SANCHO'S thirst drove him to use his instincts in search for drink. He judged by the rank grass that there must be water nearby. So, leading their mounts, Don Quixote and Sancho came in the darkness to a meadow, and they had gone only a short distance when they heard the welcome sound of falling water. Then suddenly a most tremendous, ear-splitting noise came out of the darkness, a din like the beating of gigantic hammers, and added to this a shifting wind. All these furious sounds, the mystery of them, and the blackness of the night, might have intimidated any heart, however stout; but it only made Don Quixote leap like a flash upon his horse. Turning to Sancho, he cried: "I am he who is to revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve of France, and the Nine Worthies; he who is to consign to oblivion the whole herd of famous knights errant of days gone by; he for whom all great perils and mighty deeds are reserved. Therefore, tighten Rocinante's girth a little, and God be with thee! Wait for me three days and no more. If in that time I come not back, thou canst return to our village, and thence thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shaltsay to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in attempting things that might make him worthy of being called her own."
These words made Sancho weep copious tears, and he begged his master not to undertake so dreadful an adventure. He even offered to sacrifice himself to such an extent as to go without water for three days, if his master would only return. When Don Quixote was firm in his resolve, Sancho decided that this was a case where the ends justified the means; therefore while tightening Rocinante's girth, he tied the horse's forelegs, so that when Don Quixote was going to ride off, his charger could move only by fits and starts. The more his rider spurred him, the more impossible it became for Rocinante to stir. Sancho had no great difficulty in persuading his master that this was a sign from above that he ought not to pursue any phantom adventure at that hour of the night, but wait until daybreak. Don Quixote resigned himself to do so, although it nearly made him weep, while Sancho tried to soothe his outraged feelings by telling amusing stories in a laborious way.
At daybreak Sancho stole over to Rocinante and untied his legs. The horse immediately became spirited, and when Don Quixote saw this, he believed it a sign from heaven. Again he took a touching leave of his squire—who began to cry, as he had done before—and gave the spur to his steed. Sancho was resolved to follow his master to the end, so he took his donkey by the halter, as was his custom, and led him on foot in pursuit of his knight errant.
They passed through a meadow that was fringed with trees, then came upon some huge rocks with cascades of water pouring over them. Below stood a row of dilapidated houses. It was from these houses that the din and noise emanated. As Rocinante came close to the racket, he began to make hysterical movements, pirouetting backward and forward, and Don Quixote crossed himself, commending himself to God and his Lady Dulcinea.
Coming up cautiously from behind the houses, Don Quixote peered around the corner, and there beheld the cause of the awe-inspiring din—six hammers of the kind that were used in mills.
Sancho could not help himself. He burst into uncontrollable laughter, shaking from head to foot. Don Quixote was mortified with shame and astonishment. And when he heard Sancho's laughter behind him, he broke into a rage, during which he repeated almost every word he had spoken the night before, when he was about to ride away to adventure on a three-legged horse. But Sancho was helpless. Four distinct times he broke into a fit of mirth, and finally his master struck him a blow on the body with his spear. Then he calmed down, and Don Quixote scolded him for his hilarity, saying that no such familiarity would be tolerated in the future. He quoted various chapters from books of chivalry, and cited Gandalin, squire to Amadis of Gaul. There, he said, was a model squire, for he would always address his lord with cap in hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double. And there were many others to look to. He mentioned a few, the most shining examples. Then he decreed that from thatday on respect must be the barrier between squire and knight in all their intercourse. He spoke also about his squire's wages and the treasures and islands that were to be his in time to come. He told Sancho not to worry, for if he should not pay him his wages, he had at any rate mentioned him in his will. From the first he had considered everything; he knew the world, and what a hazardous task he had set before himself.
IT started to rain, and Sancho suggested the fulling-mills as a place of refuge; but Don Quixote had taken such an aversion to them that he would not listen to it, and they continued riding, taking the roadway.
Suddenly they saw a man on horseback, who had on his head something that shone like gold, and at once Don Quixote exclaimed: "There comes towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest."
Sancho's only reply to this was that he did not want anything more to do with any fulling-mills; and his master entirely failed to fathom the connection. Sancho then said he could plainly see that the man's horse was an ass and that the man had something on his head that shone.
The truth of the matter was that in the neighborhood were two villages so small that the apothecary and barbershop in one of them had to serve for both. The village barber had just been summoned to shave and bleed a patient in the adjoining community, so he mounted his ass, armed with a brass basin for the bleeding, and set off. He had got about half-way, when it commenced to rain. Having a new hat, he covered it with the clean basin, that glittered like gold.
