CHAPTER XXXIII — OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH — SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING

p33a.jpg (138K)

Full Size

The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in
order to keep his word came, before he had well done dinner, to visit
the duchess, who, finding enjoyment in listening to him, made him sit
down beside her on a low seat, though Sancho, out of pure good
breeding, wanted not to sit down; the duchess, however, told him he was
to sit down as governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was
worthy of even the chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho
shrugged his shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all the duchess’s
damsels and duennas gathered round him, waiting in profound silence to
hear what he would say. It was the duchess, however, who spoke first,
saying:

“Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear us, I
should be glad if the señor governor would relieve me of certain doubts
I have, rising out of the history of the great Don Quixote that is now
in print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, nor took Don Quixote’s letter to her, for
it was left in the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena, how did he
dare to invent the answer and all that about finding her sifting wheat,
the whole story being a deception and falsehood, and so much to the
prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea’s good name, a thing that is not at
all becoming the character and fidelity of a good squire?”

p33b.jpg (326K)

Full Size

At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from his
chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger on
his lips, went all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this
done, he came back to his seat and said, “Now, señora, that I have seen
that there is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the sly,
I will answer what you have asked me, and all you may ask me, without
fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is, that for my
own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark mad, though sometimes
he says things that, to my mind, and indeed everybody’s that listens to
him, are so wise, and run in such a straight furrow, that Satan himself
could not have said them better; but for all that, really, and beyond
all question, it’s my firm belief he is cracked. Well, then, as this is
clear to my mind, I can venture to make him believe things that have
neither head nor tail, like that affair of the answer to the letter,
and that other of six or eight days ago, which is not yet in history,
that is to say, the affair of the enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for
I made him believe she is enchanted, though there’s no more truth in it
than over the hills of Úbeda.”

The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or deception,
so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had happened, and his
hearers were not a little amused by it; and then resuming, the duchess
said, “In consequence of what worthy Sancho has told me, a doubt starts
up in my mind, and there comes a kind of whisper to my ear that says,
‘If Don Quixote be mad, crazy, and cracked, and Sancho Panza his squire
knows it, and, notwithstanding, serves and follows him, and goes
trusting to his empty promises, there can be no doubt he must be still
madder and sillier than his master; and that being so, it will be cast
in your teeth, señora duchess, if you give the said Sancho an island to
govern; for how will he who does not know how to govern himself know
how to govern others?’”

“By God, señora,” said Sancho, “but that doubt comes timely; but your
grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I know
what you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my master
long ago; but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can’t help it,
I must follow him; we’re from the same village, I’ve eaten his bread,
I’m fond of him, I’m grateful, he gave me his ass-colts, and above all
I’m faithful; so it’s quite impossible for anything to separate us,
except the pickaxe and shovel. And if your highness does not like to
give me the government you promised, God made me without it, and maybe
your not giving it to me will be all the better for my conscience, for
fool as I am I know the proverb ‘to her hurt the ant got wings,’ and it
may be that Sancho the squire will get to heaven sooner than Sancho the
governor. ‘They make as good bread here as in France,’ and ‘by night
all cats are grey,’ and ‘a hard case enough his, who hasn’t broken his
fast at two in the afternoon,’ and ‘there’s no stomach a hand’s breadth
bigger than another,’ and the same can be filled ‘with straw or hay,’
as the saying is, and ‘the little birds of the field have God for their
purveyor and caterer,’ and ‘four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one warmer
than four of Segovia broad-cloth,’ and ‘when we quit this world and are
put underground the prince travels by as narrow a path as the
journeyman,’ and ‘the Pope’s body does not take up more feet of earth
than the sacristan’s,’ for all that the one is higher than the other;
for when we go to our graves we all pack ourselves up and make
ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and make us small in spite
of us, and then—good night to us. And I say once more, if your ladyship
does not like to give me the island because I’m a fool, like a wise man
I will take care to give myself no trouble about it; I have heard say
that ‘behind the cross there’s the devil,’ and that ‘all that glitters
is not gold,’ and that from among the oxen, and the ploughs, and the
yokes, Wamba the husbandman was taken to be made King of Spain, and
from among brocades, and pleasures, and riches, Roderick was taken to
be devoured by adders, if the verses of the old ballads don’t lie.”

