CHAPTER XLIV — IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

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So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the landlord
opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay, and ran
to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside joined
him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the same
outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without anyone
seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and
down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord and the
travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with him that
he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off his wrist,
and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his buckler on his
arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable circuit of the
plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming:

“Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause, provided
my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do so, I give
him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single combat.”

The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don Quixote;
but the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who he was, and
not to mind him as he was out of his senses. They then asked the
landlord if by any chance a youth of about fifteen years of age had
come to that inn, one dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an
appearance, describing that of Doña Clara’s lover. The landlord replied
that there were so many people in the inn he had not noticed the person
they were inquiring for; but one of them observing the coach in which
the Judge had come, said, “He is here no doubt, for this is the coach
he is following: let one of us stay at the gate, and the rest go in to
look for him; or indeed it would be as well if one of us went round the
inn, lest he should escape over the wall of the yard.” “So be it,” said
another; and while two of them went in, one remained at the gate and
the other made the circuit of the inn; observing all which, the
landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason they were taking all
these precautions, though he understood they were looking for the youth
whose description they had given him.

It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in
consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and
up, but particularly Doña Clara and Dorothea; for they had been able to
sleep but badly that night, the one from agitation at having her lover
so near her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he
saw that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or
replied to his challenge, was furious and ready to die with indignation
and wrath; and if he could have found in the ordinances of chivalry
that it was lawful for a knight-errant to undertake or engage in
another enterprise, when he had plighted his word and faith not to
involve himself in any until he had made an end of the one to which he
was pledged, he would have attacked the whole of them, and would have
made them return an answer in spite of themselves. But considering that
it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new emprise until
he had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he was constrained to
hold his peace and wait quietly to see what would be the upshot of the
proceedings of those same travellers; one of whom found the youth they
were seeking lying asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought
of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding him.

The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, “It becomes you well
indeed, Señor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the bed
in which I find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother reared
you.”

The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who held
him, but presently recognised him as one of his father’s servants, at
which he was so taken aback that for some time he could not find or
utter a word; while the servant went on to say, “There is nothing for
it now, Señor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and return home, unless
it is your wish that my lord, your father, should take his departure
for the other world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the
grief he is in at your absence.”

“But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this
dress?” said Don Luis.

“It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,” answered the
servant, “that disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress he saw
your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four of his
servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your service, better
pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so soon and be able
to restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you.”

“That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders,” returned Don Luis.

“What can you please or heaven order,” said the other, “except to agree
to go back? Anything else is impossible.”

All this conversation between the two was overheard by the muleteer at
whose side Don Luis lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken
place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the others, who had by this time
dressed themselves; and told them how the man had addressed the youth
as “Don,” and what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to
his father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, and what
they already knew of the rare voice that heaven had bestowed upon him,
they all felt very anxious to know more particularly who he was, and
even to help him if it was attempted to employ force against him; so
they hastened to where he was still talking and arguing with his
servant. Dorothea at this instant came out of her room, followed by
Doña Clara all in a tremor; and calling Cardenio aside, she told him in
a few words the story of the musician and Doña Clara, and he at the
same time told her what had happened, how his father’s servants had
come in search of him; but in telling her so, he did not speak low
enough but that Doña Clara heard what he said, at which she was so much
agitated that had not Dorothea hastened to support her she would have
fallen to the ground. Cardenio then bade Dorothea return to her room,
as he would endeavour to make the whole matter right, and they did as
he desired. All the four who had come in quest of Don Luis had now come
into the inn and surrounded him, urging him to return and console his
father at once and without a moment’s delay. He replied that he could
not do so on any account until he had concluded some business in which
his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants pressed him,
saying that most certainly they would not return without him, and that
they would take him away whether he liked it or not.

“You shall not do that,” replied Don Luis, “unless you take me dead;
though however you take me, it will be without life.”

By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the
dispute, but particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the
Judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for he now considered
there was no necessity for mounting guard over the castle any longer.
Cardenio being already acquainted with the young man’s story, asked the
men who wanted to take him away, what object they had in seeking to
carry off this youth against his will.

