CHAPTER XVIII — IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, — DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING

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Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on
his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, “I have
now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is
beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously
diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings
of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when
I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy,
it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from
Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee
by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to climb up or
dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart
thieves would have remembered their freak for ever, even though in so
doing I knew that I contravened the laws of chivalry, which, as I have
often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands on him who is not
one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in defence of his own
life and person.”

“I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, “whether I
had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am
persuaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or
enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like
ourselves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them
when they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and
another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan
Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, señor, your not being able to leap
over the wall of the yard or dismount from your horse came of something
else besides enchantments; and what I make out clearly from all this
is, that these adventures we go seeking will in the end lead us into
such misadventures that we shall not know which is our right foot; and
that the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be
for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and attend to our
business, and give over wandering from Zeca to Mecca and from pail to
bucket, as the saying is.”

“How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote;
“hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt
see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the
pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there
be in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle,
and triumphing over one’s enemy? None, beyond all doubt.”

“Very likely,” answered Sancho, “though I do not know it; all I know is
that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been
one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a
number) we have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan,
and even out of that your worship came with half an ear and half a
helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all cudgellings and
more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over
and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot
avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship calls it,
of conquering an enemy is like.”

“That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,” replied
Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some
sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect
upon him who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may
procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ‘The
Knight of the Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best swords that
ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the said
virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however strong
and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.”

“Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “that even if that happened and your
worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out
serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires,
they might sup sorrow.”

“Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: “Heaven will deal better by
thee.”

Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the
road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a
large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and
said:

“This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is
reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any
other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do
deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame for all ages to
come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all
that is churned up by a vast army composed of various and countless
nations that comes marching there.”

“According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, “for on this
opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.”

Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing
exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and
encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and
seasons his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures,
crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of
chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such
things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great
droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions,
which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew
near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that
Sancho was led to believe it and say, “Well, and what are we to do,
señor?”

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“What?” said Don Quixote: “give aid and assistance to the weak and
those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes
opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron,
lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me
is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare
Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.”

“But why are these two lords such enemies?”

“They are at enmity,” replied Don Quixote, “because this Alifanfaron is
a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is
a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her
father is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first
abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his
own.”

“By my beard,” said Sancho, “but Pentapolin does quite right, and I
will help him as much as I can.”

“In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for
to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed
knight.”

“That I can well understand,” answered Sancho; “but where shall we put
this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I
believe it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast
of this kind.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and what you had best do with him is
to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the
horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even
Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to
me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of the chief
knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest the better
see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder,
whence both armies may be seen.”

They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the
two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen
if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the
sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and
what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:

“That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon
his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the
valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with
flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an
azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that
other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless
Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour
wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to
tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the
ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But turn
thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the
van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished Timonel
of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with arms
quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat
or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the
beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and
bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is
a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of
the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with iron-shod heels strikes
the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears
azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque,
who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in
Castilian that says, ‘Rastrea mi suerte’.” And so he went on naming a
number of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination,
and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and
mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and
without a pause, he continued, “People of divers nations compose this
squadron in front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the
famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that
sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed
cool banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various
ways divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians,
faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the
Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever
shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the
Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose
features I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In
this other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams
of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances
with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in
the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian
plains abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the
Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears
of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the Gothic race, those that
bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current, those that feed
their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed
for its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad
Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as
many as all Europe includes and contains.”

Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to
each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and
saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung
upon his words without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if
he could see the knights and giants his master was describing, and as
he could not make out one of them he said to him:

“Señor, devil take it if there’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight
or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the
phantoms last night.”

“How canst thou say that!” answered Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear
the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of
the drums?”

“I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,” said Sancho;
which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close.

“The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevents thee from
seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to
derange the senses and make things appear different from what they are;
if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself,
for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give
my aid;” and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the
lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted
after him, crying, “Come back, Señor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are
sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that
begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no giant, nor knight,
nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor vair azure or
bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am before God!” But not
for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on the contrary he
went on shouting out, “Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the
banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me
all; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his
enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.”

So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began
spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were
transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers
accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use,
they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with stones as
big as one’s fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting
drive right and left kept saying:

“Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single
knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee
yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant
Pentapolin Garamanta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that
struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling
himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for
certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting
it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he
had succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough, there came
another almond which struck him on the hand and on the flask so fairly
that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four teeth and grinders
out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two fingers of his
hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that the
poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The
shepherds came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste
they collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which
there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain
anything further.

All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his
master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and
the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him,
then, brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken
themselves off, he ran to him and found him in very bad case, though
not unconscious; and said he:

“Did I not tell you to come back, Señor Don Quixote; and that what you
were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?”

“That’s how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify
things,” answered Don Quixote; “thou must know, Sancho, that it is a
very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they
choose; and this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of
the enemy into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of
thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true;
mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when
they have gone some little distance from this they will return to their
original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all respects as
I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy
help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and
grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my
mouth.”

Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now
just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote,
so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he
discharged all its contents with more force than a musket, and full
into the beard of the compassionate squire.

“Holy Mary!” cried Sancho, “what is this that has happened me? Clearly
this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;”
but considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the
colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the
flask which he had seen him drink; and he was taken with such a
loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his
very master, and both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his
ass to get something wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his
master, out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well-nigh took
leave of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart resolved
to quit his master and return home, even though he forfeited the wages
of his service and all hopes of the promised island.

Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep
his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of
the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master’s
side—so loyal and well-behaved was he—and betook himself to where the
squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one
in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote
said to him:

“Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he
does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs
that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with
us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence
it follows that the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh
at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which
happen to me, since thou hast no share in them.”

“How have I not?” replied Sancho; “was he whom they blanketed yesterday
perchance any other than my father’s son? and the alforjas that are
missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but
myself?”

“What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho.

“In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote.

“It would be so,” answered Sancho, “if there were none of the herbs
your worship says you know in these meadows, those with which
knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like
shortcomings.”

“For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would rather have just now a
quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards’ heads, than all
the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna’s notes.
Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me,
for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially
when we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the
midges of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the
water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good
and on the evil, and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the just.”

“Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,” said
Sancho.

“Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote; “for there were knights-errant in former times as well
qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an
encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris;
whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor the
pen the lance.”

“Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho; “let us be off now
and find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be
somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms,
nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole
concern.”

“Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on where
thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach
me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my
teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw,
for it is there I feel the pain.”

Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, “How many
grinders used your worship have on this side?”

“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all whole and
quite sound.”

“Mind what you are saying, señor.”

“I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for never in my life
have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been
destroyed by any decay or rheum.”

“Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship has no more
than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor any
at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.”

“Luckless that I am!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire
gave him; “I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the
sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a
mill without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a
diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to
all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at
whatever pace thou wilt.”

Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he
thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was
there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow
pace—for the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws kept him uneasy and
ill-disposed for speed—Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him
by talk of some kind, and among the things he said to him was that
which will be told in the following chapter.

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CHAPTER XIX.
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
OCCURRENCES

“It seems to me, señor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us of
late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence committed
by your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping the oath
you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the queen, and
all the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until you had
taken that helmet of Malandrino’s, or whatever the Moor is called, for
I do not very well remember.”

“Thou art very right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but to tell the
truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it
that the affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault in
not reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there are
ways of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry.”

“Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?” said Sancho.

“It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath,” said Don
Quixote; “suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of complicity;
and whether or no, it will not be ill done to provide ourselves with a
remedy.”

“In that case,” said Sancho, “mind that your worship does not forget
this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into their
heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your worship
if they see you so obstinate.”

While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on the road
before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and what
made it still worse was that they were dying of hunger, for with the
loss of the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and
commissariat; and to complete the misfortune they met with an adventure
which without any invention had really the appearance of one. It so
happened that the night closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that
they pushed on, Sancho feeling sure that as the road was the king’s
highway they might reasonably expect to find some inn within a league
or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night dark, the squire
hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards them on the road
they were travelling a great number of lights which looked exactly like
stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the sight of them, nor did
Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one pulled up his ass by the
halter, the other his hack by the bridle, and they stood still,
watching anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and found
that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the
greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a
man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote’s hair stood on end; he,
however, plucking up spirit a little, said:

“This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous adventure,
in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my valour and
resolution.”

“Unlucky me!” answered Sancho; “if this adventure happens to be one of
phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where shall I find the ribs
to bear it?”

“Be they phantoms ever so much,” said Don Quixote, “I will not permit
them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played tricks with
thee the time before, it was because I was unable to leap the walls of
the yard; but now we are on a wide plain, where I shall be able to
wield my sword as I please.”

“And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time,” said
Sancho, “what difference will it make being on the open plain or not?”

“For all that,” replied Don Quixote, “I entreat thee, Sancho, to keep a
good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is.”

“I will, please God,” answered Sancho, and the two retiring to one side
of the road set themselves to observe closely what all these moving
lights might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some twenty
encamisados, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, the
awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of
Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like one in the cold fit of
an ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered still more when
they perceived distinctly that behind them there came a litter covered
over with black and followed by six more mounted figures in mourning
down to the very feet of their mules—for they could perceive plainly
they were not horses by the easy pace at which they went. And as the
encamisados came along they muttered to themselves in a low plaintive
tone. This strange spectacle at such an hour and in such a solitary
place was quite enough to strike terror into Sancho’s heart, and even
into his master’s; and (save in Don Quixote’s case) did so, for all
Sancho’s resolution had now broken down. It was just the opposite with
his master, whose imagination immediately conjured up all this to him
vividly as one of the adventures of his books.

He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was borne
some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved
for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in
rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit and
bearing took up his position in the middle of the road where the
encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he saw them near at
hand he raised his voice and said:

“Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who ye
are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that bier,
for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong or some
wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary that I
should know, either that I may chastise you for the evil ye have done,
or else that I may avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted
upon you.”

“We are in haste,” answered one of the encamisados, “and the inn is far
off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you demand;”
and spurring his mule he moved on.

Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seizing the mule
by the bridle he said, “Halt, and be more mannerly, and render an
account of what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat,
all of you.”

The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being seized that
rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches. An
attendant who was on foot, seeing the encamisado fall, began to abuse
Don Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more ado, laying his
lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought him badly
wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the
agility with which he attacked and routed them was a sight to see, for
it seemed just as if wings had that instant grown upon Rocinante, so
lightly and proudly did he bear himself. The encamisados were all timid
folk and unarmed, so they speedily made their escape from the fray and
set off at a run across the plain with their lighted torches, looking
exactly like maskers running on some gala or festival night. The
mourners, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were
unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself Don
Quixote belaboured them all and drove them off against their will, for
they all thought it was no man but a devil from hell come to carry away
the dead body they had in the litter.

Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his lord,
and said to himself, “Clearly this master of mine is as bold and
valiant as he says he is.”

A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule had
thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and coming up
to him he presented the point of the lance to his face, calling on him
to yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him; to which the
prostrate man replied, “I am prisoner enough as it is; I cannot stir,
for one of my legs is broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian
gentleman, not to kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege,
for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders.”

“Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?” said Don
Quixote.

“What, señor?” said the other. “My bad luck.”

“Then still worse awaits you,” said Don Quixote, “if you do not satisfy
me as to all I asked you at first.”

“You shall be soon satisfied,” said the licentiate; “you must know,
then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am only a
bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of Alcobendas, I
come from the city of Baeza with eleven others, priests, the same who
fled with the torches, and we are going to the city of Segovia
accompanying a dead body which is in that litter, and is that of a
gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was interred; and now, as I said,
we are taking his bones to their burial-place, which is in Segovia,
where he was born.”

“And who killed him?” asked Don Quixote.

“God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,” answered the
bachelor.

“In that case,” said Don Quixote, “the Lord has relieved me of the task
of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew him
having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and shrug
one’s shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself; and I
would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don
Quixote by name, and it is my business and calling to roam the world
righting wrongs and redressing injuries.”

“I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,” said the
bachelor, “for from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with
a broken leg that will never see itself straight again all the days of
its life; and the injury you have redressed in my case has been to
leave me injured in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever;
and the height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in
search of adventures.”

“Things do not all happen in the same way,” answered Don Quixote; “it
all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by
night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying,
covered with mourning, so that naturally you looked like something evil
and of the other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in
attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had I known
positively that you were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly
believed and took you to be.”

“As my fate has so willed it,” said the bachelor, “I entreat you, sir
knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to help
me to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught between
the stirrup and the saddle.”

“I would have talked on till to-morrow,” said Don Quixote; “how long
were you going to wait before telling me of your distress?”

He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as he
was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden with
provender, which these worthy gentlemen had brought with them. Sancho
made a bag of his coat, and, getting together as much as he could, and
as the bag would hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey
his master’s call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from under the
mule; then putting him on her back he gave him the torch, and Don
Quixote bade him follow the track of his companions, and beg pardon of
them on his part for the wrong which he could not help doing them.

And said Sancho, “If by chance these gentlemen should want to know who
was the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them that he is
the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance.”

The bachelor then took his departure.

I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote,
“Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent hands
on a holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo.”

“I do not understand that Latin,” answered Don Quixote, “but I know
well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not think I
was committing an assault upon priests or things of the Church, which,
like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I respect and revere,
but upon phantoms and spectres of the other world; but even so, I
remember how it fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the
ambassador of that king before his Holiness the Pope, who
excommunicated him for the same; and yet the good Roderick of Vivar
bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight.”

On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been said,
without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had induced
him to call him the “Knight of the Rueful Countenance” more then than
at any other time.

“I will tell you,” answered Sancho; “it was because I have been looking
at you for some time by the light of the torch held by that
unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of late the most
ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either owing to the
fatigue of this combat, or else to the want of teeth and grinders.”

“It is not that,” replied Don Quixote, “but because the sage whose duty
it will be to write the history of my achievements must have thought it
proper that I should take some distinctive name as all knights of yore
did; one being ‘He of the Burning Sword,’ another ‘He of the Unicorn,’
this one ‘He of the Damsels,’ that ‘He of the Phœnix,’ another ‘The
Knight of the Griffin,’ and another ‘He of the Death,’ and by these
names and designations they were known all the world round; and so I
say that the sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and mind
just now to call me ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance,’ as I intend
to call myself from this day forward; and that the said name may fit me
better, I mean, when the opportunity offers, to have a very rueful
countenance painted on my shield.”

“There is no occasion, señor, for wasting time or money on making that
countenance,” said Sancho; “for all that need be done is for your
worship to show your own, face to face, to those who look at you, and
without anything more, either image or shield, they will call you ‘Him
of the Rueful Countenance’ and believe me I am telling you the truth,
for I assure you, señor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the
loss of your grinders have given you such an ill-favoured face that, as
I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared.”

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved to
call himself by that name, and have his shield or buckler painted as he
had devised.

Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the litter
were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, saying:

“Señor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for yourself
than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though beaten and
routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that has beaten
them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and come in
search of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the
mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing more to do
but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is, the dead to the grave
and the living to the loaf.”

And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow, who,
feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying; and after
proceeding some little distance between two hills they found themselves
in a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho unloaded
his beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce,
they breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying
their appetites with more than one store of cold meat which the dead
man’s clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short allowance)
had brought with them on their sumpter mule. But another piece of
ill-luck befell them, which Sancho held the worst of all, and that was
that they had no wine to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips;
and as thirst tormented them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where
they were was full of green and tender grass, said what will be told in
the following chapter.

CHAPTER XX.
OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED
BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD

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“It cannot be, señor, but that this grass is a proof that there must be
hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be well
to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we may
quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is
more distressing than hunger.”

