CHAPTER XXVI — WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, — TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD

p26a.jpg (157K)

Full Size

All were silent, Tyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching the
show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders, when
drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go off.
The noise was soon over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and said,
“This true story which is here represented to your worships is taken
word for word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish ballads
that are in everybody’s mouth, and in the mouth of the boys about the
streets. Its subject is the release by Señor Don Gaiferos of his wife
Melisendra, when a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors in the
city of Sansueña, for so they called then what is now called Saragossa;
and there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the tables, just
as they sing it—

At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits,
For Melisendra is forgotten now.

And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law’s inaction and
unconcern, comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and
energy he chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give him
half a dozen raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors who
say he did give them, and sound ones too; and after having said a great
deal to him about imperilling his honour by not effecting the release
of his wife, he said, so the tale runs,

Enough I’ve said, see to it now.

Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos
fuming; and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table
and the board far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks
his cousin Don Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how Don
Roland refuses to lend it, offering him his company in the difficult
enterprise he is undertaking; but he, in his valour and anger, will not
accept it, and says that he alone will suffice to rescue his wife, even
though she were imprisoned deep in the centre of the earth, and with
this he retires to arm himself and set out on his journey at once. Now
let your worships turn your eyes to that tower that appears there,
which is supposed to be one of the towers of the alcazar of Saragossa,
now called the Aljaferia; that lady who appears on that balcony dressed
in Moorish fashion is the peerless Melisendra, for many a time she used
to gaze from thence upon the road to France, and seek consolation in
her captivity by thinking of Paris and her husband. Observe, too, a new
incident which now occurs, such as, perhaps, never was seen. Do you not
see that Moor, who silently and stealthily, with his finger on his lip,
approaches Melisendra from behind? Observe now how he prints a kiss
upon her lips, and what a hurry she is in to spit, and wipe them with
the white sleeve of her smock, and how she bewails herself, and tears
her fair hair as though it were to blame for the wrong. Observe, too,
that the stately Moor who is in that corridor is King Marsilio of
Sansueña, who, having seen the Moor’s insolence, at once orders him
(though his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be seized and
given two hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the city
according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of
justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the sentence,
although the offence has been scarcely committed; for among the Moors
there are no indictments nor remands as with us.”

Here Don Quixote called out, “Child, child, go straight on with your
story, and don’t run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact
clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;” and
said Master Pedro from within, “Boy, stick to your text and do as the
gentleman bids you; it’s the best plan; keep to your plain song, and
don’t attempt harmonies, for they are apt to break down from being over
fine.”

“I will,” said the boy, and he went on to say, “This figure that you
see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos
himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous Moor,
and taking her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and more
tranquil countenance, has perceived without recognising him; and she
addresses her husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and holds
with him all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs—

If you, sir knight, to France are bound,
Oh! for Gaiferos ask—

which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice it
to observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her joyful
gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what is more,
we now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place herself on the
haunches of her good husband’s horse. But ah! unhappy lady, the edge of
her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the balcony and she is
left hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground. But you see how
compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest need; Don Gaiferos
advances, and without minding whether the rich petticoat is torn or
not, he seizes her and by force brings her to the ground, and then with
one jerk places her on the haunches of his horse, astraddle like a man,
and bids her hold on tight and clasp her arms round his neck, crossing
them on his breast so as not to fall, for the lady Melisendra was not
used to that style of riding. You see, too, how the neighing of the
horse shows his satisfaction with the gallant and beautiful burden he
bears in his lord and lady. You see how they wheel round and quit the
city, and in joy and gladness take the road to Paris. Go in peace, O
peerless pair of true lovers! May you reach your longed-for fatherland
in safety, and may fortune interpose no impediment to your prosperous
journey; may the eyes of your friends and kinsmen behold you enjoying
in peace and tranquillity the remaining days of your life—and that they
may be as many as those of Nestor!”

Here Master Pedro called out again and said, “Simplicity, boy! None of
your high flights; all affectation is bad.”

The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, “There was no want
of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down and
mount, and word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave orders
to sound the alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the city is
drowned with the sound of the bells pealing in the towers of all the
mosques.”

“Nay, nay,” said Don Quixote at this; “on that point of the bells
Master Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use among the
Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our
clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansueña is unquestionably a great
absurdity.”

