answered one of the company, "they are some carved images, that are to be set up at an altar we are erecting in our town. We cover them lest they should be sullied, and carry them on our shoulders for fear they should be broken." "If you please," said Don Quixote, "I should be glad to see them; for, considering the care you take of them, they should be pieces of value." "Ay, marry are they," quoth another, "or else we are mistaken; for there is never an image among them that does not stand us more than fifty ducats; and that you may know I am no liar, do but stay, and you shall see with your own eyes." With that, he took off the cover from one of the figures, that happened to be St.

George on horseback, and under his feet a serpent coiled up, his throat transfixed with a lance, with the fierceness that is commonly represented in the piece; and all, as they use to say, spick and span new, and shining like beaten gold. Don Quixote having seen the image, "This," said he, "was one of the best knights-errant the church-militant ever had; his name was Don St. George, and he was an extraordinary protector of damsels. What is the next?" The fellow having uncovered it, it proved to be St. Martin on horseback. "This knight too," said Don Quixote at the first sight, "was one of the Christian adventurers; and I am apt to think he was more liberal than valiant; and thou mayst perceive it, Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with a poor man: he gave him half, and doubtless it was winter-time, or else he would have given it him whole, he was so charitable." "Not so, neither, I fancy," quoth Sancho; "but I guess he stuck to the proverb, To give and keep what is fit, requires a share of wit." Don Quixote smiled, and desired the men to shew him the next image, which appeared to be that of the patron of Spain on horseback, with his sword b.l.o.o.d.y, trampling down Moors, and treading over heads. "Ay, this is a knight indeed," cried Don Quixote, when he saw it; "he is called Don St. Jago Mata Moros, or Don St. James the Moor-killer; and may be reckoned one of the most valorous saints and professors of chivalry that the earth then enjoyed, and Heaven now possesses." Then they uncovered another piece, which shewed St. Paul falling from his horse, with all the circ.u.mstances usually expressed in the story of his conversion; and represented so to the life, that he looked as if he had been answering the voice that spoke to him from heaven. "This,"

said Don Quixote, "was the greatest enemy the church-militant had once, and proved afterwards the greatest defender it will ever have;--in his life a true knight-errant, and in death a stedfast saint; an indefatigable labourer in the vineyard of the Lord, a teacher of the Gentiles, who had Heaven for his school, and Christ himself for his master and instructor." Then Don Quixote, perceiving there were no more images, desired the men to cover those he had seen; "And now, my good friends," said he to them, "I cannot but esteem the sight that I have had of these images as a happy omen; for these saints and knights were of the same profession that I follow, which is that of arms: the difference only lies in this point, that they were saints, and fought according to the rules of holy discipline; and I am a sinner, and fight after the manner of men."

All this while the men wondered at Don Quixote's figure, as well as his discourse, but could not understand one half of what he meant. So that, after they had made an end of their dinner, they got up their images, took their leave of Don Quixote, and continued their journey.

Sancho remained full of admiration, as if he had never known his master: he wondered how he should come to know all these things, and fancied there was not that history or adventure in the world but he had it at his fingers' ends. "Truly, master of mine," quoth he, "if what has happened to us to-day may be called an adventure, it is one of the sweetest and most pleasant we ever met with in all our rambles; for we are come off without a basting, or the least bodily fear. We have not so much as laid our hands upon our weapons; but here we be safe and sound, neither dry nor hungry. Heaven be praised that I have seen all this with my own eyes!" "Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "but I must tell thee that seasons and times are not always the same, but often take a different course; and what the vulgar call forebodings and omens, for which there are no rational grounds in nature, ought only to be esteemed happy encounters by the wise. One of these superst.i.tious fools, going out of his house betimes in the morning, meets a friar of the blessed order of St. Francis, and starts as if he had met a griffin, turns back, and runs home again. Another wiseacre happens to throw down the salt on the tablecloth, and thereupon is sadly cast down himself; as if nature were obliged to give tokens of ensuing disasters by such slight and inconsiderable accidents as these. A wise and truly religious man ought never to pry into the secrets of Heaven. Scipio, landing in Africa, stumbled and fell down as he leaped ash.o.r.e. Presently his soldiers took this for an ill omen; but he, embracing the earth, cried, 'I have thee fast, Africa; thou shalt not escape me.'"

Thus discoursing, they got into a wood quite out of the road; and on a sudden Don Quixote, before he knew where he was, found himself entangled in some nets of green thread, that were spread across among the trees. Not being able to imagine what it was, "Certainly, Sancho,"

cried he, "this adventure of the nets must be one of the most unaccountable that can be imagined. Let me die, now, if this be not a stratagem of the evil-minded necromancers that haunt me, to stop my way." With that the knight put briskly forwards, resolving to break through; but in the very moment there sprung from behind the trees two most beautiful shepherdesses, at least they appeared to be so by their habits, only with this difference, that they were richly dressed in gold brocade. Their flowing hair hung down about their shoulders in curls as charming as the sun's golden rays, and circled on their brows with garlands of green baize and red-flower-gentle interwoven. As for their age, it seemed not less than fifteen, nor more than eighteen years. This unexpected vision dazzled and amazed Sancho, and surprised Don Quixote; till at last one of the shepherdesses opening her coral lips, "Hold, sir," she cried; "pray do not tear those nets which we have spread here, not to offend you, but to divert ourselves; and because it is likely you will inquire why they are spread here, and who we are, I shall tell you in few words.

