
head; she wore on her head a little cap of cloth of gold, and was 
covered with a httle Turkish mantle from the shoulders down to 
the feet. The man was of strong and comely making, of the age 
of forty years or thereabouts; his face was somewhat tanned, he had 
long mustachios and a very handsome beard; to conclude, his 
making was such as, if he were well attired, men would take him 
to be a jjerson of quality and good birth. He demanded a chamber 
as soon as he had entered, and being answered that there was no 
one vacant in the inn, he seemed to be grieved, and coming to her 
which in her attire denoted herself to be a Moor, he took her down 
from her ass. Lucinda, Dorothea, the hostess, her daughter and 
Maritornes, allured to behold the new and strange attire of the 
Moor, compassed her about; and Dorothea, who was always most 
gracious, courteous, and discreet, deeming that both she and he that 
had brought her were discontented for the want of a lodging, she 
said, 'Lady, be not grieved for the trouble you are here like to endure 
for want of means to refresh yourself, seeing it is an universal vice of 
all inns to be defective herein; yet notwithstanding, if it shall please 
you to pass away the time among us' (pointing to Lucinda), 'perhaps 
you have met in the discourse of your travels other worse places of 
entertainment than this shall prove.' The disguised lady made none 
answer, nor other thing than arising from the place wherein she 
sat, and setting both her arms across on her bosom, she inclined her 
head and bowed her body, in sign that she rendered them thanks; 
by her silence they doubtlessly conjectured her to be a Moor, and 
that she could not speak the Castilian tongue. On this the Captive 
arrived, who was otherwise employed until then, and, seeing that 
they all had environed her that came with him, and that she made 
no answer to their sjjeech, he said, 'Ladies, this maiden scarce under- 
stands my tongue yet, nor doth she know any other than that of her 


own country, and therefore she hath not, nor can make any answer 
to your demands.' 'We demand nothing of her,' quoth Lucinda, 
'but only do make her an offer of our companies for this night, 
and part of the room where we ourselves are to be accommodated, 
where she shall be cherished up as much as the commodity of this 
place, and the obligation wherein we be tied to show courtesies to 
strangers that may want it, do bind us; especially she being a woman 
to whom we may do this service.' 'Sweet lady, I kiss your hands 
both for her and myself,* replied the Captive; 'and I do highly prize, 
as it deserveth, the favour you have proffered, which in such an 
occasion, and offered by such persons as you seem to be, doth very 
plainly show how great it is.' 'Tell me, good sir,' quoth Dorothea, 
'whether is this lady a Christian or a Moor? for by her attire and 
silence she makes us suspect that she is that we would not wish 
she were.' 'A Moor she is in attire and body,' answered the Captive; 
'but in mind she is a very fervent Christian, for she hath very 
expressly desired to become one.' 'Then she is not yet baptised?' 
said Lucinda. 'There hath been no opportunity offered to us,' quoth 
the Captive, 'to christen her, since she departed from Algiers, which 
is her town and country; and since that time she was not in any 
so eminent a danger of death as might oblige her to be baptised 
before she were first instructed in all the ceremonies which our 
holy mother, the Church, commandcth; but I hope shortly (if it 
shall please God) to see her baptised with that decency which her 
quality and calling deserves, which is greater than her attire or 
mine makes show of.' 

These words inflamed all the hearers with a great desire to know 
who the Moor and her captive were, yet none of them would at 
that time entreat him to satisfy their longing, because the season 
rather invited them to take some order how they might rest after 
their travels, than to demand of them the discourse of their lives. 
Dorothea, then, taking her by the hand, caused her to sit down by 
herself, and prayed her to take off the veil from her face. She 
instantly beheld the Captive, as if she demanded of him what they 
said, and he in the Arabical language told her how they desired 
her to discover her face, and bade her to do it; which presently 
she did, and discovered so beautiful a visage as Dorothea esteemed 


her to be fairer than Lucinda, and Lucinda prized her to excel 
Dorothea; and all the beholders perceived that if any one could 
surpass them both in beauty, it was the Moor; and there were some 
that thought she excelled them both in some respects. And as 
beauty hath evermore the prerogative and grace to reconcile men's 
minds and attract their wills to it, so all of them forthwith dedicated 
their desires to serve, and make much of the lovely Moor. Don 
Fernando demanded of the Captive how she was called, and he 
answered that her name was Lela Zoraida; and as soon as she heard 
him, and understood what they had demanded, she suddenly 
answered with anguish, but yet with a very good grace, 'No, not 
Zoraida, but Maria,' giving them to understand that she was called 
Maria, and not Zoraida. 

These words, and the great effect and vehemency wherewithal 
the Moor delivered them, extorted more than one tear from the 
hearers, especially from the women, who are naturally tender- 
hearted and compassive. Lucinda embraced her then with great 
love, and said, 'Ay, ay, Maria, Maria.' To which she answered, 
'Ay, ay, Maria, Zoraida mancange;' that is, 'and not Zoraida.' By 
this it was grown some four of the clock in the afternoon; and by 
order of those which were Don Fernando's companions, the inn- 
keeper had provided for them as good a beaver as the inn could 
in any wise afford unto them. Therefore, it being the hour, they 
sat down altogether at a long table (for there was never a square 
or round one in all the house), and they gave the first and principal 
end (although he refused it as much as he could) to Don Quixote, 
who commanded that the Lady Micomicona should sit at his elbow, 
seeing he was her champion. Presently were placed Lucinda and 
Zoraida, and Don Fernando and Cardenio right over against them, 
and after the Captive and other gentlemen, and on the other side 
the curate and barber. And thus they made their drinking with 
very great recreation, which was the more augmented to see Don 
Quixote leaving of his meat, and, moved by the like spirit of that 
which had made him once before talk so much to the goatherds, 
begin to offer them an occasion of speech in this manner: 

'Truly, good sirs, if it be well considered, those which profess 
the order of knighthood do see many great and unexpected things. 


If it be not so, say what mortal man alive is there that, entering 
in at this castle gate, and seeing of us all in the manner we be now 
present here, can judge or believe that we are those which we be? 
Who is it that can say that this lady which sits here at my sleeve is 
the great queen that we all know her to be, and that I am that 
Knight of the Heavy Countenance that am so much blabbed of 
abroad by the mouth of fame? therefore it cannot be now doubted, 
but that this art and exercise excelleth all the others which ever 
human wit, the underminer of nature, invented; and it is the more to 
be prized, by how much it exposeth itself, more than other trades, to 
dangers and inconveniences. Away with those that shall affirm 
learning to surpass arms; for I will say unto them, be they what 
they list, that they know not what they say; for the reason which 
such men do most urge, and to which they do most rely, is, that the 
travails of the spirit do far exceed those of the body; and that the 
use of arms are only exercised by the body, as if it were an office 
fit for porters, for which nothing were requisite but bodily forces; 
or as if in that which we that profess it do call arms, were not in- 
cluded the acts of fortitude which require deep understanding to 
execute them; or as if the warrior's mind did not labour as well as 
his body, who had a great army to lead and command, or the defence 
of a besieged city. If not, see if he can arrive by his corpxjral strength 
to know or sound the intent of his enemy, the designs, stratagems, 
and difficulties, how to prevent imminent dangers, all these being 
operations of the understanding wherein the body hath no meddling 
at all. It being therefore so, that the exercise of arms requires spirit 
as well as those of learning, let us now examine which of the two 
spirits, that of the scholar or soldier, do take most pains; and this 
may be best understood by the end to which both of them are 
addressed; for that intention is most to be esteemed which hath for 
object the most noble end. The end and conclusion of learning is — 
I speak not now of divinity, whose scope is to lead and address 
souls to heaven; for to an end so much without end as this, no 
other may be compared — I mean of human sciences or arts, to 
maintain distributive justice in his perfection, and give to every one 
that which is his own; to endeavour and cause good laws to be 
religiously observed — ^an end most certainly generous, high, and 


worthy of great praise, but not of so much as that to which the 
exercise of arms is annexed, which hath for his object and end peace, 
which is the greatest good men can desire in this Hfe. And there- 
fore the first good news that ever the world had or men received, 
were those which the angels brought on that night which was our 
day, when they sang in the skies, "Glory be in the heights, and peace 
on earth to men of good minds." And the salutation which the best 
Master that ever was on earth or in heaven taught to His disciples 
and favourites was, that when they entered into any house they 
should say, "Peace be to this house"; and many other times He said, 
"I give unto you My peace; I leave My p)eace unto you; peace be 
amongst you." It is a good, as precious as a jewel, and a gift given, 
and left by such a hand; a jewel, without which neither on earth 
nor in heaven can there be any perfect good. This peace is the true 
end of war; for arms and war are one and the selfsame things. This 
truth being therefore presupposed, that the end of war is peace, and 
that herein it doth excel the end of learning, let us descend to the cor- 
poral labours of the scholar, and to those of him which professeth 
arms, and consider which of them are more toilsome.' 

Don Quixote did prosecute his discourse in such sort, and with 
so pleasing terms, as he had almost induced his audience to esteem 
him to be, at that time at least, exempt from his frenzy; and 
therefore, by reason that the greater number of them were gentle- 
men, to whom the use of arms is in a manner essential and proper, 
they did willingly listen to him; and therefore he continued on 
with his discourse in this manner: 

'I say, then, that the pains of the student are commonly these: 
principally poverty (not that I would maintain that all students 
are poor, but that I may put the case in greatest extremity it can 
have), and by saying that he may be poor, methinks there may be 
no greater aggravation of his misery; for he that is poor is destitute 
of every good thing; and this pxjverty is suffered by him sundry 
ways, sometimes by hunger, other times by cold or nakedness, and 
many times by all of them together; yet it is never so extreme but 
that he doth eat, although it be somewhat later than the custom, 
or of the scraps and reversion of the rich man; and the greatest 
misery of the student is that which they term to live by sops and 


pottage: and though they want fire of their own, yet may they 
have recourse to their neighbour's chimney, which if it do not 
warm, yet will it weaken the cold: and finally, they sleep at night 
under a roof. I will not descend to other trifles — to wit, the want 
of shirts and shoes, the bareness of their clothes, or the overloading 
of their stomachs with meat when good fortune lends them as good 
a meal — for by this way, which I have deciphered so rough and 
difficult, stumbling here, falling there; getting up again on the 
other side, and ref ailing on this, they attain the degree which they 
have desired so much; which many having compassed, as we have 
seen, which having passed through these difficulties, and sailed by 
Scylla and Charybdis (borne away flying, in a manner, by favour- 
able fortune), they command and govern all the world from a chair, 
turning their hunger into satiety, their nakedness into pomp, and 
their sleeping on a mat into a sweet repose among hollands and 
damask — a reward justly merited by their virtue. But their labours, 
confronted and compared to those of the miHtant soldier, remain 
very far behind, as I will presently declare.' 


Treating of the Curious Discourse Made by Don Quixote Upon 
THE Exercises of Arms and Letters 

DON QUIXOTE, continuing his discourse, said, 'Seeing we 
begin in the student with poverty and her parts, let us 
examine whether the soldier be richer? Certainly we shall 
find that no man can exceed the soldier in poverty itself; for he is 
tied to his wretched pay, which comes either late or never; or else 
to his own shifts, with notable danger of his life and conscience. 
And his nakedness is ofttimes so much, as many times a leather 
jerkin gashed serves him at once for a shirt and ornament. And 
in the midst of winter he hath sundry times no other defence or 
help to resist the inclemencies of the air in the midst of the open 
fields than the breath of his mouth, which I verily believe doth 
against nature come out cold, by reason it sallies from an empty 
place; expect there till the night fall, that he may repair all these 
discommodities by the easiness of his bed, the which, if it be not 
through his own default, shall never offend in narrowness; for he 
may measure out for it on the earth as many foot as he pleaseth, 
and tumble himself up and down it without endangering the wrink- 
ling of his sheets. Let after all this the day and hour arrive wherein 
he is to receive the degree of his profession — let, I say, a day of 
battle arrive; for there they will set on his head the cap of his 
dignity, made of lint to cure the wound of some bullet that hath 
passed through and through his temples, or hath maimed an arm 
or a leg. And when this doth not befall, but that Heaven doth 
piously keep and preserve him whole and sound, he shall perhaps 
abide still in the same poverty wherein he was at the first; and 
that it be requisite that one and another battle do succeed, and he 
come off ever a victor, to the end that he may prosper and be at 
the last advanced. But such miracles are but few times wrought; 
and say, good sirs, if you have noted it, how few are those which 



the wars reward, in respect of the others that it hath destroyed? 
You must answer, without question, that there can be no compari- 
son made between them, nor can the dead be reduced to any 
number; but all the living, and such as are advanced, may be 
counted easily with three arithmetical figures: all which falls out 
contrary in learned men, for all of them have wherewithal to enter- 
tain and maintain themselves by skirts — I will say nothing of sleeves. 
So that although the soldier's labour is greater, yet is his reward 
much less. But to this may be answered, that it is easier to reward 
two hundred thousand learned men than thirty thousand soldiers; 
for they may be advanced by giving unto them offices, which must 
of necessity be bestowed on men of their profession; but soldiers 
cannot be recompensed otherwise than by the lord's substance and 
wealth whom they serve. And yet this objection and impossibility 
doth fortify much more my assertion. 

'But leaving this apart, which is a labyrinth of very difficult issue, 
let us return to the pre-eminency of arms over learning, which is a 
matter hitherto depending, so many are the reasons that everyone 
allegeth for himself; and among those which I myself have repeated, 
then learning doth argue thus for itself, that arms without it cannot 
be long maintained, forasmuch as the war hath also laws, and is 
subject to them, and that the laws are contained under the title of 
learning, and belong to learned men. 

'To this objection arms do make answer: that the laws cannot 
be sustained without them, for commonwealths are defended by 
arms, and kingdoms preserved, cities fenced, highways made safe, 
the seas freed from pirates; and, to be brief, if it were not for 
them, commonwealths, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, and ways by 
sea and land, would be subject to the rigour and confusion which 
attendeth on the war all the time that it endureth, and is licensed 
to practice his prerogatives and violence; and it is a known truth, 
that it which cost most, is or ought to be most accounted of. That 
one may become eminent in learning, it costs him time, watchings, 
hunger, nakedness, headaches, rawness of stomach, and other such 
inconveniences as I have partly mentioned already; but that one 
may arrive by true terms to be a good soldier, it costs him all that 
it costs the student, in so exceeding a degree as admits no compari- 


son, for he is at every step in jeopardy to lose his Ufe. And what fear 
of necessity or poverty may befall or molest a student so fiercely as 
it doth a soldier, who, seeing himself at the siege of some impregnable 
place, and standing sentinel in some ravelin or half-moon, feels 
the enemies undermining near to the place where he is, and yet 
dares not to depart or abandon his stand, upon any occasion what- 
soever, or shun the danger which so nearly threatens him ? but that 
which he only may do, is to advise his captain of that which passeth, 
to the end he may remedy it by some countermine, whilst he must 
stand still, fearing and expecting when he shall suddenly fly up to 
the clouds without wings, and after descend to the depths against 
his will. And if this appear to be but a small danger, let us weigh 
whether the grappling of two galleys, the one with the other in the 
midst of the spacious main, may be compared, or do surpass it, 
the which nailed and grappled fast the one to the other, the soldier 
hath no more room in them than two foot broad of a plank in the 
battlings, and notwithstanding, although he clearly see laid before 
him so many ministers of death, for all the pieces of artillery that 
are planted on the adverse side do threaten him, and are not distant 
from his body the length of a lance; and seeing that if he slipped 
ever so litde aside, he should fall into the deeps, doth yet nevertheless, 
with undaunted heart, borne away on the wings of honour, which 
spurreth him onward, oppose himself as a mark to all their shot, 
and strives to pass by that so narrow a way into the enemy's vessel. 
And what is most to be admired is to behold how scarce is one 
fallen into that place, from whence he shall never after arise until 
the world's end, when another takes possession of the same place; 
and if he do likewise tumble into the sea, which gapes like an 
enemy for him also, another and another will succeed unto him, 
without giving any respite to the times of their death, valour, and 
boldness, which is the greatest that may be found among all the 
trances of warfare. Those blessed ages were fortunate which wanted 
the dreadful fury of the devilish and murdering pieces of ordnance, 
to whose inventor I am verily persuaded that they render in hell an 
eternal guerdon for his diabolical invention, by which he hath given 
power to an infamous, base, vile, and dastardly arm to bereave the 
most valorous knight of life; and that, without knowing how or 


from whence, in the midst of the stomach and courage that inflames 
and animates valorous minds, there arrives a wandering bullet 
(shot off, perhaps, by him that was afraid, and fled at the very blaze 
of the powder, as he discharged the accursed engine), and cuts off 
and finisheth in a moment the thoughts and life of him who merited 
to enjoy it many ages. 