But Don Quixote had more sense than his squire, of course, and pursued the unknown knight with the helmet at Rocinante's wildest gallop. When the fear-stricken barber realized that Don Quixote's uplifted spear was aimed at him, he promptly threw himself from his ass and ran all the way home without stopping, leaving his brass basin behind as a trophy for our hero, who could not understand why this helmet had no visor.
"That pagan must have had a very large head," remarked Don Quixote, turning the basin round and round, trying to fit it to his own head, now this way, now that.
"It looks exactly like a barber's basin," said Sancho Panza, who had all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter.
Don Quixote treated this blasphemous thought with scorn, and said he would stop at the next smithy to have its shape changed. His next concern was his stomach; and when they found that the barber's ass carried ample supplies, they soon satisfied their appetites. Sancho now turned the conversation to the rest of the spoils of war; but Don Quixote was unable to make up his mind thatit was chivalrous to exchange a bad ass for a good one, as was his squire's wish; so Sancho had to satisfy himself with the barber's trappings.
Then they set out again. Soon Sancho felt the need of unburdening something he had had on his heart for some time. He suggested that instead of roaming about seeking adventures which no one ever witnessed and which therefore remained unsung and unheralded, they go and serve some great emperor engaged in war, so that their achievements and valor might go down to posterity. This struck a resonant chord in his master's heart. In fact, he went into raptures over it, and commenced to rant about all the great honors the future had in store for the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. He cunningly surmised that their first task would be to find a king who had an uncommonly beautiful daughter, for of course he had to marry a princess first of all. The plan excited him to such an extent that for a moment he forgot about the existence of his Dulcinea. The only thing that worried him was his royal lineage; he could not think of any emperor or king whose second cousin he might be. Yet he decided not to trouble too much about that; for were there not two kinds of lineages in the world? And Love always worked wonders: it had since the beginning of time. What would the princess care, if hewerea water-carrier's son? And if his future father-in-law should object, all he would have to do would be to carry her off by force.
As Don Quixote went on picturing himself in the most romantic rôles in the history of this as yet unknown kingdom,Sancho began to think it was time for him to be considered as well, when it came to bestowals of honor. Once he had been beadle of a brotherhood, and he had looked so well in a beadle's gown, he said, that he was afraid his wife would burst with pride when she saw him in a duke's robe, with gold and lace and precious stones. Don Quixote thought so, too, but admonished him that he would have to shave his beard oftener, as it was most unkempt. Sancho replied that would be an easy matter, for he would have a barber of his own, as well as an equerry; he knew that all men of fame kept such a man, for once in Madrid he had seen a gentleman followed by a man on horseback as if he had been his tail. He inquired why the gentleman was being followed in that manner and learned it was his equerry. Don Quixote thought Sancho's idea to have a barber was an excellent one, and Sancho urged his master to make haste and find him his island, that he might roll in his glory as a count or a duke.
HARDLY had they finished their conversation, when a gang of convicts came along on the road, guarded by two men on horseback and two on foot.
"Galley-slaves," remarked Sancho Panza laconically.
"If they are going against their own free will, it is a casefor the exercise of my office," answered Don Quixote.
He approached their custodians and asked to know what crimes these men had committed against his majesty the King. They answered it was not his business.
"Nevertheless, I should like to know," insisted Don Quixote, and he used such choice and magic language that one of the guards was induced to give him permission to ask each one of the men about his crime and sentence.
Don Quixote had questioned every one but the twelfth, and when he came to him he found that he was chained in a way different from the rest. This prisoner was a man of thirty, and crossed-eyed. His body was weighted down by very large irons and especially heavy chains, his hands were padlocked and so secured he could not raise them. Don Quixote asked why he was thus overburdened, and got the reply that he had committed more crimes than all the rest together. The guard then told the knight that the man had written a story of his unfinished life, and that he was no other than the famous Gines de Pasamonte. The culprit strongly objected to hearing his identity mentioned, and there ensued a furious battle of words between him and the guard. The latter lost his temper and was about to strike the slave a blow, when Don Quixote interfered, and pleaded for more kindly treatment. It seemed only fair to him that they, with their hands tied, might be permitted a free tongue. He grew fiery in his defense of them, reminded the guard that there was a God in heaven who would punish all sinners. He ended by requesting their immediate release.
This demand seemed worse than absurd to the guard, who wished him godspeed on his journey, advised him to put the basin straight on his head, and told him not to go looking for trouble. This was too much for our knight. He set upon his jesting adversary with such speed and suddenness that the musket fell out of the guard's hand. And the other guards were so taken aback at what was going on, and there was such confusion, that they did not notice Sancho untying the arch-criminal Gines. They suddenly saw him free, and with him the rest of the slaves, who had broken the chain; whereupon the guards fled in all directions as fast as their legs could carry them.