"About two leagues from this place lies a village, where there are many people of quality and good estates; among these several have made up a company to come and take their diversion in this place, which is one of the most delightful in these parts. To this purpose we design to set up a new Arcadia. The young men have put on the habit of shepherds, and ladies the dress of shepherdesses. We have got two eclogues by heart; one out of the famous Garcila.s.so, and the other out of Camoens, the most excellent Portuguese poet; though we have not yet repeated them, for yesterday was but the first day of our coming hither. We have pitched some tents among the trees, near the banks of a large brook that waters all these meadows. And last night we spread these nets, to catch such simple birds as our calls should allure into the snare. Now, sir, if you please to afford us your company, you shall be made very welcome, and handsomely entertained; for we are all disposed to pa.s.s the time agreeably." "Truly, fair lady," answered Don Quixote, "I applaud the design of your entertainment, and return you thanks for your obliging offers; a.s.suring you, that if it lies in my power to serve you, you may depend on my obedience to your commands; for my profession is the very reverse of ingrat.i.tude, and aims at doing good to all persons, especially those of your merit and condition; so that were these nets spread over the surface of the whole earth, I would seek out a pa.s.sage throughout new worlds, rather than I would break the smallest thread that conduces to your pastime: and that you may give some credit to this seeming exaggeration, know, that he who makes this promise is no less than Don Quixote de la Mancha, if ever such a name has reached your ears." "Oh, my dear,"

cried the other shepherdess, "what good fortune is this! You see this gentleman before us: I must tell you he is the most valiant, the most loving, and the most complaisant person in the world, if the history of his exploits, already in print, does not deceive us. I have read it, and I hold a wager, that honest fellow there by him is one Sancho Panza, his squire, the most comical creature that ever was." "You have hit it," quoth Sancho, "I am that very squire you wot of; and there is my lord and master, the aforesaid Don Quixote de la Mancha." "Oh pray, my dear," said the other, "let us entreat him to stay; our father and our brothers will be mighty glad of it. I have heard of his valour and his merit, as much as you now tell me; and what is more, they say he is the most constant and faithful lover in the world, and that his mistress, whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, bears the prize from all the beauties in Spain." "It is not without justice," said Don Quixote, "if your peerless charms do not dispute with her that glory. But, ladies, I beseech you do not endeavour to detain me; for the indispensable duties of my profession will not suffer me to rest in one place."

At the same time came the brother of one of the shepherdesses, clad like a shepherd, but in a dress as splendid and gay as those of the young ladies. They told him that the gentleman whom he saw with them was the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and that other Sancho Panza, his squire, of whom he had read the history. The gallant shepherd having saluted him, begged of him so earnestly to grant them his company to their tents, that Don Quixote was forced to comply, and go with them.

About the same time the nets were drawn and filled with divers little birds, who being deceived by the colour of the snare, fell into the danger they would have avoided. Above thirty persons, all gaily dressed like shepherds and shepherdesses, got together there; and being informed who Don Quixote and his squire were, they were not a little pleased, for they were already no strangers to his history. In short they carried them to their tents, where they found a sumptuous entertainment ready. They obliged the knight to take the place of honour; and while they sat at table, there was not one that did not gaze on him, and wonder at so strange a figure.

At last, the cloth being removed, Don Quixote with a great deal of gravity, lifting up his voice, "Of all the sins that men commit," said he, "none, in my opinion is so great as ingrat.i.tude, though some think pride a greater; and I ground my a.s.sertion on this, that h.e.l.l is said to be full of the ungrateful. Ever since I had the use of reason, I have employed my utmost endeavours to avoid this crime; and if I am not able to repay the benefits I receive in their kind, at least I am not wanting in real intentions of making suitable returns; and if that be not sufficient, I make my acknowledgments as public as I can: for he that proclaims the kindnesses he has received, shews his disposition to repay them if he could; and those that receive are generally inferior to those that give. The Supreme Being, that is infinitely above all things, bestows his blessings on us so much beyond the capacity of all other benefactors, that all the acknowledgments we can make can never hold proportion with his goodness. However, a thankful mind in some measure supplies its want of power, with hearty desires and unfeigned expressions of a sense of grat.i.tude and respect. I am in this condition, as to the civilities I have been treated with here; for I am unable to make an acknowledgment equal to the kindnesses I have received. I shall, therefore, only offer you what is within the narrow limits of my own abilities, which is to maintain, for two whole days together, in the middle of the road that leads to Saragosa, that these ladies here, disguised in the habits of shepherdesses, are the fairest and most courteous damsels in the world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts; without offence to all that hear me, be it spoken."