'And whilst I consider this, I am about to say that it grieves me 
to have ever undertaken the exercise of a knight-errant in this our 
detestable age; for although no danger can affright me, yet not- 
withstanding I live in jealousy to think how jxjwder and lead might 
deprive me of the power to make myself famous and renowned by 
the strength of mine arm and the edge of my sword throughout the 
face of the earth. But let Heaven dispose as it pleaseth; for so 
much the more shall I be esteemed, if I can compass my pretensions, 
by how much the dangers were greater to which I opposed myself, 
than those achieved in foregoing times by knights-adventurous.' 

Don Quixote made all this prolix speech whilst the rest of his 
company did eat, wholly forgetting to taste one bit, although Sancho 
Panza did now and then put him in remembrance of his victuals, 
saying that he should have leisure enough after to speak as much 
as he could desire. In those that heard was again renewed a kind 
of compassion, to see a man of so good a wit as he seemed to be, 
and of so good discourse in all the other matters which he took in 
hand, to remain so clearly devoid of it when any occasion of speech 
were offered treating of his accursed chivalry. The curate applauded 
his discourse, affirming that he produced very good reasons for all 
that he had spoken in the favour of arms; and that he himself (al- 
though he was learned and graduated) was likewise of his opinion. 

The beaver being ended, and the table<loths taken away, whilst 
Maritornes did help her mistress and her daughter to make ready 
the room where Don Quixote had slept for the gentlewomen, 
wherein they alone might retire themselves that night, Don Fer- 
nando entreated the Captive to recount unto them the history of his 
life, forasmuch as he suspected that it must have been rare and 
delightful, as he gathered by the tokens he gave by coming in the 
lovely Zoraida's company. To which the Captive replied, that he 
would accomplish his desire with a very good will, and that only 

DON Quixote's discourse 381 

he feared that the discourse would not prove so savoury as they 
expected; but yet for all that he would tell it, because he would 
not disobey him. The curate and all the rest thanked him for his 
promise, and turned to request him again to begin his discourse; 
and he perceiving so many to solicit him, said that prayers were not 
requisite when commandments were of such force. 'And therefore 
I desire you,' quoth he, 'to be attentive, and you shall hear a true 
discourse, to which f)erhaps no feigned invention may be compared 
for variety or delight.' The rest, animated by these his words, did 
accommodate themselves with very great silence; and he, beholding 
their silence and expectation of his history, with a modest and 
pleasing voice, began in this manner. 



Wherein the Captive Recounteth His Life, and 
Other Accidents 

fV N a certain village of the mountains of Leon my lineage had 
beginning, wherewithal nature dealt much more liberally than 
fortune, although my father had the opinion, amidst the penury 
and poverty of that people, to be a rich man, as indeed he might 
have been, had he but used as much care to hoard up his wealth 
as prodigality to sp)end it. And this his liberal disposition proceeded 
from his being a soldier in his youthful years; for war is the school 
wherein the miser is made frank, and the frank man prodigal. 
And if among soldiers we find some wretches and niggards, they 
are accounted monsters which are seldom seen. My father passed 
the bounds of liberality, and touched very nearly the confines of 
prodigality; a thing nothing profitable for a married man, who 
had children that should succeed him in his name and being. 
My father had three sons, all men, and of years sufficient to make 
an election of the state of life they meant to lead; wherefore he 
perceiving, as he himself was wont to say, that he could not bridle 
his nature in that condition of sp)ending, he resolved to deprive 
himself of the instrument and cause which made him such a sf)ender 
and so liberal, to wit, of his goods; without which Alexander the 
Great himself would be accounted a miser; and therefore, calling us 
all three together on a day into his chamber, he used these or such 
like reasons to us: 

' "Sons, to affirm that I love you well may be presumed, seeing 
I term you my sons; and yet it may be suspected that I hate you, 
seeing I do not govern myself so well as I might in the husbanding 
and increasing of your stock. But to the end that you may hence- 
forth perceive that I do affect you with a fatherly love, and that I 
mean not to overthrow you like a step-father, I will do one thing 


THE captive's STORY 383 

to you which I have pondered, and with mature deUberation pur- 
posed these many days. You are all of age to accept an estate, or 
at least to make choice of some such exercise as may turn to your 
honour and profit at riper years; and therefore, that which I have 
thought upon, is to divide my goods into four parts; the three I 
will bestow upon you, to every one that which appertains to him, 
without exceeding a jot; and I myself will reserve the fourth to live 
and maintain me with as long as it shall please Heaven to lend me 
breath. Yet I do greatly desire that after every one of you is 
possessed of his portion, he would take one of the courses which 
I mean to propose. There is an old proverb in this our Spain, in 
mine own opinion very true (as ordinarily all proverbs are, being 
certain brief sentences collected out of long and discreet experiences), 
and it is this, 'The Church, the Sea, or the Court.' The meaning 
is, that whosoever would become wealthy, or worthy, must either 
follow the Church, haunt the seas by exercising the trade of 
merchandises, or get him a place of service and entertainment in 
the king's house; for men say that 'A king's crumb is more worth 
than a lord's loaf.' This 1 say because I desire, and it is my will, 
that one of you do follow his book, another merchandise, and the 
third the war, seeing that the service of his own house is a difficult 
thing to compass; and although the war is not wont to enrich a 
man, yet it adds unto him great worth and renown. Within these 
eight days I do mean to give you all your portions in money, without 
defrauding you of a mite, as you shall see in effect. Therefore, tell 
me now whether you mean to follow mine opinion and device in 
this which I have proposed?" And then he commanded me, by 
reason that I was the eldest, to make him an answer. 

'I, after I had entreated him not to make away his goods, but to 
spend and dispose of them as he listed, seeing we were both young 
and able enough to gain more, at last I concluded that I vvould 
accomplish his will, and that mine was to follow the wars, therein 
serving God and my king together. The second brother made the 
same offer, and, employing his portion in commodities, would 
venture it to the Indies. The youngest, and as I deem the discreetest, 
said that either he would follow the Church, or go at the least to 


Salamanca to finish bis already commenced studies. And as soon 
as we had ended the agreement and election of our vocations, my 
father embraced us all, and afterwards performed unto us, in as 
short a time as he had mentioned, all that he promised; giving unto 
each of us a portion, amounting, if I do well remember, to three 
thousand ducats apiece in money; for an uncle of ours bought all 
the goods, and paid ready money, because he would not have them 
made away from our own family and lineage. We all took our 
leave of our good father in one day; and in that instant, it seeming 
to me a great inhumanity to leave my father so old and with 50 
little means, I dealt so with him as I constrained him to take back 
again two thousand ducats of the three he had given me, forasmuch 
as the rest was sufficient to furnish me in very good sort with all 
things requisite for a soldier. My brothers, moved by mine example, 
did each of them give him a thousand crowns; so that my father 
remained with four thousand crowns in money, and three in goods, 
as they were valued, which goods he would not sell, but keep them 
still in stock. Finally, we bade him (and our said uncle) farewell, 
not without much feeling and many tears on both sides; and they 
charged us that we would from time to time acquaint them with 
our successes, whether prosperous or adverse. We promised to per- 
form it; and then, embracing us, and giving us his blessing, one de- 
parted towards Salamanca, another to Seville, and myself to Alicant. 
'I arrived prosperously at Genoa, and from thence went to Milan, 
where I did accommodate myself with arms and other braveries 
used by soldiers, and departed from thence to settle myself in 
Piedmont; and being in my way towards the city of Alexandria de 
la Paglia, I heard news that the great Duke of Alva did pass towards 
Flanders; wherefore, changing my purpose, I went with him, and 
served him in all the expeditions he made. I was present at the 
beheading of the Earls of Egmont and Homes, and obtained at 
last to be ensign to a famous captain of Guadalajara, called Diego 
de Urbina. Within a while after mine arrival to Flanders, the news 
were divulged of the league that Pius V., the pope of famous 
memory, had made with the Venetians and the King of Spain, 
against our common enemy the Turk, who had gained by force the 
famous island of Cyprus much about the same time, which island 

THE captive's STORY 385 

belonged to the state of Venice, and was an unfortunate and lament- 
able loss. It was also certainly known that the most noble Don John 
of Austria, our good King Don Philip's natural brother, did come 
down for general of this league, and the great provision that was 
made for the war was published everywhere. 

'AH this did incite and stir on my mind and desire to be present 
at the expedition so much expected; and therefore, although I had 
conjectures, and half promises to be made a captain in the first 
occasion that should be offered, yet I resolved to leave all those hojjes, 
and to go into Italy, as in effect I did. And my good fortune so dis- 
posed, as the lord Don John of Austria arrived just at the same time 
at Genoa, and went towards Naples, to join himself with the 
Venetian navy, as he did after at Messina. In this most fortunate 
journey I was present, being by this made a captain of foot, to 
which honourable charge I was mounted rather by my good 
fortune than by my deserts. And that very day which was so 
fortunate to all Christendom; for therein the whole world was 
undeceived, and all the nations thereof freed of all the error they 
held, and belief they had, that the Turk was invincible at sea: in 
that very day I say, wherein the swelling stomach and Ottomanical 
pride was broken among so many happy men as were there (for the 
Christians that were slain were much more happy than those which 
they left victorious alive), I alone was unfortunate, seeing that in 
exchange of some naval crown which I might exjiect had I lived 
in the times of the ancient Romans, I found myself the night ensuing 
that so famous a day with my legs chained and my hands manacled, 
which befel in this manner, that Uchali, king of Algiers, a bold and 
venturous pirate, having invested and distressed the admiral of 
Malta (for only three knights remained alive, and those very sore 
wounded), John Andrea's chief galley came to her succour, wherein 
I went with my company; and doing what was requisite in such 
an occasion, I leapt into the enemy's vessel, the which falling off 
from that which had assaulted her, hindered my soldiers from 
following me; by which means I saw myself alone amidst mine 
enemies, against whom I could make no long resistance, they were 
so many. In fine, I was taken, full of wounds. Now, as you may 
have heard, Uchali saved himself and all his squadron, whereby 


I became captive in his power, and only remained sorrowful among 
so many joyful, and captive among so many freed; for that day 
fifteen thousand Christians, which came slaves and enchained in the 
Turkish galleys, recovered their desired liberty. I was carried to 
Constantinople, where the Great Turk, Selim, made my lord 
General of the Sea, by reason that he had so well performed his 
duty in the battle, having brought away, for a witness of his valour, 
the standard of the Order of Malta. I was the year ensuing of 1572 
in Navarino, rowing in the Admiral of the Three Lanterns, and 
saw and noted there the opportunity that was lost, of taking all the 
Turkish navy within the haven; for all the janizaries and other 
soldiers that were in it made full account that they should be set 
upon, even within the very port, and therefore trussed up all their 
baggage, and made ready their shoes, to fly away presently to the 
land, being in no wise minded to expect the assault, our navy did 
strike such terror into them. But God disposed otherwise of the 
matter, not through the fault or negligence of the general that 
governed our men, but for the sins of Christendom, and because 
God permits and wills that we have always some executioners to 
chastise us. In sum, Uchali got into Modon, which is an island near 
to Navarino, and, landing his men there, he fortified the mouth 
of the haven, and there remained until Don John departed. In 
this voyage was taken the galley called Presa, whereof the famous 
pirate Barbarossa his son was captain; it was surprised by the 
captain-galley of Naples, called the She-Wolf, that was commanded 
by the thunderbolt of war, the father of soldiers — that fortunate 
and never overthrown Don Alvaro de Ba^an, the Marquis of Santa 
Cruz. And here I will not forget to recount what befel at the taking 
of the Presa. This son of Barbarossa's was so cruel, and used his 
slaves so ill, that as soon as they that were rowing perceived the 
She-Wolf to approach them, and that she had overtaken them, 
they cast away their oars all at one time, and laying hands on their 
captain that stood on the poop, crying to them to row with more 
speed, and passing him from one bank to another, from the poop 
to the prow, they took so many bits out of him, as he had scarce 
passed beyond the mast when his soul was already wasted to hell; 
such was the cruelty wherewithal he entreated them, and so great 

THE captive's STORY 387 

the hate they also bore towards him. We returned the next year 
after to Constantinople, being that of seventy and three, and there 
we learned how Don John had gained Tunis, and, taking that 
kingdom away from the Turks, had, by installing Muley Hamet 
therein, cut away all Muley Hameda's hopes to reign again there, 
who was the most cruel and vaHant Moor that ever hved. 

'The Great Turk was very much grieved for this loss; and there- 
fore, using the sagacity wherewithal all his race wise endued, he 
made peace with the Venetians, which wished for it much more 
than he did himself. And the year after of seventy-and-four, he 
assaulted the fortress of Goleta, and the other fortress that Don 
John had raised near unto Tunis. And in all these occasions I was 
present, tied to the oar without any hope of Uberty, at leastwise by 
ransom, being resolved never to signify by letter my misfortunes 
to my father. The Goleta was lost, in fine, and also the fortress, 
before which two places lay in siege seventy-five thousand Turks, 
and more than four hundred thousand Moors, and other Saracens 
of all the other parts of Africa, being furnished with such abund- 
ance of munition and warlike engines, and so many pioneers as 
were able to cover Goleta and the fortress, if every one did cast 
but his handful of earth upon them. Thus was Goleta, accounted 
until then impregnable, first lost, the which did not happen through 
default of valour in the defendants, who in defence thereof did all 
they could or ought to have done, but because experience showed the 
facility wherewithal trenches might be raised in that desert sand; 
for though water had been found in it within two spans' depth, the 
Turks could not find it in the depth of two yards; and therefore, 
fiUing many sacks full of sand, they raised their trenches so high 
as they did surmount the walls of the sconce, and did so gall the 
defendants from them with their shot as no one could stand to 
make any defence. It was a common report that our men would 
not immure themselves within Goleta, but expect the enemy in the 
champaign at their disembarking; but those that gave this out 
spake widely, as men very little acquainted with the like affairs; 
for if in Goleta and the fortress there were scarce seven thousand 
soldiers, how could so few a number, were they ever so resolute, 
make a sally, and remain in the forts against so great a number of 


enemies? or how is it possible that the forces which are not seconded 
and suppUed should not be overcome, specially being besieged by 
many and obstinate enemies, and those in their own country? But 
many others esteemed, and so did I likewise among the rest, that 
Almighty God did a particular grace and favour unto Spain in 
that manner, permitting to be destroyed the stop and cloak of all 
wickedness, and the sponge and moth of innumerable sums of 
money spent there unprofitably, without serving to any other end 
than to preserve the memory of being gained by the Emperor 
Charles the Fifth, as if it had been requisite for the keeping of it 
eternal (as it is, and shall be ever) that those stones should sustain it. 
The fortress was also won; but the Turks were constrained to gain it 
span by span, for the soldiers which defended it fought so man- 
fully and resolutely, as the number of the enemies slain in two-and- 
twenty general assaults which they gave unto it, did pass five-and- 
twenty thousand. Never a one was taken prisoner but three hundred 
which survived their fellows — a certain and manifest token of their 
valour and strength, and how well they had defended themselves 
and kept their fortresses with great magnanimity. A little fort or 
turret that stood in the midst of the place, under the command of 
Don John Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and famous soldier, 
was yielded upon composition; and Don Pedro de Puerto Carrero, 
general of Goleta, was taken prisoner, who omitted no diligence 
possible to defend the place, but yet was so grieved to have lost it 
as he died for very grief on the way towards Constantinople, whither 
they carried him captive. The general likewise of the fort, called 
Gabriel Cerbellon, being a gentleman of Milan, and a great engineer, 
and most resolute soldier, was taken; and there died; in both the 
places many persons of worth, among which Pagan de Oria was 
one, a knight of the Order of Saint John, of a most noble disposition, 
as the exceeding liberality which he used towards his brother, the 
famous John Andrea de Oria, clearly demonstrates; and that which 
rendered his death more deplorable was, that he was slain by 
certain Saracens (which he trusted, perceiving how the fort was 
lost), who had offered to convey him thence in the habit of a Moor 
to Tabarca, which is a little haven or creek possessed by the Genoese 

THE captive's STORY 389 

that fish for coral in that coast. These Saracens cut oS his head and 
brought it to the general of the Turkish army, who did accomplish 
in them the Spanish proverb, "That although the treason pleaseth, 
yet is the traitor hated," and so it is reported that he commanded 
those to be hanged that had brought him the present, because they 
had not brought it alive. 

