CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS

Don Quixote told them in his discourse of that age in which victory in battle depended on personal courage and good swordsmanship, before the use of such devilish contrivances as lead and powder. These things almost made him despair of success for his revival of chivalry in this age, he said; for while guns and artillery could instill no fear in his breast, they did make him feel uneasy, as one never knew when a bullet, intended for some one else, might cut off one's life. The very worst of such a death, he maintained, was that the bullet might have been discharged by a fleeing coward. And so he pledged himself again, in spite of all the things he had to struggle against, not to give up what he had undertaken to do: to set the world aright in accordance with the principles of knight-errantry.

All the while that Don Quixote was discoursing, Sancho was much concerned because he neglected his food. He broke in whenever he had an opportunity, and admonished his master that he would have much time for talking after he had eaten.

When they had finished their supper, the landlord informed them that he had re-arranged their quarters in order to accommodate all, and that the three women might sleep in the garret, as Don Quixote gallantly had given up his quarters to them. Their interest then turned again to the stranger. Don Fernando asked him some questions about his life, and he replied that while his life-story would be interesting, it might not afford them much enjoyment. However, he said, he would tell it if they so wished. The curate begged that he do so; and, seeing the interest of all, the stranger mentioned by way of introduction that while his was a true story, many a story of fiction would seem tame and less strange in comparison. And while all of the company expectantly turned their eyes toward the strange traveler in Moorish garb, he began the following tale.

CHAPTERS x.x.xIX-XLI

WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES

As a young man, the stranger said, he had left Spain, bent on adventure and on becoming a soldier. He had served with the Duke of Alva in Flanders, and in the wars of the Christians against the Turks, the Moors, and the Arabs. In one of these wars he was taken prisoner by King El Uchali of Algiers; he had previously advanced to the rank of captain. He was held a captive for a long time, first at Constantinople, then at Tunis, then at Algiers. At Constantinople he encountered a good many other Christian prisoners. Particularly he remembered one Don Pedro de Augilar, a brave soldier and a native of Andalusia, who, he said, had written some very excellent poetry. He especially spoke of two sonnets which he had liked so well that he had learned them by heart. One day Don Pedro succeeded in making his escape, but what had become of him he had never heard.

As soon as the captive had spoken Don Pedro's name, the ladies and Don Fernando exchanged glances and smiled, and Don Fernando could not refrain from informing the narrator that Don Pedro was his brother.

Furthermore, he said, he was safe in Andalusia, where he was happily married, in the best of health, and had three robust children. Then he touched on his brother's gift for composing poetry, and said that the very two sonnets the captive had mentioned, he himself knew by heart.

Whereupon every one asked him to recite them, and so he did with fine feeling and intelligence. Then the captive resumed his story.

At Algiers, he said, there lived, overlooking the prison, a great alcaide named Hadji Morato, a very rich man, who had but one child, a daughter of great beauty. She had learned the Christian prayer from a slave of her father's, when she was a child; the things that this Christian woman had taught her had made her long to know more about the religion and to become a Christian herself. This beautiful Algerian maiden had seen the captive from her window, and she liked him, and one day she managed to get a message to him, begging him to escape and to take her with him. From time to time she would throw to him gold coins wrapped in cloth, and these he would hide until finally he had enough to buy not only himself but some other prisoners free from their slavery.

However, in order to effect the escape of the maiden, the captive was obliged to take into his confidence an old Algerian renegade who turned out to be a believer in Christ. With this man the captive sent messages to Zoraida. Now, this renegade was a sly fellow, and he bought a small vessel with which he began to ply to and fro between the city and some islands nearby, bringing back fruit each time, in order to alleviate all suspicions of his having acquired the vessel for any other purpose than trading. Finally it was decided the time had come for the escape, and the captive had himself ransomed.

That night the renegade had the ship anch.o.r.ed opposite the prison and Zoraida's garden, and, with the help of a number of Christians whom they had gathered as rowers, and who were eager to return to Spain, they secured the ship and put the Moorish crew in irons and chains.