The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante by the
bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed away upon
him the remains of the supper, they advanced the meadow feeling their
way, for the darkness of the night made it impossible to see anything;
but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, as
if falling from great rocks, struck their ears. The sound cheered them
greatly; but halting to make out by listening from what quarter it came
they heard unseasonably another noise which spoiled the satisfaction
the sound of the water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by
nature timid and faint-hearted. They heard, I say, strokes falling with
a measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and chains that,
together with the furious din of the water, would have struck terror
into any heart but Don Quixote’s. The night was, as has been said,
dark, and they had happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees,
whose leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so
that, what with the solitude, the place, the darkness, the noise of the
water, and the rustling of the leaves, everything inspired awe and
dread; more especially as they perceived that the strokes did not
cease, nor the wind lull, nor morning approach; to all which might be
added their ignorance as to where they were.

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But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante,
and bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the slope, and
said, “Friend Sancho, know that I by Heaven’s will have been born in
this our iron age to revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it
is called; I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant
deeds are reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights
of the Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he
who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes
and Tirantes, the Phœbuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of
famous knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which I
live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure their
brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the
gloom of this night, its strange silence, the dull confused murmur of
those trees, the awful sound of that water in quest of which we came,
that seems as though it were precipitating and dashing itself down from
the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that incessant hammering that
wounds and pains our ears; which things all together and each of itself
are enough to instil fear, dread, and dismay into the breast of Mars
himself, much more into one not used to hazards and adventures of the
kind. Well, then, all this that I put before thee is but an incentive
and stimulant to my spirit, making my heart burst in my bosom through
eagerness to engage in this adventure, arduous as it promises to be;
therefore tighten Rocinante’s girths a little, and God be with thee;
wait for me here three days and no more, and if in that time I come not
back, thou canst return to our village, and thence, to do me a favour
and a service, thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my
incomparable lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in
attempting things that might make him worthy of being called hers.”

When Sancho heard his master’s words he began to weep in the most
pathetic way, saying:

“Señor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so dreadful
adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can easily turn
about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don’t drink for
three days to come; and as there is no one to see us, all the less will
there be anyone to set us down as cowards; besides, I have many a time
heard the curate of our village, whom your worship knows well, preach
that he who seeks danger perishes in it; so it is not right to tempt
God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there can be no escape
save by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for your
worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing
you out victorious and safe and sound from among all those enemies that
were with the dead man; and if all this does not move or soften that
hard heart, let this thought and reflection move it, that you will have
hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear I shall yield my soul up
to anyone that will take it. I left home and wife and children to come
and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not worse; but as
covetousness bursts the bag, it has rent my hopes asunder, for just as
I had them highest about getting that wretched unlucky island your
worship has so often promised me, I see that instead and in lieu of it
you mean to desert me now in a place so far from human reach: for God’s
sake, master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship will
not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it off till
morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me
it cannot want three hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn
is overhead and makes midnight in the line of the left arm.”

“How canst thou see, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “where it makes that
line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of, when
the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the whole
heaven?”

“That’s true,” said Sancho, “but fear has sharp eyes, and sees things
underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good reason
to show that it now wants but little of day.”

“Let it want what it may,” replied Don Quixote, “it shall not be said
of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside from
doing what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of thee,
Sancho, to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart to
undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care
to watch over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou hast to do is
to tighten Rocinante’s girths well, and wait here, for I shall come
back shortly, alive or dead.”

Sancho perceiving it his master’s final resolve, and how little his
tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determined to have
recourse to his own ingenuity and compel him, if he could, to wait till
daylight; and so, while tightening the girths of the horse, he quietly
and without being felt, with his ass’ halter tied both Rocinante’s
legs, so that when Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse
could only move by jumps. Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza
said:

“See there, señor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so
ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate,
and spur and strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as
they say, against the pricks.”

Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove his heels
into the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having any suspicion
of the tying, he was fain to resign himself and wait till daybreak or
until Rocinante could move, firmly persuaded that all this came of
something other than Sancho’s ingenuity. So he said to him, “As it is
so, Sancho, and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to wait till
dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while it delays its coming.”

“There is no need to weep,” answered Sancho, “for I will amuse your
worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed you
like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass
after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day comes
and the moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary adventure you
are looking forward to.”

“What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?” said Don
Quixote. “Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights that take their
rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to sleep, or do
as thou wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my
character.”

“Be not angry, master mine,” replied Sancho, “I did not mean to say
that;” and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of the
saddle and the other on the cantle so that he held his master’s left
thigh in his embrace, not daring to separate a finger’s width from him;
so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded with a
regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him as he
had proposed, to which Sancho replied that he would if his dread of
what he heard would let him; “Still,” said he, “I will strive to tell a
story which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody interferes with
the telling, is the best of stories, and let your worship give me your
attention, for here I begin. What was, was; and may the good that is to
come be for all, and the evil for him who goes to look for it—your
worship must know that the beginning the old folk used to put to their
tales was not just as each one pleased; it was a maxim of Cato
Zonzorino the Roman, that says ‘the evil for him that goes to look for
it,’ and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to finger, to show
that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for evil in any
quarter, and that we should go back by some other road, since nobody
forces us to follow this in which so many terrors affright us.”

“Go on with thy story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and leave the choice
of our road to my care.”

“I say then,” continued Sancho, “that in a village of Estremadura there
was a goat-shepherd—that is to say, one who tended goats—which shepherd
or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz
was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess
called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this rich
grazier—”

“If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have done these
two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a reasonable man, or
else say nothing.”

“Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling
this,” answered Sancho, “and I cannot tell it in any other, nor is it
right of your worship to ask me to make new customs.”

“Tell it as thou wilt,” replied Don Quixote; “and as fate will have it
that I cannot help listening to thee, go on.”

“And so, lord of my soul,” continued Sancho, as I have said, this
shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild
buxom lass with something of the look of a man about her, for she had
little moustaches; I fancy I see her now.”

“Then you knew her?” said Don Quixote.

“I did not know her,” said Sancho, “but he who told me the story said
it was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might
safely declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of
time, the devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion,
contrived that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned into
hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues, was
some little jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and
trespassed on forbidden ground; and so much did the shepherd hate her
from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, he determined
to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes on her again.
Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was immediately
smitten with love for him, though she had never loved him before.”

“That is the natural way of women,” said Don Quixote, “to scorn the one
that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on, Sancho.”

“It came to pass,” said Sancho, “that the shepherd carried out his
intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the
plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal.
Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot
followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand and a
scrip round her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of
looking-glass and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of
paint for her face; but let her carry what she did, I am not going to
trouble myself to prove it; all I say is, that the shepherd, they say,
came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which was at that
time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, and at the spot he came
to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or his
flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he perceived
that Torralva was approaching and would give him great annoyance with
her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking about so closely
that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of him a boat so small
that it could only hold one person and one goat; but for all that he
spoke to him and agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred
goats across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried one goat
over; he came back and carried another over; he came back again, and
again brought over another—let your worship keep count of the goats the
fisherman is taking across, for if one escapes the memory there will be
an end of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another word of
it. To proceed, I must tell you the landing place on the other side was
miry and slippery, and the fisherman lost a great deal of time in going
and coming; still he returned for another goat, and another, and
another.”

“Take it for granted he brought them all across,” said Don Quixote,
“and don’t keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt not make an
end of bringing them over this twelvemonth.”

“How many have gone across so far?” said Sancho.

“How the devil do I know?” replied Don Quixote.

“There it is,” said Sancho, “what I told you, that you must keep a good
count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there is no
going any farther.”

“How can that be?” said Don Quixote; “is it so essential to the story
to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that if there be
a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go on with it?”

“No, señor, not a bit,” replied Sancho; “for when I asked your worship
to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you answered you did not
know, at that very instant all I had to say passed away out of my
memory, and, faith, there was much virtue in it, and entertainment.”

“So, then,” said Don Quixote, “the story has come to an end?”

“As much as my mother has,” said Sancho.

“In truth,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast told one of the rarest
stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have
imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen nor
will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy
excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for perhaps those
ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits.”

“All that may be,” replied Sancho, “but I know that as to my story, all
that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in the count
of the passage of the goats begins.”

“Let it end where it will, well and good,” said Don Quixote, “and let
us see if Rocinante can go;” and again he spurred him, and again
Rocinante made jumps and remained where he was, so well tied was he.

Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now
approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at supper, or that
it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho felt a desire to do
what no one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had
penetrated his heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by
as much as the black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted was,
however, also impossible; so what he did for peace’s sake was to remove
his right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie
gently and silently the running string which alone held up his
breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down round his feet
like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he could and bared
his hind quarters, no slim ones. But, this accomplished, which he
fancied was all he had to do to get out of this terrible strait and
embarrassment, another still greater difficulty presented itself, for
it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself without making some
noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed his shoulders together,
holding his breath as much as he could; but in spite of his precautions
he was unlucky enough after all to make a little noise, very different
from that which was causing him so much fear.

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Don Quixote, hearing it, said, “What noise is that, Sancho?”

“I don’t know, señor,” said he; “it must be something new, for
adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle.” Once more he
tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that without any further noise
or disturbance he found himself relieved of the burden that had given
him so much discomfort. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smell was as
acute as his hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that
the fumes rose almost in a straight line, it could not be but that some
should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he came to its relief by
compressing it between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing tone,
“Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear.”

“I am,” answered Sancho; “but how does your worship perceive it now
more than ever?”

“Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of
ambergris,” answered Don Quixote.

“Very likely,” said Sancho, “but that’s not my fault, but your
worship’s, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such
unwonted paces.”

“Then go back three or four, my friend,” said Don Quixote, all the time
with his fingers to his nose; “and for the future pay more attention to
thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my great
familiarity with thee that has bred this contempt.”

“I’ll bet,” replied Sancho, “that your worship thinks I have done
something I ought not with my person.”

“It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,” returned Don Quixote.

With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed the
night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was coming on apace, very
cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As soon as
Rocinante found himself free, though by nature he was not at all
mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively and began pawing—for as to
capering, begging his pardon, he knew not what it meant. Don Quixote,
then, observing that Rocinante could move, took it as a good sign and a
signal that he should attempt the dread adventure. By this time day had
fully broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don Quixote saw that
he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, which cast a very deep shade;
he perceived likewise that the sound of the strokes did not cease, but
could not discover what caused it, and so without any further delay he
let Rocinante feel the spur, and once more taking leave of Sancho, he
told him to wait for him there three days at most, as he had said
before, and if he should not have returned by that time, he might feel
sure it had been God’s will that he should end his days in that
perilous adventure. He again repeated the message and commission with
which he was to go on his behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and said he was
not to be uneasy as to the payment of his services, for before leaving
home he had made his will, in which he would find himself fully
recompensed in the matter of wages in due proportion to the time he had
served; but if God delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that
danger, he might look upon the promised island as much more than
certain. Sancho began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting
words of his good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final
issue and end of the business. From these tears and this honourable
resolve of Sancho Panza’s the author of this history infers that he
must have been of good birth and at least an old Christian; and the
feeling he displayed touched his but not so much as to make him show
any weakness; on the contrary, hiding what he felt as well as he could,
he began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and
of the strokes seemed to come.

Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom was,
his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and advancing
some distance through the shady chestnut trees they came upon a little
meadow at the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of
water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were some rudely
constructed houses looking more like ruins than houses, from among
which came, they perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still
continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at the noise of
the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don Quixote advanced step
by step towards the houses, commending himself with all his heart to
his lady, imploring her support in that dread pass and enterprise, and
on the way commending himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho
who never quitted his side, stretched his neck as far as he could and
peered between the legs of Rocinante to see if he could now discover
what it was that caused him such fear and apprehension. They went it
might be a hundred paces farther, when on turning a corner the true
cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake, of that dread-sounding
and to them awe-inspiring noise that had kept them all the night in
such fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious; and it was (if,
reader, thou art not disgusted and disappointed) six fulling hammers
which by their alternate strokes made all the din.

When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck dumb and rigid
from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head bent
down upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced
at Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of
laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite of his
vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and when
Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had to hold
his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting with laughter.
Four times he stopped, and as many times did his laughter break out
afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew
furious, above all when he heard him say mockingly, “Thou must know,
friend Sancho, that of Heaven’s will I was born in this our iron age to
revive in it the golden or age of gold; I am he for whom are reserved
perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds;” and here he went on
repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time they heard
the awful strokes.

Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule,
was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him two
such blows that if, instead of catching them on his shoulders, he had
caught them on his head there would have been no wages to pay, unless
indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward
return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it
still further, said to him very humbly, “Calm yourself, sir, for by God
I am only joking.”

“Well, then, if you are joking I am not,” replied Don Quixote. “Look
here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers,
had been some perilous adventure, have I not, think you, shown the
courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am I, perchance,
being, as I am, a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and
tell whether they come from fulling mills or not; and that, when
perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen any as you have,
low boor as you are, that have been born and bred among them? But turn
me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to beard me, one
by one or all together, and if I do not knock them head over heels,
then make what mockery you like of me.”

“No more of that, señor,” returned Sancho; “I own I went a little too
far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that peace is made
between us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures that may
befall you as safe and sound as he has brought you out of this one),
was it not a thing to laugh at, and is it not a good story, the great
fear we were in?—at least that I was in; for as to your worship I see
now that you neither know nor understand what either fear or dismay
is.”

“I do not deny,” said Don Quixote, “that what happened to us may be
worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it is
not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a thing.”

“At any rate,” said Sancho, “your worship knew how to hit the right
point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the
shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But let
that pass; all will come out in the scouring; for I have heard say ‘he
loves thee well that makes thee weep;’ and moreover that it is the way
with great lords after any hard words they give a servant to give him a
pair of breeches; though I do not know what they give after blows,
unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or kingdoms
on the mainland.”

“It may be on the dice,” said Don Quixote, “that all thou sayest will
come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to know that
our first movements are not in our own control; and one thing for the
future bear in mind, that thou curb and restrain thy loquacity in my
company; for in all the books of chivalry that I have read, and they
are innumerable, I never met with a squire who talked so much to his
lord as thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel it to be a great fault
of thine and of mine: of thine, that thou hast so little respect for
me; of mine, that I do not make myself more respected. There was
Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of the Insula
Firme, and we read of him that he always addressed his lord with his
cap in his hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double, more
turquesco. And then, what shall we say of Gasabal, the squire of
Galaor, who was so silent that in order to indicate to us the greatness
of his marvellous taciturnity his name is only once mentioned in the
whole of that history, as long as it is truthful? From all I have said
thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be a difference between
master and man, between lord and lackey, between knight and squire: so
that from this day forward in our intercourse we must observe more
respect and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may be provoked
with you it will be bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits that
I have promised you will come in due time, and if they do not your
wages at least will not be lost, as I have already told you.”

“All that your worship says is very well,” said Sancho, “but I should
like to know (in case the time of favours should not come, and it might
be necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the squire of a
knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the month, or by
the day like bricklayers?”

“I do not believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that such squires were ever
on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now mentioned
thine in the sealed will I have left at home, it was with a view to
what may happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will turn out in
these wretched times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for
trifles in the other world; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in
this there is no condition more hazardous than that of adventurers.”

“That is true,” said Sancho, “since the mere noise of the hammers of a
fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant
errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open
my lips henceforward to make light of anything of your worship’s, but
only to honour you as my master and natural lord.”

“By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, “shalt thou live long on the face
of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as
though they were parents.”

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CHAPTER XXI.
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S
HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE
KNIGHT

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Full Size

It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the
fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on
account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any account;
so turning aside to right they came upon another road, different from
that which they had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don
Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head something
that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and
said:

“I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being
maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences,
especially that one that says, ‘Where one door shuts, another opens.’ I
say so because if last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we
were looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now
opens wide another one for another better and more certain adventure,
and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I
cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the
night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there comes towards us one
who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took
the oath thou rememberest.”

“Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,” said
Sancho, “for I don’t want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling
and knocking our senses out.”