“To be sure they don’t lie!” exclaimed Doña Rodriguez, the duenna, who
was one of the listeners. “Why, there’s a ballad that says they put
King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toads, and adders, and lizards,
and that two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble voice,
cried out from within the tomb-

They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now,
There where I most did sin.

And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would
rather be a labouring man than a king, if vermin are to eat him.”

The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna, or
wondering at the language and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she said,
“Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made a
promise he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life. My
lord and husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is none
the less a knight for that reason, and will keep his word about the
promised island, in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let
Sancho be of good cheer; for when he least expects it he will find
himself seated on the throne of his island and seat of dignity, and
will take possession of his government that he may discard it for
another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I give him is to be
careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that they are all
loyal and well-born.”

“As to governing them well,” said Sancho, “there’s no need of charging
me to do that, for I’m kind-hearted by nature, and full of compassion
for the poor; there’s no stealing the loaf from him who kneads and
bakes;’ and by my faith it won’t do to throw false dice with me; I am
an old dog, and I know all about ‘tus, tus;’ I can be wide-awake if
need be, and I don’t let clouds come before my eyes, for I know where
the shoe pinches me; I say so, because with me the good will have
support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor access. And it
seems to me that, in governments, to make a beginning is everything;
and maybe, after having been governor a fortnight, I’ll take kindly to
the work and know more about it than the field labour I have been
brought up to.”

“You are right, Sancho,” said the duchess, “for no one is born ready
taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But
to return to the subject we were discussing just now, the enchantment
of the lady Dulcinea, I look upon it as certain, and something more
than evident, that Sancho’s idea of practising a deception upon his
master, making him believe that the peasant girl was Dulcinea and that
if he did not recognise her it must be because she was enchanted, was
all a device of one of the enchanters that persecute Don Quixote. For
in truth and earnest, I know from good authority that the coarse
country wench who jumped up on the ass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso,
and that worthy Sancho, though he fancies himself the deceiver, is the
one that is deceived; and that there is no more reason to doubt the
truth of this, than of anything else we never saw. Señor Sancho Panza
must know that we too have enchanters here that are well disposed to
us, and tell us what goes on in the world, plainly and distinctly,
without subterfuge or deception; and believe me, Sancho, that agile
country lass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much enchanted
as the mother that bore her; and when we least expect it, we shall see
her in her own proper form, and then Sancho will be disabused of the
error he is under at present.”

“All that’s very possible,” said Sancho Panza; “and now I’m willing to
believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave of
Montesinos, where he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in the
very same dress and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I
enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other
way, as your ladyship says; because it is impossible to suppose that
out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could be concocted in a moment,
nor do I think my master is so mad that by my weak and feeble
persuasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all reason.
But, señora, your excellence must not therefore think me ill-disposed,
for a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts and plots of
those vile enchanters. I invented all that to escape my master’s
scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him; and if it has
turned out differently, there is a God in heaven who judges our
hearts.”

“That is true,” said the duchess; “but tell me, Sancho, what is this
you say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know.”

Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has been said
already touching that adventure, and having heard it the duchess said,
“From this occurrence it may be inferred that, as the great Don Quixote
says he saw there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way from El
Toboso, it is, no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some very active
and exceedingly busy enchanters about.”

“So I say,” said Sancho, “and if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so much
the worse for her, and I’m not going to pick a quarrel with my master’s
enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is that the one I
saw was a country wench, and I set her down to be a country wench; and
if that was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my door, nor should I be
called to answer for it or take the consequences. But they must go
nagging at me at every step—‘Sancho said it, Sancho did it, Sancho
here, Sancho there,’ as if Sancho was nobody at all, and not that same
Sancho Panza that’s now going all over the world in books, so Samson
Carrasco told me, and he’s at any rate one that’s a bachelor of
Salamanca; and people of that sort can’t lie, except when the whim
seizes them or they have some very good reason for it. So there’s no
occasion for anybody to quarrel with me; and then I have a good
character, and, as I have heard my master say, ‘a good name is better
than great riches;’ let them only stick me into this government and
they’ll see wonders, for one who has been a good squire will be a good
governor.”

“All worthy Sancho’s observations,” said the duchess, “are Catonian
sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael Verino
himself, who florentibus occidit annis. In fact, to speak in his own
style, ‘under a bad cloak there’s often a good drinker.’”