Zoraida witnessed the proceedings from her window, and when she saw her captive and the renegade return in the skiff of the vessel, she hastened below into the garden. She was bedecked with a fortune in pearls and precious stones. She asked the renegade to follow her into the house, and when they returned, they brought with them a chest laden with gold. Just then her father was awakened and he began to shout in Arabic as loudly as he could that he was being robbed by Christians. Had it not been for the quick action of the renegade all might have been lost. He bound and gagged the father and carried him downstairs, where Zoraida had fainted in the captive's arms. Then they hastened back to the ship and set sail for Majorca.

It was some time before the old alcaide realized that his daughter had gone with the captive of her own free will, and when he learned it, he flung himself into the sea, but was rescued by one of the rowers. When he found himself then on board the ship, he began to curse his daughter, calling her a Christian dog and other vile names. Finally it was deemed best to set him and the other Moors ash.o.r.e; and when the old man saw the ship sail away with his daughter, he began to sob and cry aloud in the most heartrending way, threatening to kill himself if she did not return to him. The last words that she heard were, "I forgive you all!" and they made her weep so bitterly that it seemed as if her tears would never cease flowing.

They were then less than a day's voyage from the coast of Spain. As they were breezing along with all sails set, over a moonlit sea, they saw a large ship appear in the distance. It turned out to be a French corsair from Roch.e.l.le out for plunder, for when it came closer it suddenly fired two guns that took terrible effect and wrecked their vessel. As the ship began to sink, they begged to be taken aboard the corsair, to which the captain was not averse. Once aboard they were told that if they had been courteous enough to reply to the question shouted from the corsair as to what port they were bound for, their own vessel would still have been intact. The covetous crew stripped them of all their valuable belongings, the pearls and jewels, money and adornments of Zoraida. The chest of gold, however, the renegade stealthily lowered into the sea without any one seeing it.

The next day when the Spanish coast was sighted the captain put them all in a skiff, gave them some bread and water for their voyage, and set out to sea. Before letting them depart, moved by some strange impulse, he gave Zoraida forty crowns; and he had not robbed her of her beautiful gown. They steered their skiff towards the sh.o.r.e, where they landed soon after midnight. Immediately they left the sh.o.r.e, eager to know where they were. They climbed the mountain--for the sh.o.r.e was a rocky one--and there they rested until dawn, then went on into the country.

Soon they met a young shepherd; but when he saw their strange garbs, he ran away from them like a frightened lamb, crying that the Moors had invaded the country. And not so long after that they encountered fifty mounted men of the coast guard, but as soon as these saw their Moorish costumes and had heard the captive's explanation, they realized that the boy's vivid imagination had disturbed them needlessly. And when one of the Christian captives recognized in one of the guards an uncle of his, these men could not do enough for the returned slaves. They gave them their horses, some of them went to rescue the skiff for them, and when they arrived at the nearby city they were welcomed by all the inhabitants.

At once they went to the church to return thanks to the Lord for their marvelous escape, and Zoraida was impressed beyond expression with the hosts of praying worshippers. She, the renegade, and the captive stayed at the house of the returned Christian, and the rest were quartered throughout the town. After six days the renegade departed for Granada to restore himself to the Church through the means of the Holy Inquisition. One by one the other captives left for their own homes, and finally only Zoraida and he himself remained. He then decided to go in search of his father, whom he had not seen for so many years, and he did not know whether he was alive or not. His journey had brought him to this inn, and it was here that his story came to an end.

CHAPTER XLII

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING

The captive having finished his strange and interesting story, Don Fernando rose and thanked him, and all were eager for an opportunity to show him their goodwill. Don Fernando begged the stranger to allow him to provide for his comfort, and offered to take him to his brother, the Marquis, who, he said, would be most eager to act as Zoraida's G.o.dfather at her baptism. But the stranger declined graciously all the offers that were made.