'Among the Christians that were lost in the fort there was one, 
called Don Pedro de Aguilar, born in Andalusia, in some town 
whose name I have forgotten; he had been Ancient in the fortress, 
and was a soldier of great account, and of a rare understanding, and 
specially had a particular grace in poetry. This I say because his 
fortune brought him to be slave to my patron, even into the very 
same galley and bench whereon I sat. This gentleman made two 
sonnets in form of epitaphs, the one for the Goleta, the other for the 
fort; and I will repeat them, because I remember them very well, 
and do believe that they will be rather grateful than anything dis- 
gustful to the audience.' 

As soon as ever the Captive named Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don 
Fernando beheld his camaradas, and they all three did smile. And 
when he began to talk of the sonnets, one of them said, 'Before 
your pass further, I beseech you, good sir, let me entreat you to 
tell me what became of that Don Pedro de Aguilar whom you have 

'That which I know of that affair,' answered the Captive, 'is that, 
after he had been two years in Constantinople, he fled away in the 
attire of an Armenian with a Greek spy, and I cannot tell whether 
he recovered his liberty or no, although I suppose he did, for within 
a year after I saw the Greek in Constantinople, but I had not the 
opportunity to demand of him the success of that voyage.' 

'He came then into Spain,' quoth the gentleman; 'for that same 
Don Pedro is my brother, and dwells now at home in our own 
town, very well, rich married, and a father of three sons.' 

'God be thanked,' quoth the Captive, 'for the infinite favour He 
hath showed unto him; for in mine opinion there is not on earth 
any contentment able to be compared to that of recovering a man's 
lost liberty.' 


'I do moreover,' said the gentleman, 'know the sonnets which 
my brother composed.' 

'I pray you then, good sir,' quoth the Captive, 'repeat them; for 
perhaps you can say them better than I.' 

'With a very good will,' answered the gentleman; 'and that of 
the Goleta is thus.' 

Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the Captive 


' "O happy souls, which from this mortal vale 
Freed and exempted, through the good you wrought, 
Safe from the harms that here did you assail. 
By your deserts to highest heaven were brought, 
Which here inflamed by wrath, and noble thought, 
Showed how much your forces did avail: 
When both your own and foreign bloods you taught, 
From sandy shores, into the deeps to trail. 
Your lives before your valour's end deceased 
In your tired arms, which, though they were a-dying 
And vanquish'd, yet on victory have seized. 
And this your life, from servile thraldom flying. 
Ending, acquires, between the sword and wall. 
Heaven's glory there, fame here on earth, for all." ' 

'I have it even in the very same manner,' quoth the Captive. 
'Well, then,' said the gentleman, 'that of the fort is thus, if I do 
not forget it: 


' 'Trom midst the barren earth, here overthrown, 
In these sad clods, which on the ground do lie. 
Three thousand soldiers* holy souls are flown. 
And to a happier mansion gone on high: 
Here, when they did in vain the vigour try 
Of their strong arms, to cost of many a one. 
After the most, through extreme toil, did die, 
The cruel sword a few did light upon. 
And this same plot eternally hath been. 
With thousand doleful memories replete. 
As well this age, as in foregoing time. 
But from his cruel bosom Heaven ne'er yet 
Received sincercr souls than were the last, 
Nor earth so valiant bodies aye possess'd." ' 



The sonnets were not misliked; and the Captive was greatly 
recreated with the news which he received of his companion, and, 
prosecuting his history, he said: 

'The Goleta and the fort being rendered, the Turks gave order 
to dismantle Goleta; for the fort was left in such sort as there 
remained nothing up that might be overthrown: and to do it with 
more brevity and less labour, they undermined it in three places, 
but that which seemed least strong could not be blown up by any 
of them, which was the old walls; but all that which had remained 
afoot of the new fortifications and works of Fratin, fell down to the 
ground with great facility. And this being ended, the navy returned 
triumphant and victorious to Constantinople, where, within a few 
months afterward, my lord Uchali died, whom they called Uchali 
Fartax, which signifies in the Turkish language, the Scald or 
Scurvy Runagate, for he was such. And it is a custom among the 
Turks to give one another nicknames, either of the defects or 
perfections and virtues which they have; and the reason hereof is, 
that among them all they have but four lineages that have sur- 
names, and these do contend with that of Ottoman's, for nobility 
of blood; and all the rest, as I have said, do take denomination 
sometime from the blemishes of the body, and sometime from the 
virtues of the mind. And this scurvy fellow did row fourteen 
years, being the Great Turk's slave, and did renounce his faith, 
being four-and-thirty years old, for despite, and because he might 
be revenged on a Turk that gave him a cuff on the face as he 
rowed; and his valour was so great, as without ascending by the 
dishonourable means and ways usually taken by the greatest 
minions about the Great Turk, he came first to be King of Algiers, 
and after to be General of the Sea, which is the third most noble 
charge and dignity of all the Turkish empire. He was born in 
Calabria, and was a good moral man, and used with great humanity 
his slaves, whereof he had above three thousand, which were after 
his death divided, as he had left in his testament, between the 
Great Turk (who is ever an inheritor to every dead man, and hath 
a portion among the deceased his children) and his runagates. I 
fell to the lot of a Venetian runagate, who being a ship-boy in a 
certain vessel, was taken by Uchali, who loved him so tenderly as he 


was one of the dearest youths he had, and he became after the most 
cruel runagate that ever lived. He was called Azanaga, and came 
to be very rich, and King of Algiers. With him I came from Con- 
stantinople somewhat contented in mind, because I should be nearer 
unto Spain; not for that I meant to write unto any one of my un- 
fortunate success, but only to see whether fortune would prove 
more favourable to me in Algiers than at Constantinople, where I 
had attempted a thousand ways to escape, but none of them sorted 
to any good effect. And I thought to search out in Algiers some 
other means to compass that which I so greedily desired, for the 
hope of attaining liberty some time had never abandoned me; and 
when in the contriving I thought, or put my designs in practice, 
and that the success did not answer mine expectation, presently 
without forsaking me, it forged and sought out for another hope 
that might sustain me, although it were debile and weak. 

'With this did I pass away my life, shut up in a prison or house, 
which the Turks call baths, wherein they do enclose the captive 
Christians, as well those that belong to the king as other particular 
men's, and those which they call of the Almazen, which is as 
much to say, as slaves of the council, who are deputed to serve the 
city in the public works and other affairs thereof; and these of all 
other captives do with most difficulty attain to liberty; for, by reason 
they belong to the commonalty, and have no particular master, 
there is none with whom a man may treat of their redemption, 
although they should have the price of their ransom. To these 
baths, as I have said, some particular men carry their captives to 
be kept, chiefly if they be to be ransomed; for there they have them 
at their ease and secure, until they be redeemed. The king's captives 
of ransom, also, do not go forth to labour with the other poor crew, 
if it be not when the paying of their ransom is deferred; for then, 
to the end they may make them write for money more earnestly, 
they make them labour and go to fetch wood with the rest, which 
is no small toil and trouble. I then was one of those of ransom; for 
as soon as it was known how I was a captain, notwithstanding that 
I told them of my little possibility and want of means, all could 
not prevail to dissuade them from consorting me with the multitude 
of gentlemen, and those of ransom. They put on me then a chain, 


rather to be a token that I was there for my ransom than to keep 
me the better with it. And so I passed away my time there with 
many other gentlemen and men of mark, held and kept in there 
for their ransom. And although both hunger and nakedness did 
vex us now and then, or rather evermore, yet nothing did afilict 
us so much as to hear and see every moment the cruelties that my 
master used towards Christians. Every day he hanged up one; he 
set this man on a stake, and would cut off the other's ears, and 
that for so little occasion, or wholly without it, as the very Turks 
themselves perceived that he did it not for any other cause but 
because he had a will to do it, and that it was his natural inclina- 
tion to be a homicide of all human kind. Only one Spanish soldier, 
called such a one of Saavedra, was in his good grace, who although 
he did sundry things that will remain in the memory of that nation 
for many years, and all to the end to get his liberty, yet he never 
struck him, nor commanded him to be stricken, nor said as much 
as an evil word unto him; and yet we all feared that he should be 
broached on a stake for the least of many things which he did, and 
himself did also dread it more than once; and if it were not that 
time denieth me leisure to do it, I would recount unto you things 
done by this soldier, which might both entertain and astonish you 
much more than the relation of my life. 

'There were over the square court of our prison certain windows 
that looked into it, and belonged to a certain rich and principal 
Moor; the which windows (as ordinarily are all the Moors' 
windows) rather seemed to be holes than windows, and even these 
were also very closely covered and shut fast with linen coverings. 
It therefore befel that, standing one day upon the battlements of 
our prison with other three companions, trying which of us could 
leap best in his shackles to pass away the time, and being alone (for 
all the other Christians were gone abroad to labour), I lifted up by 
chance mine eyes, and I saw thrust out at one of those so close shut 
windows a cane, and a linen tied at the end thereof, and the cane 
was moved and wagged up and down, as if it had made signs that 
we should come and take it. We looked upon it, and one of my 
companions went under the cane, to see whether they would let it 
fall, or what they would do else; but as soon as he approached it, the 


cane was lifted up, and did stir it to either side, as if they had said 
(with wagging of the head), "No." The Christian returned to us; 
and the cane being eftsoons let fall, and beginning to move as it 
had done before, another of my fellows went, and the same succeeded 
unto him that did to the Brst. 

'Finally, the third approached it, with no better success than the 
former two; which I perceiving, would not omit to try my fortitude: 
and as soon as 1 came near to stand under the cane, it was let slip, 
and fell within the baths, just at my feet. I forthwith went to untie 
the linen which was knotted, wherein I found ten zianiys, which are 
certain pieces of base gold used among the Moors, and worth, each 
of them, ten reals of our money. I leave to your discretion to think 
if I was not glad of my booty; certes, my joy and admiration was 
much, to think whence that good might come unto us, but specially 
to myself, since the signs of refusal to let it fall to the other did 
confirm clearly that the favour was only addressed to myself. I 
took my welcome money, broke the cane, and returned to the battle- 
ments, and viewed the window earnestly, and perceived a very 
beautiful hand issue out thereat, which did open and shut it again 
very speedily. By which imagining and thinking that some woman 
that dwelled in that house had done us the charity and benefit, 
in token of our thankful minds, we made our courtesies after the 
Moorish fashion, by inclining of our heads, bending of the body, 
and pressing our hands to our breasts. Within a while after, there 
appeared out of the same window a little cross made of canes, which 
presently was taken in again. This sign did confirm us in the opinion 
that there was some Christian woman captive in that place, and 
that it was she which did to us the courtesy; but the whiteness o£ 
her hand, and her rich bracelets, destroyed this presumption: al- 
though we did, notwithstanding, conjecture that it was some runa- 
gate Christian, whom their masters there do very ordinarily take to 
wives, yea, and account very good hap to light on one of them, for 
they are much more accounted of than the women of the nation itself. 

'Yet in all these discourses we strayed very far from the truth of 
the accident; and so, from thenceforward, all our passing of the time 
was employed in beholding that window as our north, wherein had 
appeared the star of the cane. But fifteen days passed over, or we 


could descry either it or the hand again, or any other sign. And 
although in the meantime we endeavoured all that we might to know 
who dwelled in that house, or whether there were any runagate 
Christian therein, yet never a one could tell us any other things but 
that it belonged to a very rich and noble Moor, called Aguimorato, 
who had been constable of the Pata — a dignity among them of very 
great quality. 

'But when we thought least that it would rain any more zianiys 
by that way, we saw the cane suddenly to apf)ear and another linen 
hanging on it, whose bulk was much greater. And this befel when 
the bath was freed of concourse, and void, as the other time before. 
We made the accustomed trial, every one approaching it before me, 
but without efTect until I came; for presently, as I approached it, it 
was permitted to fall. I untied the knot, and found enwreathed in it 
forty ducats of Spanish gold, with a letter written in the Arabian 
tongue, and at the end thereof was drawn a very great cross. I kissed 
the cross, took up the money, and returned again to the battlements, 
and we all together made our receivers. The hand also appeared. I 
made signs that I would read the paf)er, and the window was shut 
incontinently. All of us were marvellously astonished, yet joyful at 
that which had befallen us; and by reason that none of us under- 
stood the Arabian tongue, the desire that we had to understand the 
contents of the letter was surpassing great, but greater the difficulty 
to find out some trusty persons that might read it. In the end I re- 
solved to trust in this affair a runagate of Murcia, who did profess 
himself to be my very great friend, and having, by my liberality and 
other good turns done secretly, obliged him to be secret in the affair 
wherein I would use him — for some runagates are accustomed, when 
they have an intention to return into the Christian countries, to bring 
with them testimonies of the most principal captives, wherein they 
inform, and in the amplest manner they may, how the bearer is an 
honest man, and that he hath ever done many good turns to the 
Christians, and that he hath himself a desire to escape by the first 
commodity. Some runagates there are which procure those testi- 
monies sincerely, and with a good intention; others take the benefit 
of them either by chance or industry, who, intending to go and rob 
into the countries of Christians, if by chance they be astray or taken. 


bring forth their testimonies, and say that by those papers may be 
collected the purpose wherewithal they came, that is, to remain in 
Christian countries, and that therefore they came abroad a-pirating 
with the other Turks; and by this means they escape that first brunt, 
and are reconciled again to the Church, without receiving any harm 
at all; and when they espy their time, do return again into Barbary, 
to be such as they were before. Others there are which procure those 
writings with a pure intention, and do after stay in Christian coun- 
tries. Well, this my friend was a runagate of this last kind, who had 
the testimonies of all my companions, wherein we did commend him 
as amply as we could devise. And certainly if the Moors had found 
those papers about him, they would have burnt him for it. I under- 
stand how he could speak the Arabian tongue very perfectly, and not 
only that alone, but also write it withal; yet before I would wholly 
break my mind to him, I requested him to read me that scroll which 
I had found by chance in a hole of my cabin. He opened it, and stood 
a good while beholding and construing thereof, murmuring some- 
what between his teeth. I demanded therefore of him whether he 
understood it. And he answered that he did very well, and that 
if I desired to have it translated verbatim I should bring unto him 
pen and ink, to the end he might do it more completely. We 
presently gave unto him that which he asked, and he did translate it 
by little and little; and having finished it, he said, "All that is here in 
Spanish, is punctually, without omitting a letter, the contents of the 
Moorish paper. And here you must note that where it says Lela 
Marien, it means our Lady the blessed Virgin Mary." We read the 
paper, whereof the contents were these which ensue: 

' "When I was a child, my father had a certain Christian woman 
captive, that taught me in mine own tongue all the Christian religion, 
and told me many things of Lela Marien. The Christian died, and 
I know she went not to the fire, but to Allah; for she appeared to me 
twice after her death, and bade me go to the Christian country to see 
Lela Marien, who loved me much. I know not how I may go. I 
have seen many Christians through this window, and none of them 
hath seemed to me a gentleman but thyself. I am very beautiful and 
young, and 1 have a great deal of riches to carry with me. See thou 
whether thou canst contrive the way how we may depart, and thou 


shall there be my husband, if thou pleasest; and if thou wilt not, I do 
not gready care, for Lela Marien will provide me of a husband. I 
wrote myself the billet; be therefore wary whom thou trustest to 
read it. Do not trust any Moor; for they are all of them deceitful 
traitors. It is this that grieves me most of all; for I would not have 
thee, if it were possible, to disclose the matter to any Uving body; for 
if my father did know it, he would throw me down into a well, and 
oppress me in it with stones. I will hang a thread to the end of the 
cane, and therein thou mayst tie thine answer. And if thou canst not 
write the Arabian, tell me thy mind by signs, for Lela Marien will 
make me to understand it, who, with Allah, preserve thee, and this 
cross, which I do many times kiss; for so the captive commanded 
me to do." 