Here Sancho, who had all the while given ear to his master's compliment, thought fit to put in a word or two. "Now, in the name of wonder," quoth he, "can there be any body in the world so impudent as to say that this master of mine is a madman? Pray, tell me, ye gentlemen shepherds, did you ever know any of your country parsons, though never so wise, or so good scholars, that could deliver themselves so finely? Or is there any of your knights-errant, though never so famed for prowess, that can make such an offer as he has here done?"

Don Quixote turned towards Sancho, and, beholding him with eyes full of fiery indignation, "Can there be any body in the world," cried he, "that can say thou art not an incorrigible blockhead, Sancho; a compound of folly and knavery, wherein malice also is no small ingredient? Who bids thee meddle with my concerns, or busy thyself with my folly or discretion? Make no reply; but go and saddle Rozinante, if he is unsaddled, that I may immediately perform what I have offered; for in so n.o.ble and so just a cause, thou mayest reckon all those who shall presume to oppose me subdued and overthrown." This said, up he started, with marks of anger in his looks, to the amazement of all the company, who were at a loss whether they should esteem him a madman or a man of sense. They endeavoured to prevail with him, however, to lay aside his challenge, telling him, they were sufficiently a.s.sured of his grateful nature, without exposing him to the danger of such demonstrations; and as for his valour, they were so well informed by the history of his numerous achievements, that there was no need of any new instance to convince them of it. But all these representations could not dissuade him from his purpose; and therefore, having mounted Rozinante, braced his shield and grasped his lance, he went and posted himself in the middle of the highway, not far from the verdant meadow, followed by Sancho on his Dapple, and all the pastoral society, who were desirous to see the event of that unaccountable defiance.

And now the champion, having taken his ground, made the neighbouring air ring with the following challenge: "O ye, whoever you are, knights, squires, on foot or on horseback, that now pa.s.s, or shall pa.s.s this road within these two days, know, that Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, stays here, to a.s.sert and maintain, that the nymphs who inhabit these groves and meadows, surpa.s.s, in beauty and courteous disposition, all those in the universe, setting aside the sovereign of my soul, the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. And he that dares uphold the contrary let him appear."

Twice he repeated these words, and twice they were repeated in vain.

But fortune, that had a strange hand at managing his concerns, now shewed him a merry sight; for by and by he discovered on the road a great number of people on horseback, many of them with lances in their hands, all trooping together very fast. The company that watched Don Quixote's motions no sooner spied such a squadron, driving the dust before them, than they got out of harm's way, not judging it safe to be so near danger; and as for Sancho, he sheltered himself behind Rozinante's crupper; only Don Quixote stood fixed with an undaunted courage. When the hors.e.m.e.n came near, one of the foremost, bawling to the champion, "Ho, ho!" cried he, "get out of the way, or these bulls will tread thee to pieces." "Go to, you scoundrels!" answered Don Quixote, "none of your bulls are any thing to me, though the fiercest that ever were fed on the banks of Xarama. Acknowledge, all in a body, what I have proclaimed here to be truth, or else stand combat with me." But the herdsmen had not time to answer, neither had Don Quixote any to get out of the way, if he had been inclined to it; for the herd of wild bulls were presently upon him, and a huge company of drivers and people, that were going to a town where they were to be baited the next day. So, bearing all down before them, knight and squire, horse and man, they trampled them under foot at an unmerciful rate. There lay Sancho mauled, Don Quixote stunned, Dapple bruised, and Rozinante in very indifferent circ.u.mstances. But for all this, after the whole route of men and beasts were gone by, up started Don Quixote, ere he was thoroughly come to himself, and staggering and stumbling, falling and getting up again, as fast as he could, he began to run after them.

"Stop, scoundrels, stop!" cried he aloud; "stay; it is a single knight defies you all, one who scorns the humour of making a golden bridge for a flying enemy." But the hasty travellers did not stop, nor slacken their speed, for all his loud defiance; and minded it no more than the last year's snow.

At last, weariness stopped Don Quixote; so that, with all his anger, and no prospect of revenge, he was forced to sit down on the road till Sancho came up to him with Rozinante and Dapple. Then the master and man made a shift to remount; and, with more shame than satisfaction, hastened their journey, without taking leave of their friends of the new Arcadia.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xVIII.

_Of an extraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, which may well pa.s.s for an adventure._

A clear fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho found among some verdant trees, served to refresh them, besmeared with dust, and tired as they were, after the rude encounter of the bulls. There, by the brink, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, unbridled and unhaltered, to their own liberty, the two forlorn adventurers sat down. The squire then went to the wallet, and having taken out of it what he used to call his stomach-sauce, laid it before the knight. But Don Quixote would eat nothing for pure vexation, and Sancho durst not begin for good manners, expecting that he would first shew him the way. However, finding him so wrapped in his imaginations as to have no thoughts of lifting his hand to his mouth, the squire, without letting one word come out of his, laid aside all kind of good breeding, and made a fierce attack upon the bread and cheese before him. "Eat, friend Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "repair the decays of nature, and sustain life, which thou hast more reason to cherish than I; leave me to die, abandoned to my sorrows, and the violence of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating."