Night was now setting in, and each one was contemplating going to his room, when suddenly a coach with attendants on horseback arrived at the inn. The landlady told the one demanding lodging that there was none to be had at any price. Whereupon the man replied that room _must_ be found for his lordship, the Judge, his master. As soon as the landlady learned she was dealing with the law, she nearly fainted from exertion to please, and offered to give up their own room and bed to his lordship. By this time the Judge, attired in a long robe with ruffled sleeves, had stepped out of the coach, accompanied by a beautiful girl of about sixteen years of age. There were exclamations from all when they saw the young lady, for she possessed beauty and grace that were really rare.

The first one to greet the strangers was no other than Don Quixote, who, with a grave air and the most exalted and flowery language, bade them welcome to the castle. He finished his speech by saying: "Enter, your worship, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to accompany the heaven your Worship brings with you. Here you will find arms in their supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest perfection."

The Judge looked for a moment as if he hesitated about entering with his daughter after such an unusual reception; he seemed to wonder whether he was at an inn or an asylum. He scrutinized Don Quixote's curious armor, then turned his attention to the rest of the company, which evidently made him feel more at ease.

It was arranged that the young lady should sleep with the other ladies; which pleased her greatly, for it was evident that she was very much taken with them and their beauty. The Judge was as much pleased with the presence of so many people of quality as he was puzzled by Don Quixote and his strange appearance and behavior.

The moment the former captive and captain had laid eyes on the Judge, he was stirred by the conviction that here was his own younger brother. He asked the Judge's name of one of the servants, and was told he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, lately appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico, to which country he was now on his way. The Captain inquired whether the servant knew from which part of Spain the Judge came, and got the reply that he had heard it rumored he was a native of a little village in the mountains of Leon. The Captain was then certain it was his brother, and he hastened to tell the curate, Don Fernando, and Cardenio, saying he felt diffident about making himself known too abruptly for fear his brother might refuse to acknowledge him because of his poverty and ill-fortune.

The curate understood the Captain's way of thinking, and asked that he trust him to manage it in a discreet way. So when the Judge invited them all to keep him company while he supped, the curate told the story of the captive at the table. In telling it he pretended to have been a captive in the hands of the Turks and the Algerians and a comrade-in-arms of the Captain. When he had finished the story, tears rolled down the Judge's cheeks, and he begged the curate to help him to find his beloved brother, for whom their aged father was ever praying, ever asking, hoping that he might see him once more before he closed his eyes in death. It was then that the Captain, himself in tears, stepped forward and, the Judge having recognized him, embraced his brother. Then the Judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all the worldly goods he possessed. His daughter, the lovely young girl, now joined them, and all the others were moved to tears by the brothers'

happiness in finding each other after so many years of separation.

Don Quixote stood gazing in silence at what pa.s.sed before his eyes, ascribing the two brothers' luck to magic.

When the first emotion of the unexpected meeting had subsided, the Judge asked his brother and Zoraida to return with him to Seville, from where he would send a messenger to the father, telling him of the good news and begging him to come to the joint marriage and baptismal ceremony. As the Judge was obliged to leave for New Spain within a month, it was agreed that a speedy return to Seville was necessary.

It was now early morning, though still dark, and all were tired, so it was decided that every one should go to bed. But Don Quixote, sacrificing himself in spite of his fatigue, appointed himself to keep guard for the remainder of the night, fearing attack of some evil giant or beast upon all the beauty that was slumbering within. They, who were aware of his peculiar weakness, returned thanks in their most gracious manner; and when they were alone with the Judge they hastened to explain the knight's mental state. The Judge was much amused by the accounts of his adventures and his attempts to revive knight errantry in Spain.

There was only one unhappy being in the inn that night: that was Sancho Panza. He was not at all pleased with his master's staying up at such a late hour. But there seemed nothing he could do about it, so he retired and spread himself comfortably on the trappings of his donkey.