'See, good sir, if it was not great reason, that the reasons compre- 
hended in this letter should recreate and astonish us. And certainly 
the one and the other was so great, as the runagate fjerceived well 
that the paper was not found by chance, but was really addressed 
unto some one of us; and therefore desired us earnestly, that if that 
were true which he suspected, that we would trust and tell it unto 
him, and he would adventure his life to procure our liberties. And 
saying this, he took out of his bosom a crucifix of metal, and pro- 
tested, with very many tears, by the God which that image repre- 
sented, in whom he, although a sinner and wicked man, did most 
firmly believe, that he would be most loyal and secret to us in all that 
which we would discover unto him; for it seemed to him, and he 
almost divined, that both himself and we all should recover our 
liberties by her means that did write the letter; and he should then 
also see himself in the state which he most desired, to wit, in the 
bosom of his mother the holy Catholic Church; from which, through 
his ignorance and sin, he was departed and divided as an unprofitable 
and corrupt member. The runagate said this with so many tears, and 
with such evident tokens of repentance, as all of us consented to open 
our minds unto him, and declare the truth of the matter; and so we 
recounted unto him the whole discourse, without concealing any cir- 
cumstance, and showed unto him the window by which the cane was 
wont to appear; and he marked the house from thence, and rested 
with special charge to inform himself well of those that dwelled 


therein. We thought also that it was requisite to answer the Moorish 
lady's letter; and therefore, having him present that could so well 
perform that task, we caused the runagate to draw out an answer 
presently as I did dilate it to him, which was punctually such as 1 
will recount; for of all the most substantial points that befel me in 
that affair, no one is fallen out of my memory, nor shall ever as long 
as I have breath. In effect that which I answered to the Moor was 

' "The true Allah preserve you, dear lady, and that blessed Marien 
who is the true mother of God, and is she that hath put in your mind 
the desire to go into the Christian countries, because she doth love 
you well. Pray unto her that she will vouchsafe to instruct you how 
you may bring the matter to pass which she commandeth you to do; 
for she is so good as she will easily condescend to do it. As for my 
part, I do promise, as well for myself as for these other Christians that 
are with me, to do for you all that we are able to do until death. Do 
not omit to write unto me, and acquaint me with your purposes, and 
I will answer you every time; for great Allah hath given us a captive 
Christian that can write and read your language well, as you may per- 
ceive by this pajier; so that you may securely, and without any dread, 
advise us of all that you shall think good. And as concerning that 
which you say, that you will become my wife after we arrive to the 
Christian countries, I do promise you the same, as I am a good Chris- 
tian; and you shall understand that the Christians do accomplish 
their words far better than do the Moors. Allah and Marien his 
mother preserve you, my dearest lady!" 

'The letter being written and enclosed, I expected two days, that 
the baths might be free of concourse, as it was wont, which as soon 
as it befel, I went up to my accustomed place of the battlements, to 
see whether the cane appeared; which was presently after thrust out 
at the window. And as soon as I perceived it, although I could not 
note who it was that set it, I showed my paper, to give them warning 
to set on the thread; but it was already hanging thereon; to the which 
I tied the letter, and within a while after began to appear our star, 
with the white flag of peace, and the knotted linen; which they let 
fall, and I took up: and I found therein, in divers sorts of money and 
gold, more than fifty ducats, which redoubled our joys more than fifty 


times, and confirmed the hope we conceived of attaining liberty. 
The very same night our runagate returned to us, and told how he 
had learned that the very same Moor which we were informed of 
before, called Aguimorato, dwelt there, and was excessive rich, and 
had one only daughter, the heir of all his goods; of whom the com- 
mon opinion throughout the city was, that she was the fairest woman 
of all Barbary; and that many of the viceroys that came there had 
demanded her to wife, but she would never condescend to any notion 
of marriage; and that he likewise had understood that she had 
sometimes a Christian captive, which now was deceased: all which 
agreed with the contents of the letter. We presently entered in council 
with the runagate about the means we were to use to fetch away the 
Moor, and come all of us to Christian lands; and in the end we 
concluded to attend, for that time, the second advice of Zoraida (for 
so was she then called, who now means to name herself Maria), 
forasmuch as we clearly perceived that it was she, and none other, 
that could minister to us the means to remove all these difficulties. 
After we had rested on this resolution, the runagate bid us be of 
good courage, for he would engage his life, or set us at liberty. Four 
days after, the baths were troubled with people, which was an 
occasion that the cane appeared not all that while; but that impedi- 
ment being removed, and the accustomed solitude returned, the cane 
did again appear, with a linen hanging thereat so grossly impregned 
as it promised to be delivered of a most happy burden. Both cane and 
linen bent themselves to me, and in them I found another paper, and 
a hundred ducats in gold, besides other small money. The runagate 
was present, and we gave him the letter to read, the effect whereof 
was this: 

' "I know not, good sir, what order to give for our going into 
Spain, nor hath Lela Marien told me anything concerning it, al- 
though I have demanded her counsel. That which at present I con- 
ceive may be done is, that I will through this window give unto 
you great store of money, wherewith you may redeem yourself and 
your friends. And let one of you go into the Christian's country and 
buy a barque, and after return for his fellows, and he shall find me 
in my father's garden, which is at the gate of Babazon, near to the 
sea-coast, where I mean to stay all the summer, with my father and 


my servants; from whence you may take me out boldly by night, 
and carry me to the barque. And see well that thou wilt be my 
husband; for if thou wilt not, I will demand of Marien to chastise 
thee: and if thou darest trust nobody to go for the vessel, redeem 
thyself and go, for I know thou wilt rather return than another, 
seeing thou art a gentleman and a Christian. Learn out the garden, 
and when I see thee walk there where thou now art, I will make 
account that the bath is empty, and will give thee great store of 
money. Allah preserve thee, my dear friend!" 

'These were the contents of the second letter, which being heard 
by us all, every one offered to be himself the ransomed person, and 
promised to go and return with all punctuality, and among the rest 
I also made a proffer of myself; to all which resolutions the runagate 
opposed himself, saying that he would consent in no wise that any 
one of us should be freed until we were all together delivered; for 
exf)erience had taught him how evil ransomed men were wont to 
keep those promises which they passed in the times of their thraldom; 
for many times certain principal captives had made that kind of 
trial, redeeming of some one or other that should go to Valencia or 
Majorca, with money to freight a barque or frigate, and return for 
him that had ransomed them, and did never return again; for the 
recovered liberty, and the fear of adventuring to lose it again con- 
curring, did blot out of their memory all the other obligations of 
the world. And to confirm the truth which he averred, he briefly 
recounted unto us an accident which befel much about the same 
time to certain Christian gentlemen, the strangest as I suppose that 
ever happened in those quarters, wherein do succeed every other 
day events full of wonder and admiration; and therefore concluded 
that what ought and might be done was, that they would give unto 
him to buy a barque such money as they meant to employ in the 
ransom of a captive, and he would buy it there in Algiers, under 
pretext of becoming a merchant and sailor in Tetuan and that coast. 
And being once owner of a barque, he would easily devise how to 
have them out of the baths and embark them all: how much more, 
if the Moorish lady did as she promised, give them money enough 
to ransom them all, was it a most easy thing, they being free, to 
embark themselves at midday. But the greatest difficulty in this 


affair was, that the Moors use not to permit any runagate to buy any 
barque or other small vessel, but only great vessels of war; for they 
suspect that he that buys a barque, specially if he be a Spaniard, 
does it for no other end but to run away to Christian countries. And 
yet he knew how to facilitate that inconvenience, by inducing a 
Tangerine Moor to become his partner of the barque and the gains 
that should be gotten by the commodities thereof, and with this 
colour he would become lord of it himself, and therewithal accounted 
the matter ended. And although that myself and my comrades held 
it the better course to send unto Mallorca for one, as the Moorish 
lady said, yet durst we not contradict him, fearful that if we did not 
what he would have us to do he would discover us and endanger our 
Uves, if he did once detect Zoraida's practices, for the safeguard of 
whose life we would all of us most willingly adventure our own; 
and therefore we determined to put ourselves into God's and the 
runagate's hands. And so we answered at the same instant to 
Zoraida, telling her that we would accomplish all that she had 
admonished us, because she had advertised us as well as if Lela 
Marien had told her what she should say, and that the dilating or 
shortening of the affair did consist only in herself. 1 did offer myself 
anew to become her husband; and with this the day ensuing wherein 
the bath was also free, she sent me down at divers times by the cane 
two thousand ducats and a letter, wherein she said that she would 
go to her father's garden the next Juma, that is, the Friday following, 
and that before she went away she would give us more money; 
and that if it were not enough, we should advise her, and she would 
give unto us as much as we would demand; for her father had so 
much treasure as he would never perceive it; how much more, 
seeing she had and kept the keys of all. We gave five hundred 
crowns presently to the runagate to buy a barque, and with eight 
hundred I redeemed myself, giving the money to a Valencian mer- 
chant which was at that season in Algiers, who did ransom me of 
the king, taking me forth on his word, which he passed to pay my 
ransom at the arrival of the first ship that should come from Valen- 
cia; for if he had delivered the money instantly, it would have 
given occasion to the king to suspect that my ransom was many 
days before in Algiers, and that the merchant had kept it silently 


to make his benefit thereof. Finally, my master was so cavillous as 
I durst not in any wise pay him presently. 

'The Thursday before the Friday of the beautiful Zoraida's de- 
parture towards the garden, she gave unto us other two thousand 
ducats, and did likewise advise us of her going away, entreating me, 
that as soon as I had ransomed myself, 1 should learn the way to 
the garden, and take occasion howsoever to go to it, and see her. 
I answered her briefly that I would do so, and prayed her that she 
would carefully commend our proceedings to Lela Marien with 
those prayers which the captive had taught her. This being done, 
order was also given for the ransoming of my three companions to 
facihtate our issue out of the baths, and also that they seeing me 
free, and themselves undelivered, might not be troubled or per- 
suaded by the devil to do anything in prejudice of Zoraida; for 
although that they, being the men of that quality they were, might 
assure me from this fear, I would not, for all that, adventure the 
matter; and therefore I caused them to be ransomed by the same 
means that I was redeemed myself, giving all the money to the mer- 
chant, that he might with the more security pass his word for us; 
to whom yet we never did discover our practice and secret, by reason 
of the eminent danger of the discovery thereof.' 


Wherein the Captive Prosecuteth the Pleasant 
Narration of His Life 

« ■ "^ IFTEEN days were not fully expired when the runagate had 
1—^ bought him a very good barque, able to hold thirty persons 
A. or more; and for the better colour and assurance of his busi- 
ness; he made a voyage to a place called Sargel, which is thirty 
leagues distant from Algiers towards the side of Oran, and is a 
great place of traffic for dry figs. He made this voyage twice or 
thrice in company with the Tagarine of whom we made mention; 
and the name of Tagarino is in Barbary given to the Moors of 
Aragon, Granada, and Mudajares. And in the kingdom of Fez 
those Mudajares are called Elches, and are the nation which that 
king doth most employ in warlike affairs. You shall therefore under- 
stand that every time he passed by with his barque, he did cast 
anchor in a little creek, twice the shot of a crossbow from the 
garden wherein Zoraida attended; and there the runagate would, 
in very good earnest, exercise himself with the Moors that rowed, 
either to fly, or else to assault one another in jest, as he meant to do 
after in good earnest; and would now and then go to Zoraida's 
garden and demand fruits, which her father would bestow upon 
him, without knowing what he was; and although he desired to 
have spoken with Zoraida, as he told me afterward himself, and 
have informed her how it was he that was to carry her away, by 
my direction, into the land of Christians, and that she should there- 
fore live cheerful and secure, yet was it never possible, forasmuch 
as the women of that nation do not suffer themselves to be viewed 
by any Moor or Turk, if he be not their husband, or that their 
parents command them, yet do they haunt and communicate them- 
selves to Christian captives freely, and that sometimes more than is 
convenient. And truly it would have grieved me that he should 
have spoken to her, for perhaps it would have perplexed her extraor- 
dinarily, to see her affair committed to the trust of a runagate; 



but God, who did otherwise dispose it, did not concur with this 
good desire of our runagate, who, seeing how safely he went and 
returned from Sargel, and that he sounded when and where he 
pleased, and that the Tagarino, his partner, did only what he liked, 
and that I was ransomed, and nothing else wanting but to find out 
some Christian that would row, he bade me bethink myself what 
men I would bring away with me beside those that I had ransomed, 
and that I should warn them to be ready against the next Friday, 
wherein he was resolved that we should depart. 

'Seeing this, I spake to twelve Spaniards, very lusty rowers, and 
those that could with most liberty get out of the city; and it was 
not a little matter to find so many there at that time, for there were 
twenty galleys abroad a-robbing, which had carried all the other 
rowers with them, and these were left behind, because their master 
did keep at home that summer to finish a galley that was on the 
stocks a-making. To these I said nothing else, but only warned them 
that the Friday ensuing, in the evening, they should closely steal 
out by one and one, and go towards Aguimorato's garden, and 
there expect me until I came unto them. I gave this advice to every 
one of them apart, with order also, that although they saw any 
other Christian there, they should tell them nothing else but that I 
had commanded them to expect me in that place. 

'This diligence being used, yet wanted there another, which was 
the most expedient of all, to wit, to advise Zoraida of the terms 
wherein our affairs did stand, to the end she might be likewise ready 
and prepared, and not affrighted, though we did assault her before 
the time that she could imagine the barque of the Christians to be 
come to fetch her; and therefore I resolved to go myself into the 
garden, and see whether I might speak with her. And taking the 
occasion to go and gather some herbs, I went unto it the day before 
our departure, and the first person with whom I encountered was 
her father, who demanded of me, in a language which in all Bar- 
bary and Constantinople is usually spoken by the Moors to their 
captives, and is neither Arabian, Spanish, nor of any other nation, 
but rather a mixture of all languages, wherewith all of us under- 
stand one another: he, I say, in that kind of speech, demanded of 
me what I sought for in that his garden, and to whom I did belong. 


I answered that I was one Arnaute Mami his slave (and this because 
I was very certainly informed that he was his entire friend), and 
that I came thither to gather of all sorts of herbs to make a salad. 
He consequently asked of me whether I was a man of ransom or 
no, and how much my master demanded for me. And being in 
those questions and demands, the beautiful Zoraida descended from 
the house into the garden, who had espied me a good while before. 
And as the Moorish women do not greatly estrange themselves from 
the sights of Christians, nor are in their behaviour or conversation 
with them anything squeamish, as we have said already, she did not 
greatly fear to approach the place where her father talked with me, 
but rather her father perceiving that she came on slowly, did call, 
and commanded her to draw near. 

'It were a thing impossible for me to recount the great beauty and 
gallant disposition, or the bravery and riches of attire wherein my 
beloved Zoraida then showed herself to mine eyes. I will only say 
this, that there hung more pearls at her ears, superlative fair neck, 
and hair, than she hath hairs on her head; about the wrists of her 
legs, which were naked, after the manner of her country, she wore 
two carcaxes (for so the manacles or bracelets of the feet are called 
in the Moresco tongue) of the finest gold, wherein were enchased so 
many diamonds, that, as she told me after, her father valued them 
at twenty thousand crowns; and those about the wrists of her hands 
were of equal esteem. Her p)earls were many, and those most orient; 
for all the chief bravery and ornament of the Moorish ladies consists 
in the adorning of themselves with f)earls and pearl-seed, by reason 
whereof there is more pearls and pearl-seed to be found among the 
Moors than among all other nations of the world. And Zoraida's 
father had the fame to have many, and those the very best that 
were in Algiers; and also above two hundred thousand ducats of 
Spanish gold, of all which was she the lady who now is mine. And 
if with all this ornament she could then seem fair, by the relics that 
have remained unto her among so many labours, may be easily 
guessed what she would have been in the time of prosperity; for all of 
us do know that the beauty of some women hath limited days and 
seasons, and requireth certain accidents either to diminish or in- 
crease it; and it is a thing natural to the passions of the mind, either 


to raise or abase it, but most commonly they wholly destroy it. To 
be brief, I say that she arrived to the place where we discoursed at 
that time, most richly attired, and beautiful beyond measure, or I 
at least deemed her the fairest that 1 had ever beheld until then; 
and herewithal, remembering the obligation wherein she had tied 
me, thought that some deity had presented itself to my view, being 
come from heaven to the earth for my recreation and relief. 

'As soon as she was arrived, her father told her in her own lan- 
guage how I was his friend Arnaute Mami his captive, and that I 
came there to gather a salad; then she, taking the speech, demanded 
in that medley of tongues of which I have spoken, whether I was 
a gentleman, and what the reason was why I redeemed not myself. 
I made answer that I was already ransomed, and by the ransom 
might be conjectured in how much my master valued me, seeing he 
had for my liberty a thousand and five hundred coltamis. To this 
she answered, "In good sooth, if thou wert my father's, I would 
cause him not to give thee for twice as much more; for you Chris- 
tians are great liars, and do make every one of yourselves poor men, 
to defraud the Moors of their due ransom." "It may well be so, 
madam," quoth I; "but I have, for my part, used all truth in this 
affair with my master, and do, and will use truth with as many 
persons as I shall ever have occasion to treat with in this world." 