When the fray was over, Don Quixote asked the galley-slaves to gather around him, and to show him reverence for the deed he had done. He further demanded that they, armed with their chains, proceed in a body, to El Toboso to pay their respects to the fair Dulcinea. Gines attempted to explain the necessity of each one hiding himself, separately, in order to escape the pursuers, and offered to send up prayers for her instead; but Don Quixote would not listen to any argument. At last Gines decided he was quite mad, and when Don Quixote started to abuse him, he lost his temper, and they all attacked the knight with a rain of stones, until Rocinante and he both fell to the ground. There they belabored him savagely. Sancho had taken refuge behind his donkey, but the convicts found him, stripped him of his jacket, and left him shivering in the cold.
While Don Quixote lay there, fearing the vengeance of the law and the Holy Brotherhood for what he haddone, he was also reviewing in rage the ingratitude of mankind and the perversity of the iron age.
SANCHO at last convinced his master that they had best hide in the Sierra Morena mountains for a few days, in case a search should be made for them; and Don Quixote was pleased to find that the provisions carried by Sancho's ass had not disappeared. When night fell they took refuge under some cork-trees between two rocks. Fate would have it that to this very place should come that night the convict Gines. While Sancho was slumbering peacefully, Gines stole his ass; and by daybreak the thief was already far away. Don Quixote, awakened by sorrowful wailing, in order to console his squire, promised him three of his ass-colts at home in exchange. Then Sancho's tears stopped. But he now had to travel on foot behind his master, and he tried to keep up his humor by munching the provisions it had become his lot to carry.
Suddenly he observed that his master had halted, and was poking with his lance into some object lying on the road. He quickly ran up to him and found an old saddle-pad with a torn knapsack tied to it. Sancho opened it covetously and came upon four shirts of excellent material,articles of linen, nearly a hundred gold crowns in a handkerchief, and a richly bound little memorandum book. The little volume was all that Don Quixote kept for himself. Brimful of curiosity, he read it through and learned that it contained the bemoanings of a rejected lover.
Meantime Sancho Panza's great discovery of the gold coins had entirely banished from his memory all the suffering and pain and humiliation he had had to go through since he had became a squire. But Don Quixote was anxious to find out something about the owner of the knapsack, for he was convinced there was some very strange adventure connected with his disappearance. And as he was planning what to do, he perceived on the summit of a great height, a man, half-naked, jumping with remarkable swiftness and agility from rock to rock.
Don Quixote saw no way of getting there, so he stood for some time pondering what to do. Then he saw above him on the mountainside a flock of goats, tended by an elderly goatherd. Calling to him, the knight asked him to come down, and the old man descended, amazed at seeing human beings there. Don Quixote immediately began to ask about the strange half-naked man he had seen, and the goatherd told what he knew of him and the mystery of the knapsack.
The stranger, he said, was a youth of good looks and no doubt of high birth, who had lost his wits because of the faithlessness of a friend. His behavior was such that they had never seen the like of it. In fits of madness he would approach people, snatch away food offered him out of their hands, and then run away with the speed of a deer. Thenagain he would come begging for food, the tears flowing down his cheeks.
Now, while they were standing there discussing the young man, chance would have it that he came along, and greeted them courteously. Don Quixote returned his greeting with grand gestures, descended from Rocinante's tired back, and advanced to the youth with open arms. He held him in his embrace for some time, as if he had known him forever. Finally the youth tore away and, placing his hands on the shoulders of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, the youth, who might be called the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, looked into his eyes and spoke to him.
THE Ragged One thanked Don Quixote for being so kind and courteous; and Don Quixote replied that his duty to the world consisted in giving succor to those in despair and need. He implored the youth to tell him the name of the one who had caused his misfortune, that he might revenge him. The Ragged One stared at him strangely and said: "If you will give me to eat, I will tell you my story."
Sancho and the goatherd gave the youth something to appease his hunger; and he ate it ravenously. When hehad finished, he motioned to them to follow him, and they came to a spot where green grass grew and all stretched themselves on the ground in silence. Before he began his story, the youth warned them not to interrupt him, for then it would come to an end. Don Quixote promised solemnly for all of them.
The youth told of his love for one Luscinda, and how his best friend, Don Fernando, son of a grandee of Spain, had stolen her love away from him; but suddenly he was interrupted by Don Quixote, and refused to continue. Whereupon Don Quixote nearly lost his senses—for his curiosity was aroused beyond words—and called the Ragged One a villain.