"For my part," quoth Sancho, "I am not so simple yet as to kill myself. No, I am like the cobbler that stretches his leather with his teeth: I am for lengthening my life by eating; truly, master, there is no greater folly in the world than for a man to despair, and throw the helve after the hatchet. Therefore take my advice, and eat as I do; and when you have done, lie down and take a nap; the fresh gra.s.s here will do as well as a feather-bed. I daresay by the time you awake you will find yourself better in body and mind."

Don Quixote followed Sancho's counsel, for he was convinced the squire spoke good philosophy at that time. However, in the meanwhile, a thought coming into his mind, "Ah! Sancho," said he, "if thou wouldst but do something that I am now going to desire thee, my cares would sit more easy on me, and my comfort would be more certain. It is only this: while, according to thy advice, I try to compose my thoughts with sleep, do but step aside a little, and take the reins of Rozinante's bridle, and give thyself some three or four hundred smart lashes, in part of the three thousand and odd thou art to receive to disenchant Dulcinea; for, in truth, it is a shame and very great pity that poor lady should remain enchanted all this while, through thy carelessness and neglect." "There is a great deal to be said as to that," quoth Sancho, "but it may well keep; first let us go to sleep, and then come what will come. Let my Lady Dulcinea have a little patience. There is nothing lost that comes at last; while there is life there is hope; which is as good as to say, I live with an intent to make good my promise." Don Quixote gave him thanks, ate a little, and Sancho a great deal; and then both betook themselves to their rest; leaving those constant friends and companions, Rozinante and Dapple, to their own discretion, to repose or feed at random on the pasture that abounded in that meadow.

The day was now far gone, when the knight and the squire awoke. They mounted, and held on their journey, making the best of their way to an inn, that seemed to be about a league distant. I call it an inn because Don Quixote himself called it so, contrary to his custom, it being a common thing with him to take inns for castles.

Being got thither, they asked the innkeeper whether he had got any lodgings? "Yes," answered he; "and as good accommodation as you will find anywhere." They alighted, and, after Sancho had seen Rozinante and Dapple well provided for in the stable, he went to wait on his master, whom he found sitting on a seat made in the wall--the squire blessing himself more than once that the knight had not taken the inn for a castle. Supper-time approaching, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and Sancho, staying with his host, asked him what he had to give them for supper? "What you will," answered he; "you may pick and choose--fish or flesh, butchers' meat or poultry, wild-fowl, and what not; whatever land, sea, and air afford for food, it is but ask and have: everything is to be had in this inn." "There is no need of all this," quoth Sancho, "a couple of roasted chickens will do our business; for my master has a nice stomach, and eats but little; and, as for me, I am none of your unreasonable trenchermen." "As for chickens," replied the innkeeper, "truly we have none; for the kites have devoured them." "Why, then," quoth Sancho, "roast us a good handsome pullet, with eggs, so it be young and tender." "A pullet, master!" answered the host, "I sent above fifty yesterday to the city to sell; but, setting aside pullets, you may have any thing else."

"Why, then," quoth Sancho, "even give us a good joint of veal or kid."

"Cry you mercy!" replied the innkeeper, "now I remember me, we have none left in the house; the last company that went cleared me quite; but by next week we shall have enough, and to spare." "We are in a fine case, indeed," quoth Sancho; "now will I hold a good wager that all these defects must be made up with a dish of eggs and bacon." "Hey day!" cried the host, "my guest has a rare knack at guessing; I told him I had no hens nor pullets in the house, and yet he would have me to have eggs! Think on something else, I beseech you, and let us talk no more of that." "Come, come," cried Sancho, "let us have something; tell me what thou hast, Mr. Landlord, and do not put me to trouble my brains any longer." "Why, then, do you see," quoth the host, "to deal plainly with you, I have a delicate pair of cow-heels, that look like calves' feet, or a pair of calves' feet that look like cow-heels, dressed with onions, peas, and bacon--a dish for a prince; they are just ready to be taken off, and by this time they cry 'Come eat me, come eat me.'" "Cow-heels!" cried Sancho, "I set my mark on them; let n.o.body touch them: I will give more for them than any other shall.

There is nothing I love better." "n.o.body else shall have them,"

answered the host, "you need not fear, for all the guests I have in the house, besides yourselves, are persons of quality, that carry their steward, their cook, and their provisions along with them." "As for quality," quoth Sancho, "my master is a person of as good quality as the proudest of them all, if you go to that, but his profession allows of no larders nor b.u.t.teries." This was the discourse that pa.s.sed betwixt Sancho and the innkeeper; for, as to the host's interrogatories concerning his master's profession, Sancho was not then at leisure to make him any answer.