“The devil take thee, man,” said Don Quixote; “what has a helmet to do
with fulling mills?”

“I don’t know,” replied Sancho, “but, faith, if I might speak as I
used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you
were mistaken in what you say.”

“How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?” returned
Don Quixote; “tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us
on a dappled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?”

“What I see and make out,” answered Sancho, “is only a man on a grey
ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head.”

“Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,” said Don Quixote; “stand to one
side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a
word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and
possess myself of the helmet I have so longed for.”

“I will take care to stand aside,” said Sancho; “but God grant, I say
once more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills.”

“I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling
mills to me again,” said Don Quixote, “or I vow—and I say no more—I’ll
full the soul out of you.”

Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow
he had hurled like a bowl at him.

The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that
Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two
villages, one of them so small that it had neither apothecary’s shop
nor barber, which the other that was close to it had, so the barber of
the larger served the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who
required to be bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on
this errand the barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but
as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not
to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his
head, and being clean it glittered at half a league’s distance. He rode
upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem to Don
Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a golden helmet; for
everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and
ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without
entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante’s top speed he bore
down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to run him
through and through, and as he reached him, without checking the fury
of his charge, he cried to him:

“Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that
which is so reasonably my due.”

The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this
apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself
from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and
no sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than
a deer and sped away across the plain faster than the wind.

He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented
himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated
the beaver, which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts
off with its teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it
is pursued.

He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands
said:

“By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it is
worth a maravedis,” and handed it to his master, who immediately put it
on his head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search of
fitment, and not finding it he said, “Clearly the pagan to whose
measure this famous head-piece was first forged must have had a very
large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting.”

When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to
restrain his laughter, but remembering his master’s wrath he checked
himself in the midst of it.

“What art thou laughing at, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“I am laughing,” said he, “to think of the great head the pagan must
have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular
barber’s basin.”

“Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?” said Don Quixote; “that this
wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident
have come into the hands of someone who was unable to recognise or
realise its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to
be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of
what it might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a
barber’s basin as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise
it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to rights
at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style
that that helmet the god of smithies forged for the god of battles
shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in the meantime I will
wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the
more as it will be quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a
stone.”

“That is,” said Sancho, “if it is not shot with a sling as they were in
the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your
worship’s grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught that
made me vomit my bowels up.”

“It does not grieve me much to have lost it,” said Don Quixote, “for
thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.”

“So have I,” answered Sancho, “but if ever I make it, or try it again
as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no
intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with
all my five senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding
anyone: as to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to
prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it
but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes,
and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us.”

“Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote on hearing this,
“for once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but
know that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to attach
importance to trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken
rib, what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that jest? For jest
and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen it in that
light I would have returned and done more mischief in revenging thee
than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if she were alive now,
or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend upon it she would not be
so famous for her beauty as she is;” and here he heaved a sigh and sent
it aloft; and said Sancho, “Let it pass for a jest as it cannot be
revenged in earnest, but I know what sort of jest and earnest it was,
and I know it will never be rubbed out of my memory any more than off
my shoulders. But putting that aside, will your worship tell me what
are we to do with this dapple-grey steed that looks like a grey ass,
which that Martino that your worship overthrew has left deserted here?
for, from the way he took to his heels and bolted, he is not likely
ever to come back for it; and by my beard but the grey is a good one.”

“I have never been in the habit,” said Don Quixote, “of taking spoil of
those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away
their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the
victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to
take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore,
Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be;
for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it.”

“God knows I should like to take it,” returned Sancho, “or at least to
change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily
the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let
one ass be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at
least change trappings.”

“On that head I am not quite certain,” answered Don Quixote, “and the
matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest
change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them.”

“So urgent is it,” answered Sancho, “that if they were for my own
person I could not want them more;” and forthwith, fortified by this
licence, he effected the mutatio capparum, and rigged out his beast
to the ninety-nines and making quite another thing of it. This done,
they broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered
from the sumpter mule, and drank of the brook that flowed from the
fulling mills, without casting a look in that direction, in such
loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and,
all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any fixed
road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true
knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante’s will, which
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass,
which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably;
nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a
venture without any other aim.

As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master,
“Señor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For
since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things
have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of
my tongue that I don’t want to be spoiled.”

“Say, on, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and be brief in thy discourse,
for there is no pleasure in one that is long.”

“Well then, señor,” returned Sancho, “I say that for some days past I
have been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of
these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and
cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous are victoriously
achieved, there is no one to see or know of them, and so they must be
left untold for ever, to the loss of your worship’s object and the
credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it would be better
(saving your worship’s better judgment) if we were to go and serve some
emperor or other great prince who may have some war on hand, in whose
service your worship may prove the worth of your person, your great
might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord in whose
service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each according to
his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for someone to set down
your achievements in writing so as to preserve their memory for ever.
Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits,
though I make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to
write the achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out.”

“Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “but before
that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name
and fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the
court of some great monarch the knight may be already known by his
deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of
the city, may all follow him and surround him, crying, ‘This is the
Knight of the Sun’—or the Serpent, or any other title under which he
may have achieved great deeds. ‘This,’ they will say, ‘is he who
vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty strength;
he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the long
enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred years.’ So
from one to another they will go proclaiming his achievements; and
presently at the tumult of the boys and the others the king of that
kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as
he beholds the knight, recognising him by his arms and the device on
his shield, he will as a matter of course say, ‘What ho! Forth all ye,
the knights of my court, to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh
hither!’ At which command all will issue forth, and he himself,
advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him closely, and
salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then lead him to the
queen’s chamber, where the knight will find her with the princess her
daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished
damsels that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in the
known world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her
eyes upon the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the
other something more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why
they will be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and
sorely distressed in their hearts not to see any way of making their
pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence they will lead him, no
doubt, to some richly adorned chamber of the palace, where, having
removed his armour, they will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet
wherewith to robe himself, and if he looked noble in his armour he will
look still more so in a doublet. When night comes he will sup with the
king, queen, and princess; and all the time he will never take his eyes
off her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by those present, and she
will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a
damsel of great discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through
the door of the hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf
followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a certain
adventure, the work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it
shall be deemed the best knight in the world.

“The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none
will bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the
great enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed
and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed
her thoughts so high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince,
or whatever he is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as
powerful as himself, and the stranger knight, after having been some
days at his court, requests leave from him to go and serve him in the
said war. The king will grant it very readily, and the knight will
courteously kiss his hands for the favour done to him; and that night
he will take leave of his lady the princess at the grating of the
chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at which he
has already many times conversed with her, the go-between and
confidante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the princess.
He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much
distressed because morning approaches, and for the honour of her lady
he would not that they were discovered; at last the princess will come
to herself and will present her white hands through the grating to the
knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing
them with his tears. It will be arranged between them how they are to
inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will
entreat him to make his absence as short as possible, which he will
promise to do with many oaths; once more he kisses her hands, and takes
his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes
him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for
sorrow at parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of
the king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair,
it is told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a
visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart
is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The
confidante is present, observes all, goes to tell her mistress, who
listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not
knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not;
the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and gallantry
of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any save one who
was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she
strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her
parents, and at the end of two days she appears in public. Meanwhile
the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the
king’s enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to
the court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed
that he shall demand her in marriage of her parents as the reward of
his services; the king is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he
is, but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it
may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to
regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this knight is
proved to be the son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not
what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies,
the princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And
here comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all
who have aided him in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his
squire to a damsel of the princess’s, who will be, no doubt, the one
who was confidante in their amour, and is daughter of a very great
duke.”

“That’s what I want, and no mistake about it!” said Sancho. “That’s
what I’m waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your
worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”

“Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for in the
same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here,
knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we
want now is to find out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and
has a beautiful daughter; but there will be time enough to think of
that, for, as I have told thee, fame must be won in other quarters
before repairing to the court. There is another thing, too, that is
wanting; for supposing we find a king who is at war and has a beautiful
daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the universe,
I know not how it can be made out that I am of royal lineage, or even
second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be willing to give
me his daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on
this point, however much my famous deeds may deserve it; so that by
this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned. True
it is I am a gentleman of known house, of estate and property, and
entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulet; and it may be that the sage
who shall write my history will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree
that I may find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a king; for I
would have thee know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in
the world; some there be tracing and deriving their descent from kings
and princes, whom time has reduced little by little until they end in a
point like a pyramid upside down; and others who spring from the common
herd and go on rising step by step until they come to be great lords;
so that the difference is that the one were what they no longer are,
and the others are what they formerly were not. And I may be of such
that after investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with
which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied;
and should he not be, the princess will so love me that even though she
well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her
lord and husband in spite of her father; if not, then it comes to
seizing her and carrying her off where I please; for time or death will
put an end to the wrath of her parents.”

“It comes to this, too,” said Sancho, “what some naughty people say,
‘Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;’ though it would
fit better to say, ‘A clear escape is better than good men’s prayers.’
I say so because if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law,
will not condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing
for it but, as your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But
the mischief is that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful
enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as
rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to be his
wife comes with the princess, and that with her he tides over his bad
luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his master, I suppose,
may as well give her to him at once for a lawful wife.”

“Nobody can object to that,” said Don Quixote.

“Then since that may be,” said Sancho, “there is nothing for it but to
commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will.”

“God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,” said Don Quixote,
“and mean be he who thinks himself mean.”

“In God’s name let him be so,” said Sancho: “I am an old Christian, and
to fit me for a count that’s enough.”

“And more than enough for thee,” said Don Quixote; “and even wert thou
not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily
give thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for
when I make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they
may say what they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee
‘your lordship,’ whether they like it or not.”

“Not a doubt of it; and I’ll know how to support the tittle,” said
Sancho.

“Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,” said his master.

“So be it,” answered Sancho. “I say I will know how to behave, for once
in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle’s gown sat so
well on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same
brotherhood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke’s robe on my
back, or dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe
they’ll come a hundred leagues to see me.”

“Thou wilt look well,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must shave thy beard
often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou
dost not shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou
art at the distance of a musket shot.”

“What more will it be,” said Sancho, “than having a barber, and keeping
him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him
go behind me like a nobleman’s equerry.”

“Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?”
asked Don Quixote.

“I will tell you,” answered Sancho. “Years ago I was for a month at the
capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they
said was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in
every turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man
did not join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they
answered me that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with
nobles to have such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it,
for I have never forgotten it.”

“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and in the same way thou mayest
carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all
together, nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the
first count to have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one’s
beard is a greater trust than saddling one’s horse.”

“Let the barber business be my look-out,” said Sancho; “and your
worship’s be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count.”

“So it shall be,” answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw
what will be told in the following chapter.

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