“Our object,” said one of the four, “is to save the life of his father,
who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman’s disappearance.”

Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, “There is no need to make my affairs
public here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not, none
of you shall compel me.”

“Reason will compel your worship,” said the man, “and if it has no
power over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came for,
and what it is our duty to do.”

“Let us hear what the whole affair is about,” said the Judge at this;
but the man, who knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, “Do you
not know this gentleman, Señor Judge? He is the son of your neighbour,
who has run away from his father’s house in a dress so unbecoming his
rank, as your worship may perceive.”

The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him, and
embracing him said, “What folly is this, Señor Don Luis, or what can
have been the cause that could have induced you to come here in this
way, and in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?”

Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was unable to utter a
word in reply to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be
uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking Don
Luis by the hand, he drew him aside and asked the reason of his having
come there.

But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the gate
of the inn, the cause of which was that two of the guests who had
passed the night there, seeing everybody busy about finding out what it
was the four men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off without
paying what they owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs
more than other people’s, caught them going out of the gate and
demanded his reckoning, abusing them for their dishonesty with such
language that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so they
began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was forced to cry
out, and call for help. The landlady and her daughter could see no one
more free to give aid than Don Quixote, and to him the daughter said,
“Sir knight, by the virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for
two wicked men are beating him to a mummy.”

To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied,
“Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I
am debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have brought
to a happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but that
which I can do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell your
father to stand his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no
account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and request
permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to succour him in
his distress; and if she grants it, rest assured I will relieve him
from it.”

“Sinner that I am,” exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by; “before you
have got your permission my master will be in the other world.”

“Give me leave, señora, to obtain the permission I speak of,” returned
Don Quixote; “and if I get it, it will matter very little if he is in
the other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite of all the same
world can do; or at any rate I will give you such a revenge over those
who shall have sent him there that you will be more than moderately
satisfied;” and without saying anything more he went and knelt before
Dorothea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be
pleased to grant him permission to aid and succour the castellan of
that castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. The princess granted
it graciously, and he at once, bracing his buckler on his arm and
drawing his sword, hastened to the inn-gate, where the two guests were
still handling the landlord roughly; but as soon as he reached the spot
he stopped short and stood still, though Maritornes and the landlady
asked him why he hesitated to help their master and husband.

“I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, “because it is not lawful for me to
draw sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my squire
Sancho to me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and
business.”

Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very lively
exchange of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord
and to the wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, and her daughter, who
were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixote, and the
hard treatment their master, husband and father was undergoing. But let
us leave him there; for he will surely find someone to help him, and if
not, let him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts more than his
strength allows him to do; and let us go back fifty paces to see what
Don Luis said in reply to the Judge whom we left questioning him
privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and so meanly dressed.

To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart
was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made
answer:

“Señor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when,
through heaven’s will and our being near neighbours, I first saw Doña
Clara, your daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her the
mistress of my will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no
impediment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left my
father’s house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to follow her
whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark or the sailor the
pole-star. She knows nothing more of my passion than what she may have
learned from having sometimes seen from a distance that my eyes were
filled with tears. You know already, señor, the wealth and noble birth
of my parents, and that I am their sole heir; if this be a sufficient
inducement for you to venture to make me completely happy, accept me at
once as your son; for if my father, influenced by other objects of his
own, should disapprove of this happiness I have sought for myself, time
has more power to alter and change things, than human will.”

With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the Judge, after
hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the
manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the secret of
his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not knowing
what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the
answer, therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for
the present, and arrange with his servants not to take him back that
day, so that there might be time to consider what was best for all
parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his
tears, in a way that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say
that of the Judge, who, as a shrewd man, had already perceived how
advantageous the marriage would be to his daughter; though, were it
possible, he would have preferred that it should be brought about with
the consent of the father of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title
for his son.