“Indeed, señora,” said Sancho, “I never yet drank out of wickedness;
from thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite in
me; I drink when I’m inclined, or, if I’m not inclined, when they offer
it to me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for when a
friend drinks one’s health what heart can be so hard as not to return
it? But if I put on my shoes I don’t dirty them; besides, squires to
knights-errant mostly drink water, for they are always wandering among
woods, forests and meadows, mountains and crags, without a drop of wine
to be had if they gave their eyes for it.”

“So I believe,” said the duchess; “and now let Sancho go and take his
sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater length, and settle how he
may soon go and stick himself into the government, as he says.”

Sancho once more kissed the duchess’s hand, and entreated her to let
good care be taken of his Dapple, for he was the light of his eyes.

“What is Dapple?” said the duchess.

“My ass,” said Sancho, “which, not to mention him by that name, I’m
accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to take care
of him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry as if I had
said she was ugly or old, though it ought to be more natural and proper
for duennas to feed asses than to ornament chambers. God bless me! what
a spite a gentleman of my village had against these ladies!”

“He must have been some clown,” said Doña Rodriguez the duenna; “for if
he had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them higher
than the horns of the moon.”

“That will do,” said the duchess; “no more of this; hush, Doña
Rodriguez, and let Señor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of
Dapple in my charge, for as he is a treasure of Sancho’s, I’ll put him
on the apple of my eye.”

“It will be enough for him to be in the stable,” said Sancho, “for
neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your
highness’s eye, and I’d as soon stab myself as consent to it; for
though my master says that in civilities it is better to lose by a card
too many than a card too few, when it comes to civilities to asses we
must mind what we are about and keep within due bounds.”

“Take him to your government, Sancho,” said the duchess, “and there you
will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even release him
from work and pension him off.”

“Don’t think, señora duchess, that you have said anything absurd,” said
Sancho; “I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and for me
to take mine with me would be nothing new.”

Sancho’s words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh
amusement, and dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the duke
the conversation she had had with him, and between them they plotted
and arranged to play a joke upon Don Quixote that was to be a rare one
and entirely in knight-errantry style, and in that same style they
practised several upon him, so much in keeping and so clever that they
form the best adventures this great history contains.

p33e.jpg (34K)

CHAPTER XXXIV.
WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT
THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES
IN THIS BOOK

p34a.jpg (141K)

Full Size

Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation of
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more bent than ever upon the plan
they had of practising some jokes upon them that should have the look
and appearance of adventures, they took as their basis of action what
Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, in
order to play him a famous one. But what the duchess marvelled at above
all was that Sancho’s simplicity could be so great as to make him
believe as absolute truth that Dulcinea had been enchanted, when it was
he himself who had been the enchanter and trickster in the business.
Having, therefore, instructed their servants in everything they were to
do, six days afterwards they took him out to hunt, with as great a
retinue of huntsmen and beaters as a crowned king.

They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with another
of the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his on,
saying that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of arms, and could
not carry wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however, took what they
gave him, meaning to sell it at the first opportunity.

The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and Sancho
arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple (for he would not give him
up though they offered him a horse), he placed himself in the midst of
the troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly attired, and Don
Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her palfrey,
though the duke wanted not to allow him; and at last they reached a
wood that lay between two high mountains, where, after occupying
various posts, ambushes, and paths, and distributing the party in
different positions, the hunt began with great noise, shouting, and
hallooing, so that, between the baying of the hounds and the blowing of
the horns, they could not hear one another. The duchess dismounted, and
with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted herself where she knew the
wild boars were in the habit of passing. The duke and Don Quixote
likewise dismounted and placed themselves one at each side of her.
Sancho took up a position in the rear of all without dismounting from
Dapple, whom he dared not desert lest some mischief should befall him.
Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line with several of their
servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed by the hounds and
followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, grinding his teeth and
tusks, and scattering foam from his mouth. As soon as he saw him Don
Quixote, bracing his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced
to meet him; the duke with boar-spear did the same; but the duchess
would have gone in front of them all had not the duke prevented her.
Sancho alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took
to his heels as hard as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall
oak. As he was clinging to a branch, however, half-way up in his
struggle to reach the top, the bough, such was his ill-luck and hard
fate, gave way, and caught in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he
hung suspended in the air unable to reach the ground. Finding himself
in this position, and that the green coat was beginning to tear, and
reflecting that if the fierce animal came that way he might be able to
get at him, he began to utter such cries, and call for help so
earnestly, that all who heard him and did not see him felt sure he must
be in the teeth of some wild beast. In the end the tusked boar fell
pierced by the blades of the many spears they held in front of him; and
Don Quixote, turning round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them
that it was he, saw him hanging from the oak head downwards, with
Dapple, who did not forsake him in his distress, close beside him; and
Cide Hamete observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing
Dapple, or Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was their
attachment and loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and
unhooked Sancho, who, as soon as he found himself on the ground, looked
at the rent in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the heart, for he
thought he had got a patrimonial estate in that suit.

Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a mule, and
having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, they
bore it away as the spoils of victory to some large field-tents which
had been pitched in the middle of the wood, where they found the tables
laid and dinner served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was
easy to see the rank and magnificence of those who had provided it.
Sancho, as he showed the rents in his torn suit to the duchess,
observed, “If we had been hunting hares, or after small birds, my coat
would have been safe from being in the plight it’s in; I don’t know
what pleasure one can find in lying in wait for an animal that may take
your life with his tusk if he gets at you. I recollect having heard an
old ballad sung that says,

By bears be thou devoured, as erst
Was famous Favila.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “was a Gothic king, who, going a-hunting, was
devoured by a bear.”

“Just so,” said Sancho; “and I would not have kings and princes expose
themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure which, to my
mind, ought not to be one, as it consists in killing an animal that has
done no harm whatever.”

“Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there,” said the duke; “for
hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than for
anybody else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems, wiles,
and crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it extreme
cold and intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and sleep are
despised, the bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of him who
engages in it are made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit which
may be followed without injury to anyone and with enjoyment to many;
and the best of it is, it is not for everybody, as field-sports of
other sorts are, except hawking, which also is only for kings and great
lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore, Sancho, and when you are
governor take to hunting, and you will find the good of it.”

“Nay,” said Sancho, “the good governor should have a broken leg and
keep at home;” it would be a nice thing if, after people had been at
the trouble of coming to look for him on business, the governor were to
be away in the forest enjoying himself; the government would go on
badly in that fashion. By my faith, señor, hunting and amusements are
more fit for idlers than for governors; what I intend to amuse myself
with is playing all fours at Eastertime, and bowls on Sundays and
holidays; for these huntings don’t suit my condition or agree with my
conscience.”

“God grant it may turn out so,” said the duke; “because it’s a long
step from saying to doing.”

“Be that as it may,” said Sancho, “‘pledges don’t distress a good
payer,’ and ‘he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,’
and ‘it’s the tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;’
I mean to say that if God gives me help and I do my duty honestly, no
doubt I’ll govern better than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a
finger in my mouth, and they’ll see whether I can bite or not.”

“The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed Sancho!”
exclaimed Don Quixote; “when will the day come—as I have often said to
thee—when I shall hear thee make one single coherent, rational remark
without proverbs? Pray, your highnesses, leave this fool alone, for he
will grind your souls between, not to say two, but two thousand
proverbs, dragged in as much in season, and as much to the purpose
as—may God grant as much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to
them!”

“Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, “though more in number
than the Greek Commander’s, are not therefore less to be esteemed for
the conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say they give me
more pleasure than others that may be better brought in and more
seasonably introduced.”

In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent into
the wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and
hiding-places, and then night closed in, not, however, as brilliantly
or tranquilly as might have been expected at the season, for it was
then midsummer; but bringing with it a kind of haze that greatly aided
the project of the duke and duchess; and thus, as night began to fall,
and a little after twilight set in, suddenly the whole wood on all four
sides seemed to be on fire, and shortly after, here, there, on all
sides, a vast number of trumpets and other military instruments were
heard, as if several troops of cavalry were passing through the wood.
The blaze of the fire and the noise of the warlike instruments almost
blinded the eyes and deafened the ears of those that stood by, and
indeed of all who were in the wood. Then there were heard repeated
lelilies after the fashion of the Moors when they rush to battle;
trumpets and clarions brayed, drums beat, fifes played, so unceasingly
and so fast that he could not have had any senses who did not lose them
with the confused din of so many instruments. The duke was astounded,
the duchess amazed, Don Quixote wondering, Sancho Panza trembling, and
indeed, even they who were aware of the cause were frightened. In their
fear, silence fell upon them, and a postillion, in the guise of a
demon, passed in front of them, blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a huge
hollow horn that gave out a horrible hoarse note.