In short, supper-time came, Don Quixote went to his room, the host brought the dish of cow-heels, such as it was, and set him down fairly to supper. But at the same time, in the next room, which was divided from that where they were by a slender part.i.tion, the knight overheard somebody talking. "Dear Don Jeronimo," said the unseen person, "I beseech you, till supper is brought in, let us read another chapter of the Second Part of Don Quixote." The champion no sooner heard himself named, than up he started, and listened, with attentive ears, to what was said of him; and then he heard that Don Jeronimo answer, "Why would you have us read nonsense, Signor Don John? Methinks any one that has read the First Part of Don Quixote should take but little delight in reading the second." "That may be," replied Don John; "however, it may not be amiss to read it; for there is no book so bad as not to have something that is good in it. What displeases me most in this part is, that it represents Don Quixote as no longer in love with Dulcinea del Toboso." Upon these words, Don Quixote, burning with anger and indignation, cried out, "Whoever says that Don Quixote de la Mancha has forgotten, or can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him know, with equal arms, that he departs wholly from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor can Don Quixote be guilty of forgetfulness. _Constancy_ is his motto; and, to preserve his fidelity voluntarily, and without the least restraint, is his profession." "Who is he that answers us?" cries one of those in the next room. "Who should it be?" quoth Sancho, "but Don Quixote de la Mancha his own self, the same that will make good all he has said, and all he has to say, take my word for it; for a good paymaster never grudges to give security."

Sancho had no sooner made that answer than in came the two gentlemen (for they appeared to be no less), and one of them, throwing his arms about Don Quixote's neck, "Your presence, sir knight," said he, "does not belie your reputation, nor can your reputation fail to raise a respect for your presence. You are certainly the true Don Quixote de la Mancha, the polar-star and luminary of chivalry-errant, in despite of him that has attempted to usurp your name as the author of this book,[14] which I here deliver into your hands, has presumed to do." With that he took the book from his friend and gave it to Don Quixote. The knight took it, and, without saying a word, began to turn over the leaves; then, returning it a while after, "In the little I have seen," said he, "I have found three things in this author deserving reprehension. First, I find fault with some words in his preface; in the second place, his language is Arragonian, for sometimes he writes without articles; and the third thing I have observed, which betrays most his ignorance, is, he is out of the way in one of the princ.i.p.al parts of the history; for there he says that the wife of my squire, Sancho Panza, is called Mary Gutierrez, which is not true, for her name is Teresa Panza; and he that errs in so considerable a pa.s.sage, may well be suspected to have committed many gross errors through the whole history." "A pretty impudent fellow is this same history-writer!" cried Sancho; "sure he knows much what belongs to our concerns, to call my wife Teresa Panza, Mary Gutierrez! Pray take the book again, if it like your worship, and see whether he says anything of me, and whether he has not changed my name too." "Sure, by what you have said, honest man," said Don Jeronimo, "you should be Sancho Panza, squire to Signor Don Quixote?" "So I am," quoth Sancho, "and I am proud of the office." "Well," said the gentleman, "to tell you the truth, the last author does not treat you so civilly as you seem to deserve. He represents you as a glutton and a fool, without the least grain of wit or humour, and very different from the Sancho we have in the first part of your master's history." "Heaven forgive him," quoth Sancho; "he might have left me where I was, without offering to meddle with me. Every man's nose will not make a shoeing horn. Let us leave the world as it is. St.

Peter is very well at Rome." Presently the two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their chamber, for they knew there was nothing to be got in the inn fit for his entertainment. Don Quixote, who was always very complaisant, could not deny their request, and went with them. Sancho staid behind with the flesh-pot; he placed himself at the upper end of the table, with the innkeeper for his messmate; for he was no less a lover of cow-heels than the squire.

[14] Some one had published a book which he called the _Second Part of Don Quixote_, before our author had printed this.

While Don Quixote was at supper with the gentlemen, Don John asked him when he heard of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and whether she still retained a grateful sense of the love and constancy of Signor Don Quixote. "She does," answered Don Quixote, "and my thoughts are more fixed upon her than ever; our correspondence is after the old fashion, not frequent; and, alas, her beauty is transformed into the homely appearance of a female rustic." And with that he repeated the story of her enchantment, with what had befallen him in the cavern of Montesinos, and the means that the sage Merlin had prescribed to free her from enchantment. The gentlemen were extremely pleased to hear from Don Quixote's own mouth the strange pa.s.sages of his history; equally wondering at the nature of his extravagances and his elegant manner of relating them. One minute they looked upon him to be in his senses, and the next they thought he had lost them all; so that they could not resolve what degree to a.s.sign him between madness and sound judgment.