The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, for, by
persuasion and Don Quixote’s fair words more than by threats, they had
paid him what he demanded, and the servants of Don Luis were waiting
for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master’s
decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber,
from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza the
trappings of his ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this
instant enter the inn; which said barber, as he led his ass to the
stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or other
belonging to the pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and
made bold to attack Sancho, exclaiming, “Ho, sir thief, I have caught
you! hand over my basin and my pack-saddle, and all my trappings that
you robbed me of.”

Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse
poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one hand, and with the
other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood. The
barber, however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he had made
in the pack-saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that
everyone in the inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel
meant. “Here, in the name of the king and justice!” he cried, “this
thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my
property.”

“You lie,” said Sancho, “I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my
master Don Quixote won these spoils.”

Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his
squire’s stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from that time
forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his heart resolved to dub
him a knight on the first opportunity that presented itself, feeling
sure that the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed upon him.

In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said,
“Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death,
and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass
in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not
fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day
I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin,
never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day.”

At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and
interposing between the two, and separating them, he placed the
pack-saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight until the truth was
established, and said, “Your worships may perceive clearly and plainly
the error under which this worthy squire lies when he calls a basin
which was, is, and shall be the helmet of Mambrino which I won from him
in fair war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful
possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself; but I may
tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked my permission to
strip off the caparison of this vanquished poltroon’s steed, and with
it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took it; and as to its having
been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle, I can give no
explanation except the usual one, that such transformations will take
place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run, Sancho my
son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a basin.”

“Egad, master,” said Sancho, “if we have no other proof of our case
than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino’s helmet is just as much
a basin as this good fellow’s caparison is a pack-saddle.”

“Do as I bid thee,” said Don Quixote; “it cannot be that everything in
this castle goes by enchantment.”

Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back with him,
and when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it and said:

“Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert that
this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear by the
order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the identical one I
took from him, without anything added to or taken from it.”

“There is no doubt of that,” said Sancho, “for from the time my master
won it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he let loose
those unlucky men in chains; and if it had not been for this
basin-helmet he would not have come off over well that time, for there
was plenty of stone-throwing in that affair.”

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CHAPTER XLV.
IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE
IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND
EARNEST

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“What do you think now, gentlemen,” said the barber, “of what these
gentles say, when they want to make out that this is a helmet?”

“And whoever says the contrary,” said Don Quixote, “I will let him know
he lies if he is a knight, and if he is a squire that he lies again a
thousand times.”

Our own barber, who was present at all this, and understood Don
Quixote’s humour so thoroughly, took it into his head to back up his
delusion and carry on the joke for the general amusement; so addressing
the other barber he said:

“Señor barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to your
profession too, and have had a licence to practise for more than twenty
years, and I know the implements of the barber craft, every one of
them, perfectly well; and I was likewise a soldier for some time in the
days of my youth, and I know also what a helmet is, and a morion, and a
headpiece with a visor, and other things pertaining to soldiering, I
meant to say to soldiers’ arms; and I say—saving better opinions and
always with submission to sounder judgments—that this piece we have now
before us, which this worthy gentleman has in his hands, not only is no
barber’s basin, but is as far from being one as white is from black,
and truth from falsehood; I say, moreover, that this, although it is a
helmet, is not a complete helmet.”

“Certainly not,” said Don Quixote, “for half of it is wanting, that is
to say the beaver.”

“It is quite true,” said the curate, who saw the object of his friend
the barber; and Cardenio, Don Fernando and his companions agreed with
him, and even the Judge, if his thoughts had not been so full of Don
Luis’s affair, would have helped to carry on the joke; but he was so
taken up with the serious matters he had on his mind that he paid
little or no attention to these facetious proceedings.

“God bless me!” exclaimed their butt the barber at this; “is it
possible that such an honourable company can say that this is not a
basin but a helmet? Why, this is a thing that would astonish a whole
university, however wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a
helmet, why, then the pack-saddle must be a horse’s caparison, as this
gentleman has said.”

“To me it looks like a pack-saddle,” said Don Quixote; “but I have
already said that with that question I do not concern myself.”