On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, “Don’t look
into trifles, Señor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a pitch
of perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every day a
thousand comedies represented all round us full of thousands of
inaccuracies and absurdities, and, for all that, they have a successful
run, and are listened to not only with applause, but with admiration
and all the rest of it? Go on, boy, and don’t mind; for so long as I
fill my pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies as there are
motes in a sunbeam.”

“True enough,” said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: “See what a
numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in
pursuit of the two faithful lovers, what a blowing of trumpets there
is, what sounding of horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I fear me
they will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of their
own horse, which would be a dreadful sight.”

p26b.jpg (342K)

Full Size

Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing such a
din, thought it would be right to aid the fugitives, and standing up he
exclaimed in a loud voice, “Never, while I live, will I permit foul
play to be practised in my presence on such a famous knight and
fearless lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble, follow him not
nor pursue him, or ye will have to reckon with me in battle!” and
suiting the action to the word, he drew his sword, and with one bound
placed himself close to the show, and with unexampled rapidity and fury
began to shower down blows on the puppet troop of Moors, knocking over
some, decapitating others, maiming this one and demolishing that; and
among many more he delivered one down stroke which, if Master Pedro had
not ducked, made himself small, and got out of the way, would have
sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of almond-paste.
Master Pedro kept shouting, “Hold hard! Señor Don Quixote! can’t you
see they’re not real Moors you’re knocking down and killing and
destroying, but only little pasteboard figures! Look—sinner that I
am!—how you’re wrecking and ruining all that I’m worth!” But in spite
of this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a continuous rain of
cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, and at length, in less
than the space of two credos, he brought the whole show to the ground,
with all its fittings and figures shivered and knocked to pieces, King
Marsilio badly wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and
head split in two. The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the
ape fled to the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even
Sancho Panza himself was in mighty fear, for, as he swore after the
storm was over, he had never seen his master in such a furious passion.

The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don
Quixote became a little calmer, said, “I wish I had here before me now
all those who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are
in the world; just think, if I had not been here present, what would
have become of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra! Depend
upon it, by this time those dogs would have overtaken them and
inflicted some outrage upon them. So, then, long live knight-errantry
beyond everything living on earth this day!”

“Let it live, and welcome,” said Master Pedro at this in a feeble
voice, “and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can say with
King Don Rodrigo—

Yesterday was I lord of Spain
To-day I’ve not a turret left
That I may call mine own.

Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings
and emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my
trunks and bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself
ruined and laid low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without my
ape, for, by my faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before I have
him caught; and all through the reckless fury of sir knight here, who,
they say, protects the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and does other
charitable deeds; but whose generous intentions have been found wanting
in my case only, blessed and praised be the highest heavens! Verily,
knight of the rueful figure he must be to have disfigured mine.”

Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro’s words, and said to him,
“Don’t weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let me tell
you my master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a Christian
that, if he can make out that he has done you any wrong, he will own
it, and be willing to pay for it and make it good, and something over
and above.”

“Only let Señor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he has
destroyed,” said Master Pedro, “and I would be content, and his worship
would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps what is
another’s against the owner’s will, and makes no restitution.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “but at present I am not aware that I
have got anything of yours, Master Pedro.”

“What!” returned Master Pedro; “and these relics lying here on the bare
hard ground—what scattered and shattered them but the invincible
strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they belonged to
but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?”

“Now am I fully convinced,” said Don Quixote, “of what I had many a
time before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do nothing
more than put figures like these before my eyes, and then change and
turn them into what they please. In truth and earnest, I assure you
gentlemen who now hear me, that to me everything that has taken place
here seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was Melisendra,
Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and Charlemagne
Charlemagne. That was why my anger was roused; and to be faithful to my
calling as a knight-errant I sought to give aid and protection to those
who fled, and with this good intention I did what you have seen. If the
result has been the opposite of what I intended, it is no fault of
mine, but of those wicked beings that persecute me; but, for all that,
I am willing to condemn myself in costs for this error of mine, though
it did not proceed from malice; let Master Pedro see what he wants for
the spoiled figures, for I agree to pay it at once in good and current
money of Castile.”

Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, “I expected no less of the rare
Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper and
protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord here
and the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and appraisers
between your worship and me of what these dilapidated figures are worth
or may be worth.”

The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro picked up from
the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and said,
“Here you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his former
state, so I think, saving your better judgments, that for his death,
decease, and demise, four reals and a half may be given me.”

“Proceed,” said Don Quixote.

“Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom,” continued Master
Pedro, taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, “it would not be much
if I were to ask five reals and a quarter.”

“It’s not little,” said Sancho.

“Nor is it much,” said the landlord; “make it even, and say five
reals.”

“Let him have the whole five and a quarter,” said Don Quixote; “for the
sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a quarter more or
less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for it’s getting on
to supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger.”

“For this figure,” said Master Pedro, “that is without a nose, and
wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am reasonable in
my charge, two reals and twelve maravedis.”

“The very devil must be in it,” said Don Quixote, “if Melisendra and
her husband are not by this time at least on the French border, for the
horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop; so you
needn’t try to sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here a noseless
Melisendra when she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her ease with
her husband in France. God help every one to his own, Master Pedro, and
let us all proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on.”

Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander, and
return to his original fancy, was not disposed to let him escape, so he
said to him, “This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of the damsels
that waited on her; so if I’m given sixty maravedis for her, I’ll be
content and sufficiently paid.”

And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more smashed figures,
which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the satisfaction
of both parties, came to forty reals and three-quarters; and over and
above this sum, which Sancho at once disbursed, Master Pedro asked for
two reals for his trouble in catching the ape.

“Let him have them, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “not to catch the ape,
but to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for the good
news, to anyone who could tell me positively, that the lady Doña
Melisandra and Señor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with their own
people.”

“No one could tell us that better than my ape,” said Master Pedro; “but
there’s no devil that could catch him now; I suspect, however, that
affection and hunger will drive him to come looking for me to-night;
but to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see.”

In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped in peace and
good fellowship at Don Quixote’s expense, for he was the height of
generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances and halberds
took his departure, and soon after daybreak the cousin and the page
came to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning home, the latter
resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him
twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage in any more palaver
with Don Quixote, whom he knew right well; so he rose before the sun,
and having got together the remains of his show and caught his ape, he
too went off to seek his adventures. The landlord, who did not know Don
Quixote, was as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity.
To conclude, Sancho, by his master’s orders, paid him very liberally,
and taking leave of him they quitted the inn at about eight in the
morning and took to the road, where we will leave them to pursue their
journey, for this is necessary in order to allow certain other matters
to be set forth, which are required to clear up this famous history.

p26e.jpg (34K)

CHAPTER XXVII.
WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH
THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT
CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED

p27a.jpg (135K)

Full Size

Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter
with these words, “I swear as a Catholic Christian;” with regard to
which his translator says that Cide Hamete’s swearing as a Catholic
Christian, he being—as no doubt he was—a Moor, only meant that, just as
a Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought to swear, what is
true, and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was telling the truth,
as much as if he swore as a Catholic Christian, in all he chose to
write about Quixote, especially in declaring who Master Pedro was and
what was the divining ape that astonished all the villages with his
divinations. He says, then, that he who has read the First Part of this
history will remember well enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with
other galley slaves, Don Quixote set free in the Sierra Morena: a
kindness for which he afterwards got poor thanks and worse payment from
that evil-minded, ill-conditioned set. This Gines de Pasamonte—Don
Ginesillo de Parapilla, Don Quixote called him—it was that stole Dapple
from Sancho Panza; which, because by the fault of the printers neither
the how nor the when was stated in the First Part, has been a puzzle to
a good many people, who attribute to the bad memory of the author what
was the error of the press. In fact, however, Gines stole him while
Sancho Panza was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and device that
Brunello had recourse to when he stole Sacripante’s horse from between
his legs at the siege of Albracca; and, as has been told, Sancho
afterwards recovered him. This Gines, then, afraid of being caught by
the officers of justice, who were looking for him to punish him for his
numberless rascalities and offences (which were so many and so great
that he himself wrote a big book giving an account of them), resolved
to shift his quarters into the kingdom of Aragon, and cover up his left
eye, and take up the trade of a puppet-showman; for this, as well as
juggling, he knew how to practise to perfection. From some released
Christians returning from Barbary, it so happened, he bought the ape,
which he taught to mount upon his shoulder on his making a certain
sign, and to whisper, or seem to do so, in his ear. Thus prepared,
before entering any village whither he was bound with his show and his
ape, he used to inform himself at the nearest village, or from the most
likely person he could find, as to what particular things had happened
there, and to whom; and bearing them well in mind, the first thing he
did was to exhibit his show, sometimes one story, sometimes another,
but all lively, amusing, and familiar. As soon as the exhibition was
over he brought forward the accomplishments of his ape, assuring the
public that he divined all the past and the present, but as to the
future he had no skill. For each question answered he asked two reals,
and for some he made a reduction, just as he happened to feel the pulse
of the questioners; and when now and then he came to houses where
things that he knew of had happened to the people living there, even if
they did not ask him a question, not caring to pay for it, he would
make the sign to the ape and then declare that it had said so and so,
which fitted the case exactly. In this way he acquired a prodigious
name and all ran after him; on other occasions, being very crafty, he
would answer in such a way that the answers suited the questions; and
as no one cross-questioned him or pressed him to tell how his ape
divined, he made fools of them all and filled his pouch. The instant he
entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and with that knowledge
it was easy for him to astonish them and all who were there; but it
would have cost him dear had Don Quixote brought down his hand a little
lower when he cut off King Marsilio’s head and destroyed all his
horsemen, as related in the preceeding chapter.