“Ho there! brother courier,” cried the duke, “who are you? Where are
you going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the
wood?”

To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, “I am the
devil; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are coming
this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a triumphal
car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under enchantment,
together with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give instructions to
Don Quixote as to how, she the said lady, may be disenchanted.”

“If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance indicates,”
said the duke, “you would have known the said knight Don Quixote of La
Mancha, for you have him here before you.”

“By God and upon my conscience,” said the devil, “I never observed it,
for my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was
forgetting the main thing I came about.”

“This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian,” said
Sancho; “for if he wasn’t he wouldn’t swear by God and his conscience;
I feel sure now there must be good souls even in hell itself.”

Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and said,
“The unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee, the
Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws), bidding me
tell thee to wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he brings with
him her whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may show thee what
is needful in order to disenchant her; and as I came for no more I need
stay no longer; demons of my sort be with thee, and good angels with
these gentles;” and so saying he blew his huge horn, turned about and
went off without waiting for a reply from anyone.

They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote;
Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they would have it that
Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure
whether what had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or
not; and as he was deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, “Do
you mean to wait, Señor Don Quixote?”

“Why not?” replied he; “here will I wait, fearless and firm, though all
hell should come to attack me.”

“Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the last,
I’ll wait here as much as in Flanders,” said Sancho.

Night now closed in more completely, and many lights began to flit
through the wood, just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that
look like shooting-stars to our eyes, flit through the heavens; a
frightful noise, too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels the
ox-carts usually have, by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they
say, the bears and wolves are put to flight, if there happen to be any
where they are passing. In addition to all this commotion, there came a
further disturbance to increase the tumult, for now it seemed as if in
truth, on all four sides of the wood, four encounters or battles were
going on at the same time; in one quarter resounded the dull noise of a
terrible cannonade, in another numberless muskets were being
discharged, the shouts of the combatants sounded almost close at hand,
and farther away the Moorish lelilies were raised again and again. In a
word, the bugles, the horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the
cannon, the musketry, and above all the tremendous noise of the carts,
all made up together a din so confused and terrific that Don Quixote
had need to summon up all his courage to brave it; but Sancho’s gave
way, and he fell fainting on the skirt of the duchess’s robe, who let
him lie there and promptly bade them throw water in his face. This was
done, and he came to himself by the time that one of the carts with the
creaking wheels reached the spot. It was drawn by four plodding oxen
all covered with black housings; on each horn they had fixed a large
lighted wax taper, and on the top of the cart was constructed a raised
seat, on which sat a venerable old man with a beard whiter than the
very snow, and so long that it fell below his waist; he was dressed in
a long robe of black buckram; for as the cart was thickly set with a
multitude of candles it was easy to make out everything that was on it.
Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buckram, with
countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen them, shut his
eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite the
spot the old man rose from his lofty seat, and standing up said in a
loud voice, “I am the sage Lirgandeo,” and without another word the
cart then passed on. Behind it came another of the same form, with
another aged man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no
less solemn than that of the first, “I am the sage Alquife, the great
friend of Urganda the Unknown,” and passed on. Then another cart came
by at the same pace, but the occupant of the throne was not old like
the others, but a man stalwart and robust, and of a forbidding
countenance, who as he came up said in a voice far hoarser and more
devilish, “I am the enchanter Archelaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis of
Gaul and all his kindred,” and then passed on. Having gone a short
distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of their
wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not noise, but sound
of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho was very glad, taking it to
be a good sign; and said he to the duchess, from whom he did not stir a
step, or for a single instant, “Señora, where there’s music there can’t
be mischief.”

“Nor where there are lights and it is bright,” said the duchess; to
which Sancho replied, “Fire gives light, and it’s bright where there
are bonfires, as we see by those that are all round us and perhaps may
burn us; but music is a sign of mirth and merrymaking.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Don Quixote, who was listening to all
that passed; and he was right, as is shown in the following chapter.

p34e.jpg (47K)