“As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison,” said the curate, “it is
only for Señor Don Quixote to say; for in these matters of chivalry all
these gentlemen and I bow to his authority.”

“By God, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, “so many strange things have
happened to me in this castle on the two occasions on which I have
sojourned in it, that I will not venture to assert anything positively
in reply to any question touching anything it contains; for it is my
belief that everything that goes on within it goes by enchantment. The
first time, an enchanted Moor that there is in it gave me sore trouble,
nor did Sancho fare well among certain followers of his; and last night
I was kept hanging by this arm for nearly two hours, without knowing
how or why I came by such a mishap. So that now, for me to come forward
to give an opinion in such a puzzling matter, would be to risk a rash
decision. As regards the assertion that this is a basin and not a
helmet I have already given an answer; but as to the question whether
this is a pack-saddle or a caparison I will not venture to give a
positive opinion, but will leave it to your worships’ better judgment.
Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights like myself, the enchantments of
this place have nothing to do with you, and your faculties are
unfettered, and you can see things in this castle as they really and
truly are, and not as they appear to me.”

“There can be no question,” said Don Fernando on this, “but that Señor
Don Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that with us rests the decision
of this matter; and that we may have surer ground to go on, I will take
the votes of the gentlemen in secret, and declare the result clearly
and fully.”

To those who were in on the secret of Don Quixote’s humour all this
afforded great amusement; but to those who knew nothing about it, it
seemed the greatest nonsense in the world, in particular to the four
servants of Don Luis, as well as to Don Luis himself, and to three
other travellers who had by chance come to the inn, and had the
appearance of officers of the Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were;
but the one who above all was at his wits’ end was the barber whose
basin, there before his very eyes, had been turned into Mambrino’s
helmet, and whose pack-saddle he had no doubt whatever was about to
become a rich caparison for a horse. All laughed to see Don Fernando
going from one to another collecting the votes, and whispering to them
to give him their private opinion whether the treasure over which there
had been so much fighting was a pack-saddle or a caparison; but after
he had taken the votes of those who knew Don Quixote, he said aloud,
“The fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting such a number
of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom I ask what I
desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd to say that this
is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the caparison of a horse, nay, of
a thoroughbred horse; so you must submit, for, in spite of you and your
ass, this is a caparison and no pack-saddle, and you have stated and
proved your case very badly.”

“May I never share heaven,” said the poor barber, “if your worships are
not all mistaken; and may my soul appear before God as that appears to
me a pack-saddle and not a caparison; but, ‘laws go,’—I say no more;
and indeed I am not drunk, for I am fasting, except it be from sin.”

The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement than the
absurdities of Don Quixote, who now observed:

“There is no more to be done now than for each to take what belongs to
him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his blessing.”

But said one of the four servants, “Unless, indeed, this is a
deliberate joke, I cannot bring myself to believe that men so
intelligent as those present are, or seem to be, can venture to declare
and assert that this is not a basin, and that not a pack-saddle; but as
I perceive that they do assert and declare it, I can only come to the
conclusion that there is some mystery in this persistence in what is so
opposed to the evidence of experience and truth itself; for I swear
by”—and here he rapped out a round oath—“all the people in the world
will not make me believe that this is not a barber’s basin and that a
jackass’s pack-saddle.”

“It might easily be a she-ass’s,” observed the curate.

“It is all the same,” said the servant; “that is not the point; but
whether it is or is not a pack-saddle, as your worships say.”

On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the Brotherhood,
who had been listening to the dispute and controversy, unable to
restrain his anger and impatience, exclaimed, “It is a pack-saddle as
sure as my father is my father, and whoever has said or will say
anything else must be drunk.”