So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don Quixote
of La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to visit, first
of all, the banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood, before entering
the city of Saragossa, for the ample time there was still to spare
before the jousts left him enough for all. With this object in view he
followed the road and travelled along it for two days, without meeting
any adventure worth committing to writing until on the third day, as he
was ascending a hill, he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets, and
musket-shots. At first he imagined some regiment of soldiers was
passing that way, and to see them he spurred Rocinante and mounted the
hill. On reaching the top he saw at the foot of it over two hundred
men, as it seemed to him, armed with weapons of various sorts, lances,
crossbows, partisans, halberds, and pikes, and a few muskets and a
great many bucklers. He descended the slope and approached the band
near enough to see distinctly the flags, make out the colours and
distinguish the devices they bore, especially one on a standard or
ensign of white satin, on which there was painted in a very life-like
style an ass like a little sard, with its head up, its mouth open and
its tongue out, as if it were in the act and attitude of braying; and
round it were inscribed in large characters these two lines—

They did not bray in vain,
Our alcaldes twain.

From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be from
the braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining to him what was
written on the standard. At the same time be observed that the man who
had told them about the matter was wrong in saying that the two who
brayed were regidors, for according to the lines of the standard they
were alcaldes. To which Sancho replied, “Señor, there’s nothing to
stick at in that, for maybe the regidors who brayed then came to be
alcaldes of their town afterwards, and so they may go by both titles;
moreover, it has nothing to do with the truth of the story whether the
brayers were alcaldes or regidors, provided at any rate they did bray;
for an alcalde is just as likely to bray as a regidor.” They perceived,
in short, clearly that the town which had been twitted had turned out
to do battle with some other that had jeered it more than was fair or
neighbourly.

Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho’s
uneasiness, for he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions of
that sort. The members of the troop received him into the midst of
them, taking him to be someone who was on their side. Don Quixote,
putting up his visor, advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to
the standard with the ass, and all the chief men of the army gathered
round him to look at him, staring at him with the usual amazement that
everybody felt on seeing him for the first time. Don Quixote, seeing
them examining him so attentively, and that none of them spoke to him
or put any question to him, determined to take advantage of their
silence; so, breaking his own, he lifted up his voice and said, “Worthy
sirs, I entreat you as earnestly as I can not to interrupt an argument
I wish to address to you, until you find it displeases or wearies you;
and if that come to pass, on the slightest hint you give me I will put
a seal upon my lips and a gag upon my tongue.”