They then asked him which way he was travelling? He told them he was for Saragosa, to make one at the tournaments held in that city once a year for the prize of armour. Don John acquainted him, that the pretended second part of his history gave an account how Don Quixote, whoever he was, had been at Saragosa, at a public running at the ring, the description of which was wretched and defective in the contrivance, mean and low in the style and expression, and miserably poor in devices, all made up of foolish idle stuff. "For that reason,"

said Don Quixote, "I will not set a foot in Saragosa; and so the world shall see what a notorious lie this new historian is guilty of, and all mankind shall perceive I am not the Don Quixote he speaks of."

"You do very well," said Don Jeronimo; "besides, there is another tournament at Barcelona, where you may signalise your valour." "I design to do so," replied Don Quixote; "and so, gentlemen, give me leave to bid you good night, and permit me to go to bed, for it is time; and pray place me in the number of your best friends and most faithful servants."

Having taken leave of one another, Don Quixote and Sancho retired to their chamber, leaving the two strangers in admiration to think what a medley the knight had made of good sense and extravagance; but fully satisfied, however, that these two persons were the true Don Quixote and Sancho, and not those obtruded upon the public by the Arragonian author.

Early in the morning Don Quixote got up, and knocking at a thin wall that parted his chamber from that of the gentlemen, he took his leave of them. Sancho paid the host n.o.bly, but advised him either to keep better provisions in his inn, or to commend it less.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xIX.

_What happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona._

The morning was cool, and seemed to promise a temperate day, when Don Quixote left the inn, having first informed himself which was the readiest way to Barcelona; for he was resolved he would not so much as see Saragosa, that he might prove that new author a liar, who, as he was told, had so much misrepresented him in the pretended second part of his history. For the s.p.a.ce of six days they travelled without meeting any adventure worthy of memory; but the seventh, having lost their way, and being overtaken by the night, they were obliged to stop in a thicket of oaks or cork-trees. There both dismounted; and laying themselves down at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had eaten heartily that day, easily resigned himself into the arms of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his chimeras kept awake much more than hunger, could not so much as close his eyes; his working thoughts being hurried to a thousand several places. This time he fancied himself in Montesinos'

cave; fancied he saw his Dulcinea, perverted as she was into a country hoyden, jump at a single leap upon her a.s.s colt. The next moment he thought he heard the sage Merlin's voice in awful words relate the means required to effect her disenchantment. Presently a fit of despair seized him; he was enraged to think of Sancho's remissness and want of charity,--the squire having not given himself above five lashes, a small and inconsiderable number in proportion to the number still behind. This reflection so aggravated his vexation, that he could not forbear thinking on some extraordinary methods. If Alexander the Great, thought he, when he could not untie the Gordian knot, said, it is the same thing to cut or to undo, and so slashed it asunder, and yet became the sovereign of the world, why may not I free Dulcinea from enchantment by lashing Sancho myself, whether he will or no? For, if the condition of this remedy consists in Sancho's receiving three thousand and odd lashes, what does it signify to me whether he gives himself those blows, or another gives them him, since the stress lies upon his receiving them, by what means soever they are given? Full of that conceit, he came up to Sancho, having first taken the reins of Rozinante's bridle, and fitted them to his purpose of lashing him with them. Sancho, however, soon started out of his sleep, and was thoroughly awake in an instant. "What is here?" cried he. "It is I,"

answered Don Quixote, "I am come to repair thy negligence, and to seek the remedy of my torments. I am come to whip thee, Sancho, and to discharge, in part at least, that debt for which thou standest engaged. Dulcinea perishes, while thou livest careless of her fate; and therefore I am resolved, while we are here alone in this recess, to give thee at least two thousand stripes." "Hold you there," quoth Sancho; "pray be quiet, will you?--let me alone, or I protest deaf men shall hear us! The strokes I am to give myself are to be voluntary, not forced; and at this time I have no mind to be whipped at all: let it suffice that I promise you to do so when the humour takes me." "No, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "there is no trusting to thy courtesy, for thou art hard-hearted, and, though a peasant, of very tender flesh."

He then struggled with Sancho; upon which he jumped up, threw his arms about the Don, tripped up his heels, and laid him flat on his back, whereupon he held his hands down so fast that he could not stir and scarcely could breathe. "How, traitor," exclaimed the knight, "dost thou rebel against thy natural lord?--dost thou raise thy hand against him who feeds thee?" "I neither raise up nor pull down," answered Sancho; "I only defend myself, who am my own lord. If your worship will promise me to let me alone, and not talk about whipping at present, I will set you at liberty: if not, 'here thou diest, traitor, enemy to Donna Sancha.'" Don Quixote gave him the promise he desired, and swore by the life of his best thoughts he would not touch a hair of his garment, but leave the whipping entirely to his own discretion.

Sancho now removed to another place; and, as he was going to lay himself under another tree, he thought something touched his head; and, reaching up his hands, he felt a couple of dangling feet, with hose and shoes. Trembling with fear, he moved on a little further, but was incommoded by other legs; upon which he called to his master for help. Don Quixote went up to him, and asked him what was the matter; when Sancho told him that all the trees were full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and immediately guessed the cause; he said, "Be not afraid, Sancho; doubtless these are the legs of robbers and banditti, who have been punished for their crimes: for here the officers of justice hang them by scores at a time, when they can lay hold of them; and, from this circ.u.mstance, I conclude we are not far from Barcelona." In truth, Don Quixote was right in his conjecture; for when day began to dawn, they plainly saw that the legs they had felt in the dark belonged to the bodies of thieves.