“You lie like a rascally clown,” returned Don Quixote; and lifting his
pike, which he had never let out of his hand, he delivered such a blow
at his head that, had not the officer dodged it, it would have
stretched him at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces against
the ground, and the rest of the officers, seeing their comrade
assaulted, raised a shout, calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood.
The landlord, who was of the fraternity, ran at once to fetch his staff
of office and his sword, and ranged himself on the side of his
comrades; the servants of Don Luis clustered round him, lest he should
escape from them in the confusion; the barber, seeing the house turned
upside down, once more laid hold of his pack-saddle and Sancho did the
same; Don Quixote drew his sword and charged the officers; Don Luis
cried out to his servants to leave him alone and go and help Don
Quixote, and Cardenio and Don Fernando, who were supporting him; the
curate was shouting at the top of his voice, the landlady was
screaming, her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was weeping, Dorothea
was aghast, Luscinda terror-stricken, and Doña Clara in a faint. The
barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the barber; Don Luis gave
one of his servants, who ventured to catch him by the arm to keep him
from escaping, a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood; the Judge took
his part; Don Fernando had got one of the officers down and was
belabouring him heartily; the landlord raised his voice again calling
for help for the Holy Brotherhood; so that the whole inn was nothing
but cries, shouts, shrieks, confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps,
sword-cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed; and in the
midst of all this chaos, complication, and general entanglement, Don
Quixote took it into his head that he had been plunged into the thick
of the discord of Agramante’s camp; and, in a voice that shook the inn
like thunder, he cried out:

“Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and attend to
me as they value their lives!”

All paused at his mighty voice, and he went on to say, “Did I not tell
you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a legion or so of
devils dwelt in it? In proof whereof I call upon you to behold with
your own eyes how the discord of Agramante’s camp has come hither, and
been transferred into the midst of us. See how they fight, there for
the sword, here for the horse, on that side for the eagle, on this for
the helmet; we are all fighting, and all at cross purposes. Come then,
you, Señor Judge, and you, señor curate; let the one represent King
Agramante and the other King Sobrino, and make peace among us; for by
God Almighty it is a sorry business that so many persons of quality as
we are should slay one another for such trifling cause.” The officers,
who did not understand Don Quixote’s mode of speaking, and found
themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their
companions, were not to be appeased; the barber was, however, for both
his beard and his pack-saddle were the worse for the struggle; Sancho
like a good servant obeyed the slightest word of his master; while the
four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when they saw how little they
gained by not being so. The landlord alone insisted upon it that they
must punish the insolence of this madman, who at every turn raised a
disturbance in the inn; but at length the uproar was stilled for the
present; the pack-saddle remained a caparison till the day of judgment,
and the basin a helmet and the inn a castle in Don Quixote’s
imagination.

All having been now pacified and made friends by the persuasion of the
Judge and the curate, the servants of Don Luis began again to urge him
to return with them at once; and while he was discussing the matter
with them, the Judge took counsel with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate as to what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it
stood, and what Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that
Don Fernando should tell the servants of Don Luis who he was, and that
it was his desire that Don Luis should accompany him to Andalusia,
where he would receive from the marquis his brother the welcome his
quality entitled him to; for, otherwise, it was easy to see from the
determination of Don Luis that he would not return to his father at
present, though they tore him to pieces. On learning the rank of Don
Fernando and the resolution of Don Luis the four then settled it
between themselves that three of them should return to tell his father
how matters stood, and that the other should remain to wait upon Don
Luis, and not leave him until they came back for him, or his father’s
orders were known. Thus by the authority of Agramante and the wisdom of
King Sobrino all this complication of disputes was arranged; but the
enemy of concord and hater of peace, feeling himself slighted and made
a fool of, and seeing how little he had gained after having involved
them all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved to try his hand
once more by stirring up fresh quarrels and disturbances.

It came about in this wise: the officers were pacified on learning the
rank of those with whom they had been engaged, and withdrew from the
contest, considering that whatever the result might be they were likely
to get the worst of the battle; but one of them, the one who had been
thrashed and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among some
warrants he carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one
against Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be
arrested for setting the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with very
good reason, apprehended. Suspecting how it was, then, he wished to
satisfy himself as to whether Don Quixote’s features corresponded; and
taking a parchment out of his bosom he lit upon what he was in search
of, and setting himself to read it deliberately, for he was not a quick
reader, as he made out each word he fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and
went on comparing the description in the warrant with his face, and
discovered that beyond all doubt he was the person described in it. As
soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up the parchment, he took the
warrant in his left hand and with his right seized Don Quixote by the
collar so tightly that he did not allow him to breathe, and shouted
aloud, “Help for the Holy Brotherhood! and that you may see I demand it
in earnest, read this warrant which says this highwayman is to be
arrested.”