While Don Quixote was guarding the castle, and dawn was approaching, Dorothea, who had lain awake, was suddenly stirred by the sound of a man's voice, a voice so beautiful that it seemed to her there could be none sweeter in the world. Then Cardenio was awakened by it, and he felt that he ought to share the joy of hearing it with the ladies, so he went to the garret to call their attention to it. When he knocked on the door and told them, Dorothea called out that they were already listening. The only one not awake at that time was Dona Clara, the Judge's fair daughter.

CHAPTER XLIII

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO Pa.s.s IN THE INN

Dorothea and the other ladies were in a quandary as to whether to awake Dona Clara or not. Finally they decided that she would be sorry if she had to learn what she had missed and would regret that they had not awakened her; so they shook her until she opened her eyes and then asked her to sit up in bed and listen. But scarcely had she heard one note, before she began to sob hysterically. She threw her arms around Dorothea and cried: "Why, oh, why did you wake me, dear lady? The greatest kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so that I could neither see nor hear that unhappy musician!"

Dorothea was at a loss to know what had happened to the child. All the while she was trying to soothe her, the tears were streaming down the young girl's face, and she was trembling like a leaf. Finally she quieted her feelings sufficiently to be able to confide to Dorothea in a whispering voice the story of her romance with the singer, who, she said, was not a muleteer as his garb would indicate, but the only son and heir of a rich n.o.ble of Aragon. This gentleman's house in Madrid was situated directly opposite her father's, and having once seen Dona Clara the youth proceeded to declare his love for her. She, being motherless and having no one to whom she could confide her love secrets, had to leave Madrid with her father, when he was given his appointment to New Spain, without an opportunity to see her lover. But as soon as the youth, who was not much older than herself, learned of their departure, he dressed himself up as a muleteer and set out on foot to pursue her. At every inn where they had stopped overnight she had found him awaiting their departure in the morning, and she was always in dread, she said, lest her father learn of their love for each other.

With her arms tight around Dorothea, she confessed to her how great her love was for the youth, saying that she could never live without him. Dorothea kissed the girl, and promised her that with G.o.d's help all would end well, telling her to put her trust in Him; and before another day had pa.s.sed she hoped to have good news for Dona Clara.

Dorothea's a.s.surances calmed and put new faith in the young girl's heart; and soon they all were fast asleep again.

Now, all this time the one-eyed Asturian maid, and the landlady's daughter, both bent on deviltry, were keeping their eyes open. It was impossible for them to forget Don Quixote, and they were determined to play a joke on him before the night was over. They posted themselves in the hayloft, where there was a hole in the wall; and when Don Quixote pa.s.sed on Rocinante, he heard some one calling: "Pst! Come here, senor!"

As Don Quixote turned to see who it might be, he discovered the hole in the wall and it seemed very much like a marvelously decorated window, in keeping with the beautiful castle he had made out of the inn. He beheld at this window the two maidens, and immediately they became to him the daughter of the lord of the castle and her attendant. Wistfully he gazed at them, certain, however, that they had designed to destroy his faithful and stubborn allegiance to Dulcinea, to whom he had just been sending up prayers and salutations under the influence of the moon. Then he spoke to them, regretting that they should let themselves be so overcome by love for him that they could no longer master their feelings. He told them of that great and only mistress of his soul, the incomparable one of El Toboso of La Mancha, to whom he had sworn eternal love and undying admiration. And at last he admonished the innkeeper's daughter to retire to her beauteous apartment, lest he should be forced to prove himself ungrateful. If, he said, she would demand any other thing than love, he would willingly grant her the favor, even unto a lock of Medusa's hair.

The wench immediately realized that her opportunity had come, so she quickly said that she cared for no lock of Medusa's or any other, but would be satisfied to feel the touch of his hand.

Before sanctioning this demand, Don Quixote a.s.serted his virtuousness again by stipulating that she must not kiss it, only touch it. He understood, of course, that any woman would be likely to ask such a favor of him at any time (for who would not be proud to have touched the sinewy hand of so remarkable and famous a knight errant as himself?) but he insisted on being discreet at all times. So he climbed up and stood on the saddle of his hack, reaching his lean arm through the hole in the wall.