'"And when dost thou go away?" quoth Zoraida. "To-morrow, 
as I believe," quoth I; "for there is a French vessel here which sets 
forth to-morrow, and I mean to depart in her." "Were it not better," 
replied Zoraida, "to expect until vessels come out of Spain, and go 
away with them, than with those of France, which are not your 
friends?" "No," quoth I; "although if it were true, as the news runs, 
that there comes a vessel from Spain, I would attend it; but yet it 
is more certain that I shall depart to-morrow; for the desire I have 
to see myself at home in my country, and with those persons whom 
I love, is so great as it will not permit me to expect any other com- 
modity that foreslows itself, be it never so good." "Thou art doubt- 
lessly married in thy country," said Zoraida, "and therefore desirest 
to go see thy wife?" "I am not married," quoth I; "but I have 
passed my word to marry as soon as I am there safely arrived." 
"And is she beautiful to whom thou hast passed it?" quoth Zoraida. 


"So beautiful," said I, "as, to endear it and tell you the truth, she is 
very like unto yourself." Hereat her father laughed very heartily, 
and said, "In good earnest. Christian, she must be very fair that may 
compare with my daughter, who is the most beautiful of all this 
kingdom; and if thou wilt not believe me, look on her well, and 
thou shalt see that I tell thee but the truth." He himself, as most 
perfect in the tongue, did serve for the interpreter of most of our 
speeches: for although she could speak that illegitimate language 
which is there in use, yet did she manifest her mind more by signs 
than by words. 

'Whilst thus we reasoned of many matters, there came running 
towards us a certain Moor, and told his master how four Turks had 
leaped over the garden walls, and were gathering the fruits, al- 
though they were not yet ripe. The old man and his daughter 
Zoraida started hereat; for it is an universal and natural defect in 
the Moors to fear the Turks, but specially the soldiers of that nation, 
who are commonly so insolent, and have such command over the 
Moors that are their subjects, as they do use them worse than if 
they were their slaves. Therefore Zoraida's father said unto her, 
"Daughter, retire thyself into the house, and keep thyself in, whilst 
I go speak to those dogs. And thou. Christian, go and seek out thine 
herbs, and depart in a good hour; and I pray Allah to conduct thee 
safely to thy country." I inclined myself to him, and he departed 
to search out the Turks, leaving me alone with Zoraida, who began 
to make ado as if she went whither her father had commanded her. 
But scarce was he covered among the trees of the garden, when she 
returned to me, with her eyes full of tears, and said, "Amexi, 
Christiano? amexi?" that is, "Goest thou away. Christian? Goest 
thou away?" I answered, "Yes, lady, that I do; but I will never 
depart without thee. Expect me the next Friday, and be not 
affrighted when thou shalt see us; for we will go to the Christian 
country then without all doubt." This I said to her in such sort as 
she understood all my words very well; and, casting her arm over 
my neck, she began to travel with languishing steps towards the 
house; and fortune would (which might have been very ill, if 
Heaven had not rectified it) that as we walked together in that 
manner and form, her father (who did by this return, after he had 


caused the Turks to depart) espied us; and we saw also very well 
how he had perceived us; wherefore Zoraida, who is very discreet, 
would not take away her arm from my neck, but rather drew nearer 
unto me, and laid her head on my breast, and bowed her knees a 
little, with evident token that she swooned; and I hkewise made as 
though I did sustain her up by force. Her father came running over 
towards us, and, seeing his daughter in that state, demanded the 
cause of her; but seeing she made no answer, he himself said, "She 
doubtlessly is dismayed by the sudden affright she took at the en- 
trance of those dogs"; and, taking her away from me, he bowed her 
to his own breast; and she, breathing out a sigh, with her eyes yet 
full of tears, said again, "Amexi, Christiano, amexi," — "Go away. 
Christian; go away." To which her father replied, "There is no 
cause, daughter, why the Christian should go away; for he hath 
done thee no harm, and the Turks are already departed." "Sir, they 
have affrighted her," quoth I, "as you have said; but yet since she 
hath commanded me to go away, I will not offend her; therefore, 
rest in peace; for I will return, if it please you to give me leave, for 
herbs to this garden when it is needful; for my master says none 
better are to be found for salads in any garden than you have in 
this." "Come as oft as thou wilt," said Aguimorato; "for my daughter 
says not this in respect that thou or any other Christian hath offended 
her, but that, meaning to say that the Turks should go away, she 
bade thee to depart, or else she spake it because it is time for thee to 
gather thine herbs." 

'With this I took leave of both, and she seemed at the instant of 
my departure to have had her heart torn away from her as she 
departed with her father; and I, under colour of seeking herbs, went 
about all the garden at my leisure, and viewed all the sallies and the 
entrances thereof, the strength of the house, and the commodities 
that might be offered to facilitate our enterprise. This being done, 
I came home, and made a relation to the runagate and my other 
fellows of all that had passed, and did long infinitely to see the hour 
wherein I might, without any affright or danger, possess that happi- 
ness which fortune, in the fair and lovely Zoraida, offered unto me. 
In fine, the time passed over, and the so much desired day and term 
arrived; and, every one of us following the order which, with 


mature consideration and long discourse, we had agreed on, we 
found the good success we desired; for the very Friday following 
the day wherein I had spoken with Zoraida in the garden, Morenago 
(for so was the runagate called) near night cast anchor almost right 
before the place wherein the beautiful /ioraida remained. The Chris- 
tians, also, that were to row were ready, and hidden in sundry places 
thereabouts. All were suspended, and resolutely expected my com- 
ing, desirous to set upon the barque that was before their face; 
for they knew not of the agreement that was between me and the 
runagate, but rather made full account that they were to gain their 
liberty by force of arms, and killing the Moors that came in that 

'It therefore befel that, as soon as I and my fellows appeared, all 
the rest that were hidden, espied us, made forthwith over towards 
us. This was at an hour when the city gates were shut, and never 
a body abroad among all those fields. And when we were all to- 
gether, we were in doubt whether it would be best first to go and 
fetch Zoraida, or to imprison and stone the Taragin Moors that 
rowed in the frigate. And being in this doubt, the runagate came 
to us, asking upon what we stayed, for it was now high time to be 
going away, and all his Moors were reccheless, and the greater 
number of them asleep. We told him then the cause of our stay. 
And he answered that it was of most importance first to subject 
the vessel, which might be done with very great facility, and without 
any peril; and that we might go after for Zoraida. His opinion liked 
us all very well; and therefore, without lingering any longer, he 
leading the way, we came to the vessel, and he himself leaping in 
first of all, set hand to his falchion, and said in Moresco, "Let none 
of you that is here stir himself, if he loves his life." And saying so, 
all the rest of the Christians entered. The Moors, which were of 
little spirit, hearing their master say so, were marvellously amazed, 
and, without daring any one of them to set hand to their arms, 
which were but a few at all, they suffered themselves very quietly 
to be taken and bound by the Christians, which did it very dexter- 
ously, threatening them that if they did let slip the least outcry, they 
should presently be all put to the sword. This being finished, and 
the half of our people remaining in their guard, we that were left, 


conducted also by the runagate, went towards Aguimorato's garden. 
The door thereof did, by very good hap, open with as httle noise as 
if it had had no lock at all; whereupon we went with great quiet- 
ness and silence towards the house, unseen or espied of any. 

'The beautiful iioraida was the while expecting us at a window, 
and as soon as she saw people approach, demanded, with a low voice, 
whether we were Nazarenes, as if she would say or ask whether we 
were Christians. I answered that we were, and willed her to come 
down. As soon as she knew me, she stayed not a minute, but with- 
out answering any word came down in an instant, and, ofjening the 
door, showed herself to us all, more beautiful and richly attired than 
I am able in any sort to express. As soon as I saw her, I took her 
by the hand and kissed it; the same did the runagate, and my two 
comrades; and all the rest, which knew not the matter, did as they 
had seen us do before them; for it seemed that we did no more but 
give her thanks, and acknowledge her the auctress of all our liberties. 
The runagate demanded of her, in her own language, whether her 
father were in the garden or no. She answered that he was, and 
that he slept. "Then will it be requisite," quoth the runagate, "to 
rouse him, and bear him and all the other things of worth in this 
garden away with us." "That shall not be so," quoth she; "for I 
will have no man to touch my father; and in this house there is 
nothing of value, but that which I mean to carry away with myself, 
which is so much as will be sufHcient to cheer and enrich you all; as, 
if you will stay but a while, you shall perceive." 

'And saying so, she entered again into the house, promising to 
return to us speedily, and bade us stand still without making any 
noise. I demanded of the runagate what speech had passed between 
them, and he told me all she had said; and I answered him again, 
that I would not have Zoraida's will transgressed in any sort. By 
this time she returned laden with a little casket full of gold, so that 
she was scarce able to bear it. And her father, in the mean season, 
by bad fortune, awaked, and heard the noise that was beneath in 
his garden; and, looking out at a window, he perceived that they 
were all Christians that were in it, and therefore cried out, in a loud 
and unmeasurable manner, in the Arabian tongue, "Christians, 
Christians! thieves, thieves!" by which cries we were all of us 


strucken into very great fear and confusion. But the runagate, see- 
ing the {jeril wherein we were, and how nearly it concerned him to 
come off from that enterprise before he were discovered, ran up 
very sp)eedily to the place where Aguimorato stood, and some of our 
fellows accompanied him (for I durst not abandon Zoraida, who 
had fallen between mine arms all amazed) ; and in conclusion, those 
which had mounted, behaved themselves so well, as they brought 
Aguimorato down in a trice, having tied his hands, and set a gag 
in his mouth, which hindered his speech, threatening him that if 
he did speak but a word it should cost him his life. 

'When his daughter saw him she covered her eyes, because she 
would not behold him; and he marvelled, wholly ignoring with 
how good a will she came away with us. But then, considering that 
nothing was so requisite as our legs, we did with all velocity and 
dihgence get into the frigate; for our companions did perplexedly 
expect our return, half afraid that some disgrace had befallen us. 
Scarce were two hours of the night overrun, when we were all 
embarked; and then we unmanacled Zoraida's father's hands, and 
took the cloth out of his mouth. But the runagate did again admon- 
ish him that, as he tendered his life, he should not speak one word. 
He, beholding his daughter likewise there, began to sigh very feel- 
ingly, but chiefly perceiving me to hold her so straitly embraced, and 
that she made no resistance, nor did complain or seem coy, but 
stood quiet; but yet for all that he kept silence, fearing lest they 
should put the runagate's menaces in execution. Zoraida, seeing 
herself now safe within the barque, and that we were ready to row 
away, looking on her father and the other Moors that were tied 
therein, she entreated the runagate to tell me how she desired me 
to do her the favour to set those Moors and her father at liberty; 
for she would rather cast herself into the sea than see her father, 
who had loved her so dearly, carried away captive before her eyes, 
and that also by her occasion. The runagate told me her mind, and 
I answered how I was very well pleased it should be so. But he 
replied that it was in no sort expedient, by reason that if they were 
landed there, they would presently raise the country and put the 
whole city into a tumult, and cause certain light frigates to be 
manned and sent out in our pursuit, and lay both sea and land 

THE captive's STORY 413 

for us in such sort as it would be impossible for us to escape; but 
what was at the present possible to be done, was to give them liberty 
at the first Christian country whereat we happened to arrive. 

'All of us agreed to this opinion; and Zoraida also (to whom 
reason was given of the motives we had, not to free them forthwith, 
and accomplish her will therein) remained satisfied; and there- 
fore presently, with joyful silence and cheerful diligence, every one 
of our lusty rowers seizing uf)on his oar, we began, after we had com- 
mended ourselves unto Almighty God, to launch forth, and address 
our course towards the isles of Mallorca, which is the nearest Chris- 
tian country; but by reason that the wind blew somewhat from the 
mountains, and that the sea began to be rough, it was not possible 
to continue that course, and so we were forced to approach the 
shore, and go by little and little towards Oran, not without great 
grief and anguish, for fear to be espied by the town of Sargel, which 
is on that coast, and falls some seventy leagues beyond Algiers. And 
we did likewise fear to meet in that passage some galliot of those 
which come ordinarily with merchandise from Tetuan, although 
every one of us for himself, and for all together, did presume that 
if we encountered a galliot of merchandise, so it were not a pirate, 
that not only we would not be lost, but rather would take the vessel, 
that therein we might with more security finish our voyage. Zoraida, 
whilst thus we sailed, went with her head between my hands, be- 
cause she would not look on her father; and I felt her, how she was 
still invoking of Lela Marien to assist us. And having sailed about 
some thirty leagues, the morning overtook us about some three 
musket-shot from land, in a place that seemed to be desert, and free 
from all access of those that might discover us; and yet for all that, 
we got by might and main somewhat farther into the seas that now 
was become a little calmer; and having entered some two leagues 
into the main, order was given that they should row by turns, whilst 
they did refresh themselves, and take a little sustenance, for the 
barque was very well furnished with victuals, although those which 
did row refused the offer, saying that then it was no time to repose, 
and that they should set those that did not row to dinner, for they 
would not yet in any sort let go their oars. It being done as they 
had said, the wind did rise so much as it made us, abandoning our 


oars, to set sail, and direct our boat towards Oran, being unable to 
take any other course. All was done with very great speed; and 
so we made by the sail more than eight miles an hour, free from 
all other fear than that of encountering some vessel of war. We 
gave the Moors, our prisoners, their dinner, and the runagate com- 
forted them, saying that they went not as prisoners, for they should 
receive their liberty upon the first commodity that were proffered. 
The same was likewise said of Zoraida's father, who returned them 
this answer: "I would easily expect and believe any other thing, 
O Christians, o£ your liberality and honourable manner of proceed- 
ing; but do not think that I am so simple as once to imagine that 
you will give me my hberty, for you did never expose yourself to 
the danger of despoiling me thereof with intention to return it me 
so prodigally again, especially knowing, as you do, who I am, and 
the profit you may reap by giving me it again, to which profit, if 
you will put a name, and tell me how much would you demand, I 
do even from hence offer unto you all that which you will seek for 
me, and for that unfortunate daughter of mine; or if you will not 
deliver me, I will give you it for her alone, who is the greatest and 
the best part of my soul." And saying so, he began to weep so bitterly 
as he moved us all to compassion, and forced Zoraida to look upon 
him, who, seeing him weep, was so strangely moved as, arising from 
my feet, she went and embraced her father; and, laying her face 
upon his, they began together so tender a lamentation as many of 
us that were in the barque were forced to keep them company. But 
when her father noted her to be so richly adorned, and with so 
many jewels on, he asked her in his own language, "How haps 
this, daughter, that yesternight late, before this terrible disaster befel 
us wherein we are plunged, I saw thee attired in thine ordinary 
household array, and that now, without having had any leisure to 
apparel thyself, or having given thee any glad tidings, for whose 
solemnising thou oughtest to adorn and publish thyself, I do view 
thee thus clad in the richest attire which I could bestow upon thee 
when our fortune was most favourable? Answer me to this, for 
thou hast suspended and astonished me more than the very dis- 
grace its^f wherein I am." 
'AH that the Moor said to his daughter the runagate declared unto 


us; and she did not answer a word to him. But when he saw the 
httle coffer lie at one side of the barque, wherein she was wont to 
keep her jewels, and that he knew very well he had left at Algiers, 
and not brought to the garden, he was much more amazed, and 
demanded of her how that coffer was come into our jxjssession, and 
what things she had there within it. To which the runagate, with- 
out attending that 2^raida should answer him, said, "Sir, do not 
trouble yourself by demanding so many things of your daughter 
z^raida, for with one that I will say I shall satisfy them all; and 
therefore you shall understand that she is a Christian, and hath 
been the file that cut off our chains, and is the liberty itself of our 
captivity; and she goeth along with us of her own free will, as 
content (if mine imagination do not wrong me) to see herself in 
this state, as he is that cometh out of darkness to the light, from 
death unto life, and out of pain into glory." "Is it true, daughter, 
which this man says.''" quoth the Moor. "It is," answered Zoraida, 
"That thou in effect art a Christian," replied the old man, "and she 
that hath put her father into his enemy's hands?" To which Zo- 
raida answered, "I am she that is a Christian, but not she that hath 
brought thee to this pass; for my desire did never so estrange itself 
from thee as to abandon or harm thee, but only endeavoured to do 
myself good." "And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?" 
"Demand that," said she, "of Lela Marien, for she can therein in- 
form thee better than I can." 