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was
true, and that it agreed with Don Quixote’s appearance, who, on his
part, when he found himself roughly handled by this rascally clown,
worked up to the highest pitch of wrath, and all his joints cracking
with rage, with both hands seized the officer by the throat with all
his might, so that had he not been helped by his comrades he would have
yielded up his life ere Don Quixote released his hold. The landlord,
who had perforce to support his brother officers, ran at once to aid
them. The landlady, when she saw her husband engaged in a fresh
quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its note was immediately
caught up by Maritornes and her daughter, calling upon heaven and all
present for help; and Sancho, seeing what was going on, exclaimed, “By
the Lord, it is quite true what my master says about the enchantments
of this castle, for it is impossible to live an hour in peace in it!”

Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixote, and to their mutual
contentment made them relax the grip by which they held, the one the
coat collar, the other the throat of his adversary; for all this,
however, the officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and call
on them to help, and deliver him over bound into their power, as was
required for the service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on
whose behalf they again demanded aid and assistance to effect the
capture of this robber and footpad of the highways.

Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said very calmly,
“Come now, base, ill-born brood; call ye it highway robbery to give
freedom to those in bondage, to release the captives, to succour the
miserable, to raise up the fallen, to relieve the needy? Infamous
beings, who by your vile grovelling intellects deserve that heaven
should not make known to you the virtue that lies in knight-errantry,
or show you the sin and ignorance in which ye lie when ye refuse to
respect the shadow, not to say the presence, of any knight-errant! Come
now; band, not of officers, but of thieves; footpads with the licence
of the Holy Brotherhood; tell me who was the ignoramus who signed a
warrant of arrest against such a knight as I am? Who was he that did
not know that knights-errant are independent of all jurisdictions, that
their law is their sword, their charter their prowess, and their edicts
their will? Who, I say again, was the fool that knows not that there
are no letters patent of nobility that confer such privileges or
exemptions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight,
and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry? What
knight-errant ever paid poll-tax, duty, queen’s pin-money, king’s dues,
toll or ferry? What tailor ever took payment of him for making his
clothes? What castellan that received him in his castle ever made him
pay his shot? What king did not seat him at his table? What damsel was
not enamoured of him and did not yield herself up wholly to his will
and pleasure? And, lastly, what knight-errant has there been, is there,
or will there ever be in the world, not bold enough to give,
single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers of the
Holy Brotherhood if they come in his way?”

CHAPTER XLVI.
OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON
QUIXOTE

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While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was
endeavouring to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as
they might perceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not
press the matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried
him off, they would have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which
the holder of the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with
inquiring into Don Quixote’s madness, but only to execute his
superior’s orders, and that once taken they might let him go three
hundred times if they liked.

“For all that,” said the curate, “you must not take him away this time,
nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away.”

In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad
things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they
had not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to
allow themselves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between
the barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with
much bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the
question by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not
perfectly contented, at least to some extent satisfied; for they
changed the pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-stalls; and as to
Mambrino’s helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote’s
knowing it, paid eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a
full receipt and engagement to make no further demand then or
thenceforth for evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the most
important and gravest, being settled, it only remained for the servants
of Don Luis to consent that three of them should return while one was
left to accompany him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and
good luck and better fortune, having already begun to solve
difficulties and remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and
warriors of the inn, were pleased to persevere and bring everything to
a happy issue; for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which
gave Doña Clara such happiness that no one could have looked into her
face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida, though she
did not fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or gay without knowing
why, as she watched and studied the various countenances, but
particularly her Spaniard’s, whom she followed with her eyes and clung
to with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate gave the
barber had not escaped the landlord’s notice, and he demanded Don
Quixote’s reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his
wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante
nor Sancho’s ass should leave the inn until he had been paid to the
very last farthing. The curate settled all amicably, and Don Fernando
paid; though the Judge had also very readily offered to pay the score;
and all became so peaceful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded
one of the discord of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the
peace and tranquillity of the days of Octavianus: for all which it was
the universal opinion that their thanks were due to the great zeal and
eloquence of the curate, and to the unexampled generosity of Don
Fernando.

Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire’s as
well as his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to
continue the journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great
adventure for which he had been called and chosen; and with this high
resolve he went and knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not
allow him to utter a word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose,
and said, “It is a common proverb, fair lady, that ‘diligence is the
mother of good fortune,’ and experience has often shown in important
affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings the doubtful case
to a successful termination; but in nothing does this truth show itself
more plainly than in war, where quickness and activity forestall the
devices of the enemy, and win the victory before the foe has time to
defend himself. All this I say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it
seems to me that for us to remain any longer in this castle now is
useless, and may be injurious to us in a way that we shall find out
some day; for who knows but that your enemy the giant may have learned
by means of secret and diligent spies that I am going to destroy him,
and if the opportunity be given him he may seize it to fortify himself
in some impregnable castle or stronghold, against which all my efforts
and the might of my indefatigable arm may avail but little? Therefore,
lady, let us, as I say, forestall his schemes by our activity, and let
us depart at once in quest of fair fortune; for your highness is only
kept from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in
encountering your adversary.”

Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply
of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style
adapted to Don Quixote’s own, replied to him in these words, “I give
you thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to
whom it is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy,
display to afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your
wishes and mine may be realised, so that you may see that there are
women in this world capable of gratitude; as to my departure, let it be
forthwith, for I have no will but yours; dispose of me entirely in
accordance with your good pleasure; for she who has once entrusted to
you the defence of her person, and placed in your hands the recovery of
her dominions, must not think of offering opposition to that which your
wisdom may ordain.”

“On, then, in God’s name,” said Don Quixote; “for, when a lady humbles
herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and
placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for
the common saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my
eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell
seen any that can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and
get ready thy ass and the queen’s palfrey, and let us take leave of the
castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this very instant.”

Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, “Ah!
master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears
of, begging all good bodies’ pardon.”

“What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the
world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?” said Don Quixote.

“If your worship is angry,” replied Sancho, “I will hold my tongue and
leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good
servant should tell his master.”

“Say what thou wilt,” returned Don Quixote, “provided thy words be not
meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving
like thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing.”

“It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,” said Sancho,
“but that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls
herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my
mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses
with one that is here every instant and behind every door.”

Dorothea turned red at Sancho’s words, for the truth was that her
husband Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not
looking, gathered from her lips some of the reward his love had earned,
and Sancho seeing this had considered that such freedom was more like a
courtesan than a queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable
or not caring to answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued,
“This I say, señor, because, if after we have travelled roads and
highways, and passed bad nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying
himself in this inn is to reap the fruit of our labours, there is no
need for me to be in a hurry to saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the
ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it will be better for us to stay
quiet, and let every jade mind her spinning, and let us go to dinner.”

Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the
audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice
inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed
living fire, he exclaimed, “Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and
ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer!
Hast thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in that of these
illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such gross and shameless
thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from my presence, thou born
monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries,
inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities, enemy of the respect
due to royal personages! Begone, show thyself no more before me under
pain of my wrath;” and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his
cheeks, gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his
right foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his
heart; and at his words and furious gestures Sancho was so scared and
terrified that he would have been glad if the earth had opened that
instant and swallowed him, and his only thought was to turn round and
make his escape from the angry presence of his master.

But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don
Quixote’s humour, said, to mollify his wrath, “Be not irritated at the
absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from
his good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would
bear false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without
any hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this
castle goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I
say, may possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he
says he saw so much to the detriment of my modesty.”

“I swear by God Omnipotent,” exclaimed Don Quixote at this, “your
highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come
before this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have
been impossible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know
well enough, from the poor fellow’s goodness and harmlessness, that he
is incapable of bearing false witness against anybody.”