They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen to him
willingly.

p27b.jpg (330K)

Full Size

With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, “I, sirs, am a
knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is to
protect those who require protection, and give help to such as stand in
need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your misfortune and
the cause which impels you to take up arms again and again to revenge
yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times thought over your
business in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of combat, you
are mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a private individual
cannot insult an entire community; unless it be by defying it
collectively as a traitor, because he cannot tell who in particular is
guilty of the treason for which he defies it. Of this we have an
example in Don Diego Ordoñez de Lara, who defied the whole town of
Zamora, because he did not know that Vellido Dolfos alone had committed
the treachery of slaying his king; and therefore he defied them all,
and the vengeance and the reply concerned all; though, to be sure,
Señor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very much beyond the limits
of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy the dead, or the waters,
or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all the rest of it as set
forth; but let that pass, for when anger breaks out there’s no father,
governor, or bridle to check the tongue. The case being, then, that no
one person can insult a kingdom, province, city, state, or entire
community, it is clear there is no reason for going out to avenge the
defiance of such an insult, inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it
would be if the people of the clock town were to be at loggerheads
every moment with everyone who called them by that name,—or the
Cazoleros, Berengeneros, Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all
the other names and titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and
common people! It would be a nice business indeed if all these
illustrious cities were to take huff and revenge themselves and go
about perpetually making trombones of their swords in every petty
quarrel! No, no; God forbid! There are four things for which sensible
men and well-ordered States ought to take up arms, draw their swords,
and risk their persons, lives, and properties. The first is to defend
the Catholic faith; the second, to defend one’s life, which is in
accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in defence of one’s
honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the service of one’s king
in a just war; and if to these we choose to add a fifth (which may be
included in the second), in defence of one’s country. To these five, as
it were capital causes, there may be added some others that may be just
and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms; but to take them up
for trifles and things to laugh at and be amused by rather than
offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether wanting in
common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and there cannot be
any just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law that we
acknowledge, wherein we are commanded to do good to our enemies and to
love them that hate us; a command which, though it seems somewhat
difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them less of God
than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit; for Jesus
Christ, God and true man, who never lied, and could not and cannot lie,
said, as our law-giver, that his yoke was easy and his burden light; he
would not, therefore, have laid any command upon us that it was
impossible to obey. Thus, sirs, you are bound to keep quiet by human
and divine law.”

“The devil take me,” said Sancho to himself at this, “but this master
of mine is a theologian; or, if not, faith, he’s as like one as one egg
is like another.”

Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that silence was
still preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, and would have
done so had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he, seeing
his master pause, took the lead, saying, “My lord Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who once was called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but
now is called the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman of great
discretion who knows Latin and his mother tongue like a bachelor, and
in everything that he deals with or advises proceeds like a good
soldier, and has all the laws and ordinances of what they call combat
at his fingers’ ends; so you have nothing to do but to let yourselves
be guided by what he says, and on my head be it if it is wrong. Besides
which, you have been told that it is folly to take offence at merely
hearing a bray. I remember when I was a boy I brayed as often as I had
a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and so elegantly and naturally
that when I brayed all the asses in the town would bray; but I was none
the less for that the son of my parents who were greatly respected; and
though I was envied because of the gift by more than one of the high
and mighty ones of the town, I did not care two farthings for it; and
that you may see I am telling the truth, wait a bit and listen, for
this art, like swimming, once learnt is never forgotten;” and then,
taking hold of his nose, he began to bray so vigorously that all the
valleys around rang again.

One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was mocking
them, lifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote him such a
blow with it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground. Don Quixote,
seeing him so roughly handled, attacked the man who had struck him
lance in hand, but so many thrust themselves between them that he could
not avenge him. Far from it, finding a shower of stones rained upon
him, and crossbows and muskets unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled
Rocinante round and, as fast as his best gallop could take him, fled
from the midst of them, commending himself to God with all his heart to
deliver him out of this peril, in dread every step of some ball coming
in at his back and coming out at his breast, and every minute drawing
his breath to see whether it had gone from him. The members of the
band, however, were satisfied with seeing him take to flight, and did
not fire on him. They put up Sancho, scarcely restored to his senses,
on his ass, and let him go after his master; not that he was
sufficiently in his wits to guide the beast, but Dapple followed the
footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he could not remain a moment
separated. Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and seeing
Sancho coming, waited for him, as he perceived that no one followed
him. The men of the troop stood their ground till night, and as the
enemy did not come out to battle, they returned to their town exulting;
and had they been aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would
have erected a trophy on the spot.

p27e.jpg (47K)

Full Size