But if they were alarmed at these dead banditti, how much more were they disturbed at being suddenly surrounded by more than forty of their living comrades, who commanded them to stand, and not to move till their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot, his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against a tree at some distance,--in short, being defenceless, he thought it best to cross his hands, hang down his head, and reserve himself for better occasions. The robbers, however, were not idle, but immediately fell to work upon Dapple, and, in a trice, emptied both wallet and cloak-bag. Fortunately for Sancho, he had secured the crowns given him by the duke, with his other money, in a belt which he wore about his waist; nevertheless they would not have escaped the searching eyes of these good people, who spare not even what is hid between the flesh and the skin, had they not been checked by the arrival of their captain. His age seemed to be about four-and-thirty, his body was robust, his stature tall, his visage austere, and his complexion swarthy; he was mounted upon a powerful steed, clad in a coat of steel, and his belt was stuck round with pistols. Observing that his squires (for so they call men of their vocation) were about to rifle Sancho, he commanded them to forbear, and was instantly obeyed; and thus the girdle escaped. He wondered to see a lance standing against a tree, a target on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and pensive, with the most sad and melancholy countenance that sadness itself could frame. Going up to the knight, he said, "Be not so dejected, good sir, for you are not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but into those of Roque Guinart, who has more of compa.s.sion in his nature than cruelty." "My dejection,"

answered Don Quixote, "is not on account of having fallen into your hands, O valorous Roque, whose fame extends over the whole earth, but for my negligence in having suffered myself to be surprised by your soldiers, contrary to the bounden duty of a knight-errant, which requires that I should be continually on the alert, and, at all hours, my own sentinel; for, let me tell you, ill.u.s.trious Roque, had they met me on horseback, with my lance and my target, they would have found it no very easy task to make me yield. Know, sir, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, he with whose exploits the whole globe resounds." Roque Guinart presently perceived Don Quixote's infirmity, and that it had in it more of madness than valour; and, though he had sometimes heard his name mentioned, he always thought that what had been said of him was a fiction; conceiving that such a character could not exist: he was therefore delighted with this meeting, as he might now know, from his own observation, what degree of credit was really due to the reports in circulation. "Be not concerned," said Roque, addressing himself to Don Quixote, "nor tax fortune with unkindness; by thus stumbling, you may chance to stand more firmly than ever: for Heaven, by strange and circuitous ways, incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy."

Don Quixote was about to return his thanks for this courteous reception, when suddenly a noise was heard near them, like the trampling of many horses; but it was caused by one only, upon which came, at full speed, a youth, seemingly about twenty years of age, clad in green damask edged with gold lace, trousers, and a loose coat; his hat c.o.c.ked in the Walloon fashion, with boots, spurs, dagger, and gold-hilted sword; a small carabine in his hand, and a brace of pistols by his side. Roque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned his head and observed this handsome youth advancing towards him: "Valiant Roque," said the cavalier, "you are the person I have been seeking; for with you I hope to find some comfort, though not a remedy, in my afflictions. Not to keep you in suspense, because I perceive that you do not know me, I will tell you who I am. I am Claudia Jeronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your intimate friend, and the particular enemy of Clauquel Torellas, who is also yours, being of the faction which is adverse to you. You know, too, that Torellas has a son, called Don Vincente de Torellas,--at least so he was called not two hours ago. That son of his--to shorten the story of my misfortune,--ah, what sorrow he has brought upon me! that son, I say, saw me, and courted me; I listened to him, and loved him, unknown to my father. In short, he promised to be my spouse, and I pledged myself to become his, without proceeding any farther. Yesterday I was informed that, forgetting his engagement to me, he was going to be married to another, and that this morning the ceremony was to be performed. The news confounded me, and I lost all patience. My father being out of town, I took the opportunity of equipping myself as you now see me, and by the speed of this horse, I overtook Don Vincente about a league hence, and, without stopping to reproach him, or hear his excuses, I fired at him not only with this piece, but with both my pistols, and lodged, I believe, not a few b.a.l.l.s in his body: thus washing away with blood the stains of my honour. I left him to his servants, who either dared not, or could not prevent the execution of my purpose; and am come to seek your a.s.sistance to get to France, where I have relations, with whom I may live; and to entreat you likewise to protect my father from any cruel revenge on the part of Don Vincente's numerous kindred."

Roque was struck with the gallantry, bravery, figure, and also the adventure of the beautiful Claudia, and said to her, "Come, madam, and let us first be a.s.sured of your enemy's death, and then we will consider what is proper to be done for you."