'Scarce had the Moor heard her say so, when, with incredible 
haste, he threw himself headlong into the sea, wherein he had been 
questionlessly drowned, if the long apparel he wore on had not kept 
him up a while above the water. Zoraida cried out to us to save 
him; and so we all presently ran, and, laying hold on a part of his 
Turkish robe, drew him up half drowned, and wholly devoid of feel- 
ing; whereat Zoraida was so grieved, that she lamented him as dole- 
fully as if he had been dead. There we laid him with his mouth 
downward, and he avoided a great quantity of water, and after the 
space of two hours returned to himself again. And in the meantime, 
the wind also turning, it did drive us towards the coast, so that we 
were constrained to keep ourselves by very force of arms from strik- 
ing upon it; and our good fortune directing us, we arrived to a little 


creek at the side o£ a certain cape or promontory, called by the 
Moors the Cape of the Cava Rumia, which in our language signifies 
"the ill Christian woman." And the Moors hold it for a tradition, 
that in the very same place was the Cava buried, for whom Spain 
was lost, and conquered by the Moors; for Cava in their lan- 
guage signifies an ill woman, and Rumia a Christian, Yea, and 
they hold it for a sign of misfortune to arrive or cast anchor there, 
when mere necessity drives them thither, without which they never 
approach it: yet did it not prove to us the shelter of an ill woman, 
but the secure haven of our safety. We sent our sentinels ashore, 
and never let the oars slip out of our hands. We did likewise eat 
of the runagate's provision, and heartily besought Almighty God 
and Our Lady to assist and favour us with a happy end to so lucky 
a beginning. And we agreed, upon Zoraida's entreaty, to set her 
father and the other Moors that we had tied a-land in that place; 
for she was of so tender and compassionate a mind as she could 
in no wise brook to see her father tied in her presence, or her 
countrymen borne away captives. Wherefore we made her a promise 
that we would, at our departure, let them all go away, seeing we 
incurred no danger by leaving them in so desolate a region. Our 
prayers were not so vain but that they found gentle acceptance in 
Heaven, which presently changed the wind and appeased the sea, 
inviting us cheerfully to return to it again, and prosecute our com- 
menced voyage. 

'Seeing that the weather was favourable, we loosed the Moors, 
and set them all a-land one by one; and coming to disembark 
Zoraida's father, who was by that time wholly come to himself, he 
said, "For what do you conjecture. Christians, that this bad woman 
is glad that you give me liberty? Do you think that she doth it for 
pity that she takes of me? No, truly; but she doth it only to remove 
the hindrance my presence gave her when she would execute her 
unlawful desires. Nor ought you to believe that she is moved to 
change reUgion by reason that she understands yours to be better 
than her own, but only because she knows licentiousness to be more 
publicly and freely practised in your country than among us." And 
then, turning to Zoraida, whom I and another Christian held fast 
by both the arms, lest she should do some desperate fact, he said, 


"O infamous girl, and ill-advised maiden! where dost thou run 
thus blinded and distracted, in the power of those dogs, our natural 
enemies? Cursed be the hour wherein I engendered thee! and 
cursed the delights and pleasures wherein thou wast nousled!" I 
perceiving that he was not like to make an end of his execrations so 
soon as I could wish, had him set on shore, and thence he prosecuted 
his maledictions and plaints, praying unto Mahomet that he would 
intercede with Allah that we might be all destroyed, confounded, 
and cast away. And when we could hear his words no longer, by 
reason that we set sail, we perceived his works, that were, to pluck 
his beard, tear his hair, and cast himself on the ground; but once he 
did lift up his voice so high, as that we heard him say, "Return, 
beloved daughter, return to the land; for I do pardon thee all that 
thou hast done: and deliver that money to those men, for it is now 
their own; and return thou to comfort thy sad and desolate father, 
who will forsake his life on these desolate sands, if thou dost 
abandon him." 

'Zoraida heard him say all this, and lamented thereat, but knew 
not how to speak, or answer him any other thing but this: "Father 
mine, I pray Allah that Lela Marien, who hath been the cause of 
my becoming a Christian, may likewise comfort thee in thy sorrow. 
Allah knows well that I could do none other than I did, and that 
these Christians do owe me nothing for my good-will, seeing that 
though I had not come away with them, but remained at my house, 
yet had it been impossible (such was the haste wherewithal my soul 
pressed me) not to have executed this my purpose, which seems to 
me to be as good as thou, O beloved father, dost account it wicked." 
She said this in a time that neither her father could hear her, nor 
we behold him; and therefore, after I had comforted Zoraida, we 
did thenceforth only attend our voyage, which was so much holpen 
by the favourable wind as we made full account to be the next day 
on the coast of Spain. But as good very seldom, or rather never, 
betides a man thoroughly and wholly, without being accompanied 
or followed by some evil which troubles and assaults it, our fortune 
would, or rather the maledictions of the Moor poured on his 
daughter (for the curses of any father whatsoever are to be feared), 
that being engulfed three hours within night, and going before the 


wind with a full sail, and our oars set up, because the prosperous 
wind had rid us of the labour of rowing, we saw near unto us, by 
the light of the moon that shined very clearly, a round vessel which, 
with all her sails spread, did cross before us into the sea, and that 
so nearly, as we were fain to strike down our sail, that we might 
avoid the shock she was like to give us; and those that were in her 
had on the other side laboured also what they might to turn her 
out of our way, standing all of them on the hatches to demand of 
us what we were, from whence we came, and whither we did saiL 
But by reason that they spake French, the runagate bade us not to 
speak a word, saying, "Let none answer; for these are French 
pirates, which make their booty of everybody." For this cause none 
of us answered; and, being passed a little forward, and that the ship 
remained in the lee of us, they suddenly shot off two pieces of 
artillery, and as I think, both of them had chain bullets, for with 
the one they cut our mast asunder, and overthrew it and the sail into 
the sea, and instantly after they discharged another. The bullet 
alighting in our barque, did pierce it through and through, without 
doing any other hurt; but we, seeing that our vessel began to sink, 
began all to cry out, and request them to succour us, and prayed 
them that they would take us into their vessel, for we were a-drown- 
ing. Then they came amain, and, casting out their cock-boat, there 
entered into it as good as a dozen Frenchmen, well appointed, with 
their arquebuses and matches lighted, and so approached unto us; 
and, perceiving how few we were, and that the barque did sink, 
they received us into their boat, saying, that because we had used 
the discourtesy of not making them answer, that misfortune had 
befallen us. Our runagate about this time took the coffer wherein 
Zoraida's treasures were kept, and threw it into the sea, unperceived 
of any, 

'In conclusion, we went all of us into the great vessel with the 
Frenchmen, who, after they had informed themselves of all that 
which they desired to know, as if they were oiu" capital enemies, 
they afterwards desfX)iled us of all that ever we had about us; and 
of Zoraida they took all, even unto her very bracelets that she wore 
on her ankles. But the wrong they did to Zoraida did not afflict 
me so much as the fear I conceived that, after they had taken away 


from her her most rich and precious jewels, they would also de- 
prive her of the jewel of most prize, and which she valued most. 
But the desires of that nation extend themselves no further than to 
the gain of money; and their avarice in this is never thoroughly 
satisfied, and at that time was so great, as they would have taken 
from us the very habits of slaves that we brought from Barbary, if 
they had found them to have been worth anything. And some there 
were of opinion among them, that we should be all enwreathed in 
a sail and thrown into the sea, because they had intention to traffic 
into some havens of Spain, under the name of Britons, and that if 
they carried us alive, they should be punished, their robbery being 
detected; but the captain, who was he that had pilled my beloved 
Zoraida, said that he was so contented with his booty, as he meant 
not to touch any part of Spain, but would pass the Straits of Gibraltar 
by night, or as he might, and so return again to Rochelle, from 
whence he was come: and thereupon they all agreed to give us their 
cock-boat, and all that was necessary for our short voyage; as, indeed, 
they performed the day ensuing, when we were in the view of 
Spain; with the sight whereof all our griefs and poverties were as 
quite forgotten as if we never had felt any, so great is the delight a 
man takes to recover his liberty. It was about mid-day when they 
put us into the cock, giving unto us two barrels of water and some 
biscuit; and the captain, moved with some compassion, as the 
beautiful Zoraida embarked herself, bestowed on her about forty 
crowns in gold; nor would he permit his soldiers to despoil her 
of these very garments which then and now she doth wear. 

'We entered into the cock-boat, and, giving them thanks for the 
good they did, and showing at our departure more tokens of thank- 
fulness than of discontent, they sailed presently away from us, 
towards the Straits; and we, without looking on any other north or 
star than the land itself, which appeared before us, did row towards 
it so lustily, that at sunset we were so near as we made full account 
to arrive before the night was far spent. But by reason that the 
moon did not shine, and the night was very dark, and that we 
knew not where we were, we did not hold it the best course to 
approach the shore too near; yet others there were that thought it 
convenient and good, desiring that we should make to it, although 


we ran the boat on the rocks, and far from any dwelling; for, by 
doing so, we should free ourselves from the fear, which we ought 
of reason to have, lest there should be up and down on that coast 
any frigates of the pirates of Tetuan, which are wont to leave Bar- 
bary overnight, and be on the coast of Spain ere morning, and 
ordinarily make their booty, and turn to their supp)er again to Bar- 
bary, the night following; but, of the contrary opinions, that which 
was followed was, that we should draw near the land by little and 
little, and that if the quietness of the sea would permit it, we should 
take land where we might best and most commodiously do it. This 
was done; and a little before midnight we arrived to the foot of a 
high and monstrous mountain, which was not altogether so near to 
the sea but that it did grant a little patch of ground whereon we might 
commodiously disembark; wherefore we ran ourselves on the sands, 
and came all a-land, and kissed the earth, and, with tears of most 
joyful content and delight, gave thanks unto our Lord God for 
the incomparable favours which He had done us in our voyage. 
Then took we out our victuals from the boat, and drew itself up 
on the shore, and ascended a great part of the mountain; for 
although we were in that place, yet durst we not assure ourselves, 
nor did thoroughly believe, that it was a Christian country whereon 
we did tread. 

'The day breaking somewhat slower than I could have wished it, 
we ascended the mountain wholly, to see whether we might dis- 
cover any dwelling or sheepfolds from thence; but although we 
extended our sight into every quarter, yet could we neither decry 
dwelling, person, path, nor highway; yet did we resolve, notwith- 
standing, to enter into the land, seeing that we could not choose 
but discover ere long somebody who might give us notice of the 
place where we were. And that which afflicted me most of all was 
to see Zoraida go afoot through those rugged places; for although 
I did sometimes carry her on my shoulders, yet did the toil I took 
more weary her than the repose she got could ease her, and there- 
fore would never after the first time suffer me to take that pains 
again, and so she went ever after afoot with great patience and tokens 
of joy, I holding her still by the hand. And having travelled little less 
than a quarter of a league, we heard the noise of a litde bell, an 


infallible argument that near at hand there was some cattle; where- 
upon, all of us looking very wistly to see whether anybody appeared, 
perceived under a cork tree a young shepherd, who very quietly and 
carelessly was carving of a stick with a knife. We called to him, and 
he leaped up lightly on foot, and, as we afterwards learned, the first 
that he got sight of were the runagate and Zoraida; whom he 
seeing apparelled in the Moresco habit, thought that all the people 
of Barbary had been at his heels; and therefore, running very swifdy 
into the wood, he cried all along, with marvellous loudness, "Moors! 
Moors are in the land! Moors! Moors! Arm! arm!" These outcries 
struck us anew into a great perplexity, and scarce did we know what 
we should do; but considering how the shepherd's alarm would 
cause all the country to rise up, and that the horsemen that kept 
the coast would presently come to see what it was, we all agreed 
that the runagate should put off his Turkish attire, and put on a 
captive's cassock, which one of the company gave unto him forth- 
with, although the giver remained after in his shirt. And thus 
committing the affair unto Almighty God, we followed on by the 
same way which we saw the shepherd had taken, always expecting 
when the horsemen of the coast would fall upon us. And we were 
not deceived in our exfsectation, for within two hours after, having 
issued out of those woods into a plain, we discovered about some 
fifty horsemen, which came running towards us as swiftly as their 
horses could drive; and, having perceived them, we stood still, and 
stayed until they came to us, and saw instead of the Moors they 
sought for, so many poor Christians, and remained somewhat 
ashamed thereat; and one of them demanded whether we were 
the occasion that a shepherd had given the alarm. "Yes," quoth I; 
and as I was about to inform what I was, and of all our adventure, 
and from whence we came, one of the Christians that came with 
us did take notice of the horseman who had spoken unto us; and 
so, interrupting my speech, he said, "Sirs, let God be praised which 
hath brought us to so good a place as this is; for, if I be not deceived, 
the earth which we tread is of Velez-Malaga; and, if the years of 
my captivity have not confounded my memory, you likewise, sir, that 
demand what we be, are Peter of Bostamente, mine uncle." As soon 
as ever the Christian Captive had spoken those words, the horse- 


man, leaping off his horse, ran and embraced him, saying, "O 
nephew, as dear to me as my soul and life! now I do know thee very 
well, and many a day since have I wept for thee, thinking thou wast 
dead; and so hath my sister, thy mother, and all the rest of thy 
friends which do live yet! and God hath been pleased to preserve 
their lives, that they may enjoy the pleasure to behold thee once 
again. We know very well that thou wert in Algiers; and, by the 
signs and tokens of my clothes, and that of all the rest here of thy 
companions, I surmise that your escape hath been miraculous?" 
"Indeed it was so," replied the Captive; "and we shall have time, 
I hope, to recount unto you the manner." 

'As soon as the horsemen had understood that we were Christian 
captives, they alighted off their horses, and every one of them in- 
vited us to mount upon his own, to carry us to the city of Veiez- 
Malaga, which was yet a league and a half from that place; and 
some of them went to the place where we had left the boat, to bring 
it to the city; whom we informed first of the place where it lay: 
others did mount us up on horseback behind themselves, and Zoraida 
rode behind the Captive's uncle. All the people issued to receive us, 
being premonished of our arrival by some one that had ridden 
before. They did not wonder to see captives freed, nor Moors cap- 
tived there, being an ordinary thing in those parts; but that whereat 
they wondered was the surpassing beauty of Zoraida, which at that 
season and instant was in her prime, as well through the warmth 
she had gotten by her travel, as also through the joy she conceived 
to see herself in Christian lands, secure from all fear of being sur- 
prised or lost; and these things called out to her face such colours 
as, if it be not that affection might then have deceived me, I durst 
aver that a more beautiful than she was the world could not afford, 
at least among those which I had ever beheld. 

'We went directly to the church to give thanks unto Almighty 
God for the benefit received; and as soon as Zoraida entered into 
it, she said there were faces in it that resembled very much that of 
Lela Marien. We told her that they were her images; and the 
runagate, as well as the brevity of the time permitted, instruaed 
her what they signified, to the end she should do them reverence, 
as if every one of them were truly that same Lela Marien which 


had spoken unto her. She, who had a very good understanding 
and an easy and clear conceit, comprehended presently all that was 
told unto her concerning images. From thence they carried us, and 
divided us among different houses of the city; but the Christian 
that came with us carried the runagate, Zoraida, and me to the 
house of his parents, which were indifferently accommodated and 
stored with the goods of fortune, and did entertain me with as 
great love and kindness as if I were their own son. We remained 
six days in Velez, in which time the runagate, having made an 
information of all that which might concern him, he went to the 
city of Granada, to be reconciled, by the holy Inquisition's means, 
to the bosom of our holy mother the Church. The rest of the freed 
captives took every one the way that he pleased; and Zoraida 
and I remained behind, with those ducats only which the French- 
man's courtesy was pleased to bestow on Zoraida; and with part of 
that sum I bought her this beast whereon she rides; I myself serving 
her hitherto as her father and her squire, and not as her spouse. We 
travel with intention to see if my father be yet living, or any of 
my brothers have had more prosperous hap than myself; although, 
seeing Heaven hath made me Zoraida's consort, methinks no other 
good fortune could arrive, were it never so great, that I would 
hold in so high estimation. The patience wherewithal she bears 
the incommodities usually annexed unto poverty, and the desires 
she shows to become a Christian, is such and so great, as it strikes 
me into an admiration, and doth move me to serve her all the days 
of my life; although that the delight which 1 take to see myself 
hers, and she mine, is ofttimes interrupted, and almost dissolved, 
by the fear which I have that I shall not find in mine own country 
some little corner wherein I may entertain her, and that time and 
death have wrought such alteration in the goods and lives of my 
father and brothers, as I shall scarce find any one at home that 
knows me. I have no more, good sirs, to tell you of my life's history, 
than which, whether it be pleasing and rare, or no, your clear con- 
ceits are to judge. As for myself, I daresay that, if it had been possi- 
ble, I would have told it with more brevity; fearing it might be 
tedious unto you, I purposely omitted many delightful circumstances 


Which Speaks of That Which After Befel in the Inn, and op 
Sundry Other Things Worthy To Be Known 

THE Captive having said this, held his peace; and Don 
Fernando replied to him thus: 'Truly, captain, the manner 
wherewithal you have recounted this marvellous success 
hath been such as it may be paragoned to the novelty and strange- 
ness of the event itself. And so great is the delight we have taken 
in the hearing thereof, as I do believe that although we had spent 
the time from hence till to-morrow in listening to it, yet should we 
be glad to hear it told over once again.' 