“True, no doubt,” said Don Fernando, “for which reason, Señor Don
Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your
favour, sicut erat in principio, before illusions of this sort had
taken away his senses.”

Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for
Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for
the hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him
to kiss it, gave him his blessing and said, “Now, Sancho my son, thou
wilt be convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee,
that everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment.”

“So it is, I believe,” said Sancho, “except the affair of the blanket,
which came to pass in reality by ordinary means.”

“Believe it not,” said Don Quixote, “for had it been so, I would have
avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could
I, nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong.”

They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the
landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho’s flights, at which they
laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out
of countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all
enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch
that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth,
without any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by
beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms,
as his master believed and protested.

The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it
seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without
giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don
Quixote to his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona,
the curate and the barber might carry him away with them as they
proposed, and the curate be able to take his madness in hand at home;
and in pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of an
oxcart who happened to be passing that way to carry him after this
fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars, large enough
to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then Don Fernando and his
companions, the servants of Don Luis, and the officers of the
Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions and advice
of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in
one way, some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite
different from the persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in
profound silence they entered the room where he was asleep, taking his
rest after the past frays, and advancing to where he was sleeping
tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the kind happening, they seized
him firmly and bound him fast hand and foot, so that, when he awoke
startled, he was unable to move, and could only marvel and wonder at
the strange figures he saw before him; upon which he at once gave way
to the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up before him,
and took it into his head that all these shapes were phantoms of the
enchanted castle, and that he himself was unquestionably enchanted as
he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what the curate, the
concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that were there
Sancho was the only one who was at once in his senses and in his own
proper character, and he, though he was within very little of sharing
his master’s infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these
disguised figures were; but he did not dare to open his lips until he
saw what came of this assault and capture of his master; nor did the
latter utter a word, waiting to the upshot of his mishap; which was
that bringing in the cage, they shut him up in it and nailed the bars
so firmly that they could not be easily burst open.

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They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the
room an awful voice—as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle
but the other, was able to make it—was heard to say, “O Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed
afflict thee, for this must needs be, for the more speedy
accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great heart has engaged
thee; the which shall be accomplished when the raging Manchegan lion
and the white Tobosan dove shall be linked together, having first
humbled their haughty necks to the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from
this marvellous union shall come forth to the light of the world brave
whelps that shall rival the ravening claws of their valiant father; and
this shall come to pass ere the pursuer of the flying nymph shall in
his swift natural course have twice visited the starry signs. And thou,
O most noble and obedient squire that ever bore sword at side, beard on
face, or nose to smell with, be not dismayed or grieved to see the
flower of knight-errantry carried away thus before thy very eyes; for
soon, if it so please the Framer of the universe, thou shalt see
thyself exalted to such a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and
the promises which thy good master has made thee shall not prove false;
and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana, that thy
wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due season. Follow then
the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it is expedient that
thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of you; and as it
is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for I return to
that place I wot of;” and as he brought the prophecy to a close he
raised his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a soft
tone, that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost inclined
to take what they heard seriously.

Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once
comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to
him that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with
his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed
the whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being
thoroughly and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and
with a deep sigh exclaimed, “Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast
foretold me so much good, I implore of thee that on my part thou
entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my interests, that he
leave me not to perish in this captivity in which they are now carrying
me away, ere I see fulfilled promises so joyful and incomparable as
those which have been now made me; for, let this but come to pass, and
I shall glory in the pains of my prison, find comfort in these chains
wherewith they bind me, and regard this bed whereon they stretch me,
not as a hard battle-field, but as a soft and happy nuptial couch; and
touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I rely upon his
goodness and rectitude that he will not desert me in good or evil
fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it may not happen to be in my
power to give him the island I have promised, or any equivalent for it,
at least his wages shall not be lost; for in my will, which is already
made, I have declared the sum that shall be paid to him, measured, not
by his many faithful services, but by the means at my disposal.”

Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for,
being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions
lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart.

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