So, after commanding his squires to restore to Sancho all they had taken from Dapple, and likewise to retire to the place where they had lodged the night before, he went off immediately with Claudia at full speed, in quest of the wounded or dead Don Vincente. They presently arrived at the place where Claudia had overtaken him, and found nothing there except the blood which had been newly spilt; but, looking round, at a considerable distance they saw some persons ascending a hill, and concluded (as indeed it proved) that it was Don Vincente, being conveyed by his servants, either to a doctor or his grave. They instantly pushed forward to overtake them, which they soon effected, and found Don Vincente in the arms of his servants, entreating them, in a low and feeble voice, to let him die in that place, for he could no longer endure the pain of his wounds. Claudia and Roque, throwing themselves from their horses, drew near; the servants were startled at the appearance of Roque, and Claudia was troubled at the sight of Don Vincente; when, divided between tenderness and resentment, she approached him, and, taking hold of his hand, said, "Had you but given me this hand, according to our contract, you would not have been reduced to this extremity." The wounded cavalier opened his almost closed eyes, and, recognising Claudia, he said, "I perceive, fair and mistaken lady, that it is to your hand I owe my death;--a punishment unmerited by me, for neither in thought nor deed could I offend you." "Is it not true, then," said Claudia, "that, this very morning, you were going to be married to Leonora, daughter of the rich Balvastro?" "No, certainly," answered Don Vincente; "my evil fortune must have borne you that news, to excite your jealousy to bereave me of life; but since I leave it in your arms, I esteem myself happy; and, to a.s.sure you of this truth, take my hand, and, if you are willing, receive me for your husband; for I can now give you no other satisfaction for the injury which you imagine you have received."

Claudia pressed his hand, and such was the anguish of her heart that she swooned away upon the b.l.o.o.d.y bosom of Don Vincente, and at the same moment he was seized with a mortal paroxysm. Roque was confounded, and knew not what to do; the servants ran for water, with which they sprinkled their faces; Claudia recovered, but Don Vincente was left in the sleep of death. When Claudia was convinced that her beloved husband no longer breathed, she rent the air with her groans, and pierced the skies with her lamentations. She tore her hair, scattered it in the wind, and, with her own merciless hands, wounded and disfigured her face, with every other demonstration of grief, distraction, and despair. "O rash and cruel woman!" she exclaimed, "with what facility wert thou moved to this evil deed! O maddening sting of jealousy, how deadly thy effects! O my dear husband, whose love for me hath given thee a cold grave!" So piteous, indeed, were the lamentations of Claudia, that they forced tears even from the eyes of Roque, where they were seldom or never seen before. The servants wept and lamented; Claudia was recovered from one fainting fit, only to fall into another, and all around was a scene of sorrow. At length Roque Guinart ordered the attendants to take up the body of Don Vincente, and convey it to the town where his father dwelt, which was not far distant, that it might be there interred. Claudia told Roque that it was her determination to retire to a nunnery, of which her aunt was abbess; there to spend what remained of her wretched life, looking to heavenly nuptials and an eternal spouse. Roque applauded her good design, offering to conduct her wherever it was her desire to go, and to defend her father against the relatives of Don Vincente, or any one who should offer violence to him. Claudia expressed her thanks in the best manner she could, but declined his company; and, overwhelmed with affliction, took her leave of him. At the same time, Don Vincente's servants carried off his dead body; and Roque returned to his companions. Thus ended the amour of Claudia Jeronima; and no wonder that it was so calamitous, since it was brought about by the cruel and irresistible power of jealousy.

Roque Guinart found his band of desperadoes in the place he had appointed to meet them, and Don Quixote in the midst of them, endeavouring, in a formal speech, to persuade them to quit that kind of life, so prejudicial both to soul and body. But his auditors were chiefly Gascons, a wild and ungovernable race, and therefore his harangue made but little impression upon them. Roque having asked Sancho Panza whether they had restored to him all the property which had been taken from Dapple, he said they had returned all but three night-caps, which were worth three cities. "What does the fellow say?"

quoth one of the party; "I have got them, and they are not worth three reals." "That is true," quoth Don Quixote; "but my squire justly values the gift for the sake of the giver." Roque Guinart insisted upon their being immediately restored; then, after commanding his men to draw up in a line before him, he caused all the clothes, jewels, and money, and, in short, all they had plundered since the last division to be brought out and spread before them; which being done, he made a short apprais.e.m.e.nt, reducing what could not be divided into money, and shared the whole among his company with the utmost exactness and impartiality. After sharing the booty in this manner, by which all were satisfied, Roque said to Don Quixote, "If I were not thus exact in dealing with these fellows, there would be no living with them." "Well," quoth Sancho, "justice must needs be a good thing; for it is necessary, I see, even among thieves." On hearing this, one of the squires raised the b.u.t.t-end of his piece, and would surely have split poor Sancho's head, if Roque had not called out to him to forbear. Terrified at his narrow escape, Sancho resolved to seal up his lips while he remained in such company.