And saying so, Cardenio and all the rest did offer themselves and 
their means to his service, as much as lay in them, with so cordial 
and friendly words as the Captive remained thoroughly satisfied 
with their good wits; but specially Don Fernando offered, that if 
he would return with him, he would cause the marquis his brother 
to be Zoraida her godfather in baptism; and that he, for his part, 
would so accommodate him with all things necessary, as he might 
enter into the town with the decency and authority due to his 
person. The Captive did gratify his large offers very courteously, 
but would not accept any of them at that time. By this the night 
drew on, and about the fall thereof there arrived at the inn a coach, 
with some men a-horseback, and asked for lodging; to whom the 
hostess answered that in all the inn there was not a span free, the 
number of her guests was already so many. 'Well, although that 
be so,' quoth one of the horsemen that had entered, 'yet must there be 
a place found for Master Justice who comes in this coach.' At this 
name the hostess was afraid, and said, 'Sir, the misfortune is that I 
have no beds; but if Master Justice brings one with him, as it is 
probable he doth, let him enter in boldly, and I and my husband 
will leave our own chamber to accommodate his worship.' 'So be 
it,' quoth the squire; and by this time alighted out of the coach a 


man whose attire did presently denote his dignity and office, for his 
long gown and his great and large sleeves did show that he was 
a judge, as the serving-men affirmed. He led a young maiden by 
the hand, of about some sixteen years old, apparelled in riding 
attire; but she was therewithal of so disposed, beautiful, and cheer- 
ful a countenance, as her presence did strike them all into admira- 
tion; so as if they had not seen Dorothea, Lucinda, and Zoraida, 
which were then in the inn, they would hardly have believed that 
this damsel's beauty might anywhere have been matched. 

Don Quixote was present at the judge's and the gentlewoman's 
entry; and so, as soon as he had seen him, he said, 'Sir, you may 
boldly enter and take your ease in this castle, which although it be 
but little and ill accommodated, yet there is no narrowness nor 
discommodity in the world but makes place for arms and learning, 
and specially if the arms and letters bring beauty for their guide 
and leader, as your learning doth, conducted by this lovely damsel, 
to whom ought not only castles to open and manifest themselves, but 
also rocks to part and divide their cliffs, and mountains to bow their 
ambitious crests, to give and make her a lodging. Enter, therefore, 
I say, worshipful sir, into this paradise, wherein you shall find stars 
and suns to accompany this sky which you bring along with you. 
Here shall you find arms in their height, and beauty in her prime.' 
The judge marvelled greatly at Don Quixote's sp)eech, whom he 
began to behold very earnestly, and wondered no less at his shape 
than at his words; and knowing not what answer he might return 
him, he was diverted, on the other side, by the sudden approach of 
the three ladies, Lucinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida, which stood be- 
fore him; for, having heard of the arrival of new guests, and also 
being informed by the hostess of the young lady's beauty, they were 
come forth to see and entertain her. But Don Fernando, Cardenio, 
and the curate did give him more complete and courtly entertain- 
ment than the rusty knight. In effect, the judge was marvellously 
amazed at that which he saw and heard in that inn: and the fair 
guests thereof bade the beautiful maiden welcome. The judge 
perceived very well that the guests of the inn were all men of 
account; but Don Quixote's feature, visage, and behaviour did set 
him out of all bias, being not able to conjecture what he might be. 


And after some court-like intercourses passed, and the commodities 
of the inn examined, they all agreed again, as they had done before, 
that all the women should enter into Don Quixote's room, and the 
men remain without in their guard: and so the judge was content 
that the damsel, who was his daughter, should also go with those 
ladies, which she did with a very good will; and, with a part of 
the innkeeper's narrow bed, and half of that which the judge had 
brought with him, they made shift to pass over that night the best 
they could. 

The Captive, who from the instant that he had first seen the 
judge, did greatly susp)ect that he was his brother, and demanded 
of one of his servants how he was called, and where he was born. 
The other answered how he was called the licentiate, John Perez 
of Viedma, and, as he had heard, he was born in a village of the 
mountains of Leon. With this relation, and the rest that he had 
noted, he finally confirmed his opinion that it was the brother who, 
following his father's advice, had dedicated himself to his studies; 
and, full of joy and contentment, calling aside Don Fernando, Car- 
denio, and the curate, he certified them of all that had passed, and 
that the judge was his brother. The serving-man told him likewise 
how he went towards the Indies, where he had his place and office 
in the courts of Mexico; and also that the young gentlewoman was 
his daughter, of whose birth her mother had died, and he ever after 
remained a widower, and very rich by her dowry and portion that 
she had left to her daughter. He demanded of them advice how he 
might discover himself to his brother, or first know whether, after 
he had detected himself, he would receive him with a good counte- 
nance and affection, and not be ashamed to acknowledge him for 
his brother, seeing him in so poor an estate. 'Leave the trial of that 
experience to me,' quoth the curate, 'and the rather because there 
is no occasion why you, sir captain, should not be kindly entertained 
by him; for the prudence, worths, and good countenance of your 
brother give manifest tokens that he is nothing arrogant.' 'For all 
that,' said the captain, 'I would not make myself known on the 
sudden, but would use some pretty ambages to bring him acquaint- 
ed with me.' 'I say unto you,' quoth the curate, 'that I will trace 
the matter in such sort as we will all rest satisfied.' 


Supper was by this made ready, and all of them sat down to 
the table, the Captive excepted and ladies, which supped together 
within the room; and about the midst of supf)er the curate said, 
'Master Justice, I have had in times past a comrade of your very sur- 
name in Constantinople, where I was sometime captive, who was one 
of the most valiant soldiers and captains that might be found among 
all the Spanish foot; but he was as unfortunate as he was valorous 
and resolute.' 'And how was that captain called, good sir?' quoth 
the judge. 'His name was,' replied master curate, 'Ruy Perez of 
Viedma, and he was born in a village of the mountains of Leon; 
and he recounted unto me an occurrence happened between his 
father, him, and his other brethren, which, if I had not been told 
by a man of such credit and reputation as he was, I would have 
esteemed for one of these fables which old wives are wont to re- 
hearse by the fireside in winter; for he said to me that his father 
had divided his goods among his three sons, and gave them withal 
certain precepts, better than those of Cato; and I know well that 
the choice which he made to follow the war had such happy suc- 
cess, as within a few years, through his forwardness and valour, 
without the help of any other arm, he was advanced to a company 
of foot, and made a captain, and was in the way and course of be- 
coming one day a colonel; but fortune was contrary to him, for 
even there where he was most to expect her favour, he lost it, with 
the loss of his liberty, in that most happy journey wherein so 
many recovered it, to wit, in the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine in 
Goleta; and after, by different success, we became companions in 
Constantinople, from whence we went to Algiers, where did befall 
him one of the most notable adventures that ever happened in the 
world'; and there the curate, with sufficient brevity, recounted all 
that had happened between the captain and Zoraida; to all which 
the judge was so attentive, as in all his Ufe he never listened to any 
cause so attentively as then. And the curate only arrived to the 
pwint wherein the Frenchmen spoiled the Christians that came in 
the barque, and the necessity wherein his companion and the beauti- 
ful Zoraida remained; of whom he had not learned anything after, 
nor knew not what became of them, or whether they came into 
Spain, or were carried away by the Frenchmen into France. 


The captain stood listening somewhat aloof ofl to all the curate's 
words, and noted the while the motions and gestures of his brother; 
who, seeing that the curate had now made an end of his speech, 
breathing forth a great sigh, and his eyes being filled with tears, 
he said, 'Oh, sir, if you had known the news which you have told 
me, and how nearly they touch me in some points, whereby I am 
constrained to manifest these tears, which violently break forth 
in despite of my discretion and calling, you would hold me excused 
for this excess. That captain of whom you sp)oke is my eldest 
brother, who, as one stronger and of more noble thoughts than I 
or my younger brother, made election of the honourable military 
calling, one of the three estates which our father proposed to us, 
even as your comrade informed, when, as you thought, he related a 
fable. I followed my book, by which God and my diligence raised 
me to the state you see. My younger brother is in Peru, and with 
that which he hath sent to my father and myself, hath bountifully 
recompensed the portion he carried, and given to him sufficient 
to satisfy his liberal disposition, and to me wherewithal to continue 
my studies with the decency and authority needful to advance me 
to the rank which now I possess. My father lives yet, but dying 
through desire to learn somewhat of his eldest son, and doth daily 
importune God with incessant prayers that death may not shut his 
eyes until he may once again see him alive. I only marvel not a little, 
considering his discretion, that among all his labours, afflictions, or 
prosperous successes, he hath been so careless in giving his father 
notice of his proceedings; for if either he or any one of us had 
known of his captivity, he should not have needed to expect the 
miracle of the cane for his ransom. But that which troubles me 
most of all is to think whether these Frenchmen have restored him 
again to liberty, or else slain him, that they might conceal their 
robbery the better; all which will be an occasion to me to prosecute 
my voyage, not with the joy wherewithal I began it, but rather with 
melancholy and sorrow. Oh, dear brother, I would I might know 
now where thou art, that I myself might go and search thee out, 
and free thee from thy pains, although it were with the hazard of 
mine own. Oh, who is he that could carry news to our old father that 
thou wert alive, although thou wert hidden in the most abstruse dun- 


geons of Barbary? for his riches, my brother's, and mine, would 
fetch thee from thence. O beautiful and bountiful Zoraida! who 
might be able to recomf)ense thee for the good thou hast done to 
my brother? How happy were he that might be present at thy 
spiritual birth and baptism, and at thy nuptials, which would be so 
grateful to us all.' These and many other such words did the judge 
deliver, so full of compassion for the news that he had received of 
his brother, as all that heard him kept him company in showing 
signs of compassion for his sorrow. 

The curate therefore, perceiving the happy success whereto his 
design and the captain's desire had sorted, would hold the company 
sad no longer; and therefore, arising from the table, and entering 
into the room wherein Zoraida was, he took her by the hand, and 
after her followed Lucinda, Dorothea, and the judge his daughter. 
The captain stood still to see what the curate would do, who, taking 
him fast by the other hand, marched over with them both towards 
the judge and the other gentlemen, and saying, 'Suppress your tears. 
Master Justice, and glut your desire with all that good which it 
may desire, seeing you have here before you your good brother and 
your loving sister-in-law. This man whom you view here is the 
Captain Viedma, and this the beautiful Moor which hath done so 
much for him. The Frenchmen which I told you of have reduced 
them to the poverty you see, to the end that you may show the 
liberality of your noble breast.' 

Then did the captain draw near to embrace his brother; but he 
held him off a while with his arms, to note whether it was he or 
no; but when he once knew him, he embraced him so lovingly, and 
with such abundance of tears, as did attract the like from all the 
beholders. The words that the brothers spoke one to another, or 
the feeling affection which they showed, can hardly be conceived, 
and therefore much less written by any one whatsoever. There they 
did briefly recount the one to the other their successes; there did 
they show the true love and affection of brothers in his prime; 
there did the judge embrace Zoraida; there he made her an offer of 
all that was his; there did he also cause his daughter to embrace her; 
there the beautiful Christian and the most beautiful Moor renewed 
the tears of them all; there Don Quixote was attentive, without 


speaking a word, pondering of these rare occurrences, and attributing 
them to the chimeras which he imagined to be incident to chivalry; 
and there they agreed that the captain and 2Coraida should return 
with their brother to Seville, and thence advise their father of his 
finding and liberty, that he, as well as he might, should come to 
Seville to the baptism and marriage of Zoraida, because the judge 
could not possibly return, or discontinue his journey, in respect 
that the Indian fleet was to depart within a month from Seville 
towards New Spain. 

Every one, in conclusion, was joyful and glad at the Captive's 
good success; and two parts of the night being well-nigh spent, they 
all agreed to repose themselves a while. Don Quixote offered himself 
to watch and guard the castle whilst they slept, lest they should be 
assaulted by some giant or other miscreant, desirous to rob the 
great treasure of beauty that was therein immured and kept. Those 
that knew him rendered unto him infinite thanks, and withal 
informed the judge of his extravagant humour, whereat he was not 
a little recreated; only Sancho Panza did fret, because they went 
so slowly to sleep, and he alone was best accommodated of them all, 
by lying down on his beast's furniture, which cost him dearly, as 
shall be after recounted. The ladies being withdrawn into their 
chamber, and every one laying himself down where best he might, 
Don Quixote sallied out of the inn, to be sentinel of the castle, as 
he had promised. And a little before day it happened that so sweet 
and tuneable a voice touched the ladies' ears, as it obliged them 
all to listen unto it very attentively, but chiefly Dorothea, who first 
awaked, and by whose side the young gentlewoman, Donna Clara 
of Viedma (for so the judge's daughter was called), slept. None 
of them could imagine who it was that sung so well without the 
help of any instrument. Sometimes it seemed that he sung in the 
yard, others that it was in the stable. And being thus in suspense, 
Cardenio came to the chamber door, and said, "Whosoever is not 
asleep, let them give ear, and they shall hear the voice of a lackey 
that so chants as it likewise enchants.' 'Sir,' quoth Dorothea, 'we 
hear him very well.' With this Cardenio departed; and Dorothea, 
using all the attention possible, heard that his song was this 


Wherein Is Recounted the History of the Lackey, with Othei 
Strange Adventures Befallen in the Inn 

'I am a mariner to love. 

Which in his depths profound 
Still sails, and yet no hope can prove 

Of coming aye to th' ground. 

'I following go a glist'ring star. 

Which I aloof descry, 
Much more resplendent than those are 

That Palinure did spy. 

'I know not where my course to bend, 

And so confusedly. 
To see it only I pretend 

Careful and carelessly. 

'Her too impertinent regard, 

And too much modesty. 
The clouds are which mine eyes have barred 

From their deserved fee. 

'O clear and soul-reviving star! 

Whose sight doth try my trust, 
If thou thy light from me debar, 

Instandy die I must.' 

The singer arriving to this point of his song, Dorothea imagined 
that it would not be amiss to let Donna Clara hear so excellent a 
voice, and therefore she jogged her a Uttle on the one and other side, 
until she had awaked her, and then said, 'Pardon me, child, for thus 
interrupting your sweet repose, seeing I do it to the end you may 
joy, by hearing one of the best voices that perhaps you ever heard 
in your life.' Clara awaked at the first drowsily, and did not well 
understand what Dorothea said, and therefore demanding of her 



what she said, she told it her again; whereupon Donna Clara was 
also attentive; but scarce had she heard two verses repeated by the 
early musician, when a marvellous trembling invaded her, even 
as if she had then suffered the grievous fit of a quartan ague. 
Wherefore, embracing Dorothea very straitly, she said, 'Alas, dear 
lady! why did you awake me, seeing the greatest hap that fortune 
could in this instant have given me, was to have mine eyes and ears 
so shut as I might neither see nor hear that unfortunate musician.' 
'What is that you say, child?' quoth Dorothea. 'Did you not hear 
one say that the musician is but a horse-boy?' 'He is no horse-boy,' 
quoth Clara, 'but a lord of many towns, and he that hath such 
firm possession of my soul, as if he himself will not reject it, he shall 
never be deprived of the dominion thereof.' Dorothea greatly won- 
dered at the passionate words of the young girl, whereby it seemed 
to her that she far surpassed the discretion which so tender years 
did promise, and therefore she replied to her, saying, 'You speak so 
obscurely. Lady Clara, as I cannot understand you; expound your- 
self more clearly, and tell me what is that you say of souls and 
towns, and of this musician whose voice hath altered you so much. 
But do not say anything to me now, for I would not lose, by listen- 
ing to your disgusts, the pleasure I take to hear him sing; for me- 
thinks he resumes his music with new verses, and in another tune.' 
'In a good hour,' quoth Donna Clara; and then, because she her- 
self would not hear him, she stopped her ears with her fingers; 
whereat Dorothea did also marvel, but being attentive to the music, 
she heard the lackey prosecute his song in this manner: 

'O sweet and constant hope, 

That break'st impossibilities and briers. 

And firmly runn'st the scof)e 

Which thou thyself dost forge to thy desiresi 

Be not dismay'd to see 

At ev'ry step thyself nigh death to be. 

'Sluggards do not deserve 

The glory of triumphs or victory; 
Good hap doth never serve 

Those which resist not fortune manfully, 
But weakly fall to ground, 
And in soft sloth their senses all confound. 


That love his glories hold 

At a high rate, it reason is and just; 
No precious stones nor gold 

May be at all compared with love's gust; 
And 'tis a thing most clear. 
Nothing is worth esteem that cost not dear. 

'An amorous persistence 

Obtaineth ofttimes things impossible; 
And so though I resistance 

Find of my soul's desires, in her stern will, 
I hope time shall be given. 
When I from earth may reach her glorious heaven.' 

Here the voice ended, and Donna Clara's sighs began; all which 
inflamed Dorothea's desire to know the cause of so sweet a song 
and so sad a plaint; and therefore she eftsoons required her to tell 
her now what she was about to have said before. Then Clara, 
timorous lest Lucinda should overhear her, embracing Dorothea 
very nearly, laid her mouth so closely to Dorothea's ear, as she might 
speak securely without being understood by any other, and said, 
'He that sings is, dear lady, a gentleman's son of the kingdom of 
Aragon, whose father is lord of two towns, and dwelled right before 
my father's house at the court; and although the windows of our 
house were in winter covered with cere-cloth, and in summer 
with lattice, I know not how it happened, but this gentleman, who 
went to the school, espied me; and whether it was at the church, 
or elsewhere, I am not certain. Finally, he fell in love with me, 
and did acquaint me with his affection from his own windows, that 
were opposite to mine, with so many tokens and such abundance 
of tears, as I most forcibly believed, and also affected him, without 
knowing how much he loved me. Among the signs that he would 
make me, one was, to join the one hand to the other, giving me 
thereby to understand that he would marry me; and although I 
would be very glad that it might be so, yet as one alone, and with- 
out a mother, I knew not to whom I might communicate the affair, 
and did therefore let it rest without affording him any other favour, 
unless it were, when my father and his were gone abroad, by lift- 
ing up the lattice or cere<loth only a litde, and permitting him to 

434 ^^N QUIXOTE 

behold me; for which favour he would show such signs of joy as a 
man would deem him to be reft of his wits. 

'The time of my father's departure arriving, and he hearing of 
it, but not from me (for I could never tell it to him), he fell sick, 
as far as I could understand, for grief; and therefore I could never 
see him all the day of our departure, to bid him farewell at least with 
mine eyes; but after we had travelled two days, just as we entered 
into an inn in a village, a day's journey from hence, I saw him at 
the lodging door, apparelled so properly like a lackey, as if I had 
not borne about me his portraiture in my soul, it had been impossible 
to know him. I knew him, and wondered, and was glad withal; 
and he beheld me, unwitting my father, from whose presence he 
still hides himself when he crosses the ways before me as I travel, 
or after we arrive at any inn. And because that 1 know what he 
is, and do consider the pains he takes by coming thus afoot for 
my sake, and that with so great toil, I die for sorrow; and where 
he puts his feet, I also put mine eyes. 1 know not with what inten- 
tion he comes, nor how he could possibly thus escape from his 
father, who loves him beyond measure, both because he hath none 
other heir, and because the young gentleman also deserves it, as 
you will perceive when you see him; and I dare affirm besides, that 
all that which he says he composes extempore, and without any 
study; for I have heard that he is a fine student, and a great poet; 
and every time that I see him, or do hear him sing, I start and 
tremble like an aspen leaf, for fear that my father should know 
him, and thereby come to have notice of our mutual affections. I 
have never spoken one word to him in my life, and yet I do never- 
theless love him so much, as without him I shall not be able to live. 
And this is all, dear lady, that I am able to say unto you of the 
musician whose voice hath pleased you so well, as by it alone you 
might conjecture that he is not a horse-boy, as you said, but rather a 
lord of souls and towns, as I affirmed.' 

'Speak no more. Lady Clara,' quoth Dorothea at that season, 
kissing her a thousand times; 'speak no more, I say, but have patience 
until it be daylight; for I hope in God so to direct your affairs, as 
that they shall have the fortunate success that so honest beginning 
deserves.' 'Alas, madam!' quoth Donna Clara, 'what end may be 


expected, seeing his father is so noble and rich, as he would scarce 
deem me worthy to be his son's servant, how much less his spouse? 
And for me to marry myself unknown to my father, I would not 
do it for all the world. I desire no other thing but that the young 
gentleman would return home again and leave me alone; perhaps 
by not seeing him, and the great distance of the way which we are 
to travel, my pain, which now so much presseth me, will be some- 
what allayed; although I daresay that this remedy, which now I 
have imagined, would avail me but litde; for I know not whence 
with the vengeance, or by what way this affection which I bear him 
got into me, seeing both I and he are so young as we be, for I be- 
lieve we are much of an age, and I am not yet full sixteen, nor 
shall be, as my father says, until Michaelmas next.' Dorothea could 
not contain her laughter, hearing how childishly Donna Clara 
spoke; to whom she said, 'Lady, let us repose again, and sleep that 
little part of the night which remains; and when God sends day- 
light, we will prosper, or my hands shall fail me.' With this they 
held their peace, and all the inn was drowned in profound silence; 
only the innkeep)er's daughter and Maritornes were not asleep, but 
knowing very well Don Quixote's peccant humour, and that he 
was armed and on horseback without the inn keeping guard, both 
of them consorted together, and agreed to be someway merry with 
him, or at least to pass over some time in hearing him speak ravingly. 
It is therefore to be understood that there was not in all the inn 
any window which looked out into the field, but one hole in a 
barn, out of which they were wont to cast their straw. To this hole 
came the two demi-damsels, and saw Don Quixote mounted and 
leaning on his javelin, and breathing forth ever and anon $0 doleful 
and deep sighs, as it seemed his soul was plucked away by every 
one of them; and they noted besides how he said, with a soft and 
amorous voice, 'O my lady Dulcinea of Toboso! the sun of all beauty, 
the end and quintessence of discretion, the treasury of sweet counte- 
nance and carriage, the storehouse of honesty, and finally, the idea 
of all that which is profitable, modest, or delightful in the world! 
and what might thy ladyship be doing at this present? Hast thou 
perhaps thy mind now upon thy captive knight, that most wittingly 
exposeth himself to so many dangers for thy sake? Give unto me 


tidings of her, O thou luminary of the three facesi Peradventure 
thou dost now with envy enough behold her, either walking through 
some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leaning on some bay- 
window, and thinking how (saving her honour and greatness) she 
shall mitigate and assuage the torture which this mine oppressed 
heart endures for her love, what glory she shall give for my pains, 
what quiet to my cares, what life to my death, and what guerdon 
to my services. And thou, sun, which art, as I believe, by this time 
saddling of thy horses to get away early and go out to see my mis- 
tress, I request thee, as soon as thou shah see her, to salute her in 
my behalf; but beware that when thou lookest on her and dost greet 
her, that thou do not kiss her on the face; for if thou dost, I become 
more jealous of thee than ever thou wast of the swift ingrate which 
made thee to run and sweat so much through the plains of Thessaly 
or the brinks of Peneus; for I have forgotten through which of them 
thou rannest so jealous and enamoured.* 

To this point arrived Don Quixote, when the innkeeper's daugh- 
ter began to call him softly unto her, and say, 'Sir knight, approach 
a little hitherward, if you please'; at which voice Don Quixote turned 
his head, and saw by the light of the moon which shined then very 
clearly, that he was called to from the hole, which he accounted to 
be a fair window full of iron bars, and those costly gilded with 
gold, well befitting so rich a castle as he imagined that inn to be; 
and presently in a moment he forged to his own fancy, that once 
again, as [s]he had done before, the beautiful damsel, daughter to 
the lady of that castle, overcome by his love, did return to solicit 
him; and with this thought, because he would not show himself 
discourteous and ungrateful, he turned Rozinante about and came 
over to the hole; and then, having beheld the two wenches, he said, 
'I take pity on you, beautiful lady, that you have placed your amor- 
ous thoughts in a place whence it is not possible to have any cor- 
respondence answerable to the desert of your high worth and beauty, 
whereof you are in no sort to condemn this miserable knight-errant, 
whom love hath wholly disabled to surrender his will to be any other 
than to her whom at the first sight he made absolute mistress of his 
soul. Pardon me therefore, good lady, and retire yourself to your 
chamber, and make me not, by any further insinuation of your 


desires, more unthankful and discourteous than I would be; and if, 
through the love that you bear me, you find in me any other thing 
wherewithal I may serve and pleasure you, so that it be not love 
itself, demand it boldly; for I do swear unto you by mine absen[t], 
yet sweetest enemy, to bestow it upon you incontinently, yea, though 
it be a lock of Medusa's hairs, which are all of snakes, or the very 
sunbeams enclosed in a vial of glass.' 

'My lady needs none of those things, sir knight,' answered Mari- 
tornes. 'What doth she then want, discreet matron?' quoth Don 
Quixote. 'Only one of your fair hands,' said Maritornes, 'that there- 
withal she may disburden herself of some part of those violent 
desires which compelled her to come to this window, with so great 
danger of her honour; for if her lord and father knew of her coming, 
the least slice he would take off her should be at the least an ear.' 
'I would fain once see that,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but I am sure he 
will beware how he do it, if he have no list to make the most dis- 
astrous end that ever father made in this world, for having laid 
violent hands on the delicate limbs of his amorous daughter.' Mari- 
tornes verily persuaded herself that Don Quixote would give up 
his hand as he was requested, and having already contrived in her 
mind what she would do, descended with all haste from the hole, 
and, going into the stable, fetched out Sancho Panza his ass's halter, 
and returned again with very great speed, just as Don Quixote 
(standing up on Rozinante's saddle, that he might the better reach 
the barred windows, whereat he imagined the wounded damsel 
remained) did, stretching up his hand, say unto her, 'Hold, lady, 
the hand, or as I may better say, the executioner of earthly mis- 
creants; hold, I say, that hand, which no other woman ever touched 
before, not even she herself that hath entire possession of my whole 
body, nor do I give it to you to the end you should kiss it, but that 
you may behold the contexture of the sinews, the knitting of the 
muscles, and the spaciosity and breadth of the veins, whereby you 
may collect how great ought the force of that arm to be whereunto 
such a hand is knit.' 'We shall see that presently,' quoth Maritornes; 
and then, making a running knot on the halter, she cast it on the 
wrist of his hand, and then descending from the hole, she tied the 
other end of the halter very fast to the lock of the barn door. Don 


Quixote, feeling the roughness of the halter about his wrist, said, 
'It rather seems that you grate my hand than that you cherish it; 
but yet I pray you not to handle it so roughly, seeing it is no fault 
of the evil which my will doth unto you; nor is it comely that you 
should revenge or disburden the whole bulk of your indignation 
on so small a part: remember that those which love well do not 
take so cruel revenge.' But nobody gave ear to these words of Don 
Quixote's; for as soon as Maritornes had tied him, she and the 
other, almost burst for laughter, ran away, and left him tied in 
such manner as it was impossible for him to loose himself. 

He stood, as we have recounted, on Rozinante his saddle, having 
all his arm thrust in at the hole, and fastened by the wrist to the 
lock, and was in very great doubt and fear that if Rozinante budged 
never so little on any side he should fall and hang by the arm; 
and therefore he durst not once use the least motion of the world, 
although he might well have exjjected, from Rozinante's patience 
and mild spirit, that if he were suffered, he would stand still a 
whole age without stirring himself. In fine, Don Quixote seeing 
himself tied, and that the ladies were departed, began straight to 
imagine that all had been done by way of enchantment, as the last 
time, when in the very same castle the enchanted Moor (the carrier) 
had so fairly belaboured him; and then to himself did he execrate 
his own want of discretion and discourse, seeing that having escaped 
out of that castle so evil dight the first time, he would after ad- 
venture to enter into it the second; for it was generally observed by 
knights-errant that when they had once tried an adventure, and 
could not finish it, it was a token that it was not reserved for them, 
but for some other; and therefore would never prove it again. Yet 
for all this he drew forward his arm to see if he might deliver 
himself; but he was so well bound as all his endeavours proved 
vain. It is true that he drew it very warily, lest Rozinante should 
stir; and although he would fain have sat and settled himself in 
the saddle, yet could he do no other but stand, or leave the arm 
behind. There was many a wish for Amadis his sword, against 
which no enchantment whatsoever could prevail; there succeeded 
the malediction of his fates; there the exaggerating of the want 
that the world should have of his presence all the while he abode 


enchanted (as he infallibly believed he was) in that place; there 
he anew remembered his beloved Lady Dulcinea of Toboso; there 
did he call oft enough on his good squire Sancho Panza, who, en- 
tombed in the bowels of sleep, and stretched along on the pannel o£ 
his ass, did dream at that instant but little of the mother that bore 
him; there he invoked the wise men Lirgandeo and Alquife to 
help him. And finally, the morning did also there overtake him 
so full of despair and confusion, as he roared like a bull; for he 
had no hope that by daylight any cure could be found for his care, 
which he deemed would be everlasting, because he fully accounted 
himself enchanted; and was the more induced to think so, because 
he saw that Rozinante did not move little nor much; and therefore 
he supp)osed that both he and his horse should abide in that state 
without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until that either the malignant 
influence of the stars were past, or some greater enchanter had 
disenchanted him. 

But he deceived himself much in his belief; for scarce did the 
day begin to peep, when there arrived four horsemen to the inn- 
door, very well appointed, and having snap-hances hanging at the 
pommel of their saddles. They called at the inn-door (which yet 
stood shut), and knocked very hard, which being perceived by Don 
Quixote, from the place where he stood sentinel, he said, with a 
very loud and arrogant voice, 'Knights, or squires, or whatsoever 
else ye be, you are not to knock any more at the gates of that castle, 
seeing it is evident, that at such hours as this, either they which 
are within do repose them, or else are not wont to open fortresses 
until Phoebus hath spread his beams over the earth; therefore stand 
back, and expect till it be clear day, and then we will see whether 
it be just or no that they open their gates unto you.' 'What a devil, 
what castle or fortress is this,' quoth one of them, 'that it should 
bind us to use all those circumstances? If thou beest the innkeeper, 
command that the door be opened; for we are travellers that will 
tarry no longer than to bait our horses and away, for we ride in post 
haste.' 'Doth it seem to you, gentlemen,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that 
I look like an innkeeper?' 'I know not what thou lookest like,' 
answered the other, 'but well I know that thou speakest madly, in 
calling this inn a casde.' 'It is a castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'yea, 


and that one of the best in this province, and it hath people within 
it which have had a sceptre in hand, and a crown on their head.* 
'It were better said quite contrary,' repHed the traveller, 'the sceptre 
on the head, and the crown in the hand; but perhaps (and so it 
may well be) there is some company of players within, who do 
very usually hold the sceptres and wear those crowns whereof thou 
talkest; for in such a paltry inn as this is, and where I hear so little 
noise, I cannot believe any one to be lodged worthy to wear a crown 
or bear a sceptre.' 'Thou knowest but little of the world,' replied 
Don Quixote, 'seeing thou dost so much ignore the chances that 
are wont to befall in chivalry.' The fellows of him that entertained 
this prolix dialogue with Don Quixote waxed weary to hear them 
speak idly so long together, and therefore turned again to knock 
with great fury at the door, and that in such sort as they not only 
waked the innkeeper, but also all the guests, and so he arose to 
demand their pleasure. 

In the meanwhile it happened that one of the horses whereon 
they rode drew near to smell Rozinante, that, melancholy and sadly, 
with his ears cast down, did sustain without moving his outstretched 
lord; and he being indeed of flesh and blood, although he resembled 
a block of wood, could not choose but feel it, and turn to smell him 
again who had thus come to cherish and entertain him; and scarce 
had he stirred but a thought from thence, when Don Quixote's feet, 
that were joined, slipt asunder, and, tumbling from the saddle, had 
doubtlessly fallen to the ground, had he not remained hanging by 
the arm; a thing that caused him to endure so much pain, as he 
verily believed that either his wrist was a-cutting, or his arm 
a-tearing off from his body; and he hung so near to the ground 
as he touched it with the tops of his toes, all which turned to his 
prejudice; for, having felt the little which he wanted to the setting