The Ragged One broke into a violent fit when he heard himself called names and picked up a stone which he hurled against the knight errant's breast with such force that it placed him flat on his back. Seeing this, Sancho Panza flew at the madman; but the youth seemed to possess supernatural strength, for he felled Sancho to the ground with one single blow, and then jumped on his chest and buckled his ribs. Having also beaten the old goatherd, he went into the woods again.
When Sancho had seen the last of him, he turned loose his rage on the poor old goatherd, whom he cursed for not having warned them that the youth might be taken with fits. Words led to blows; the two grabbed each other by their beards, and had it not been for Don Quixote, their fray might have had a sad ending. He calmed his squire by absolving the old man of all blame. Then he asked him—for he was still aching with curiosity to learn the end ofthe story—whether he knew where he might find Cardenio (that being the youth's name). The goatherd answered that if he remained in the neighborhood long enough he could not help meeting him; but as to his mood, he could not answer for that.
DON QUIXOTE and Sancho Panza now made their way into unknown regions of the mountains, Sancho trailing behind his master, on foot, silent, and in bad humor. Finally he requested his master's permission to say what was in his heart, and Don Quixote removed the ban under which his squire was suffering. Sancho asked for the knight's blessing and begged leave to return to his wife and home; but his master could not make up his mind until he hit upon a great inspiration, the carrying out of which made necessary his using Sancho as a messenger to his incomparable Dulcinea.
Don Quixote, in short, had decided to go mad, in emulation of other bold knights, such as Roland and Amadis—a decision that extracted from Sancho Panza some muttered words to the effect that any one who could mistake a barber's basin for a gold helmet could not go much madder. And then Don Quixote explained to what sufferings,sorrow, penance, and folly he would subject himself; and quite unintentionally he revealed to Sancho the real identity of his famous Lady Dulcinea, whom Sancho had always thought a princess. Now the good squire learned to his dismay that the famous Dulcinea was no other than Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter, Aldonza Lorenzo, a lady with manners like a man, and a man's ability to handle a crowbar easily.
When Don Quixote had determined upon his penance in the wilderness, all for the sake of Dulcinea, he thought it would be a good idea to make known to her the sacrifices and sufferings he was about to undergo for her sake. Therefore he granted his squire the requested permission to return to his family, and bade him speed homeward on Rocinante, so that he himself, horseless, might undergo an even greater penance. He sent a letter by Sancho to his fair one, relating to her the pain of his wounded heart; a pain enhanced by self-inflicted absence and to be ended only by death, to satisfy her cruelty.
Sancho's covetousness did not permit his master to forget the three promised ass-colts; so Don Quixote wrote an order to his niece in the notebook of the ill-starred Cardenio.
Before they parted, Don Quixote asked Sancho to stay and see some of the insanities he meant to perform in his absence. He then stripped to the skin and went through some remarkable capers before his squire. This exhibition nearly brought tears to Sancho's eyes, and he besought him to stop. And when he expressed a fear that he would not be able to find his way back, Don Quixote assured himthat he would remain in that very spot, or thereabouts, until the squire returned from El Toboso; and he told him also to cut some branches and strew them in his path. Furthermore he said he would be on the lookout for him from the peak of the highest cliff.
When Sancho finally took leave of his master, he felt that he could swear with unprotesting conscience that his beloved master was quite mad.
SOON after Sancho had gone, Don Quixote came to the conclusion that the exercises he was putting himself through were much too hard and troublesome. So he decided to change them, and instead of imitating Roland and his fury, he turned to the more melancholy Amadis, whose madness was of a much milder form and needed a less strenuous outlet. But to imitate Amadis, he had to have a rosary, and he had none. For a moment he was in a quandary; but a miracle gave him the inspiration to use the tail of his shirt—which was too long anyhow—and tearing off a long piece, on which he made eleven knots, he repeated quantities of credos and ave-marias on it, there in the wilderness. His love would at times drive him to write verses to his cruel and beloved one on the bark ofthe trees, all the while he would make moaning sounds of lovesickness. Again he would go about sighing, singing, calling to the nymphs and fauns and satyrs, and, of course, looking for herbs to nourish himself with.
But while Don Quixote exiled himself in the wilds, his servant Sancho Panza was making for El Toboso. On the second day he found himself at the inn at which the incident of his blanket journey had taken place. The smell of food reminded him that it was dinner time; yet he hesitated about entering. As he was standing there, along came two men; and one of them was heard to say: "Is not that Sancho Panza?" "So it is," said the other one; and it turned out to be the curate and the barber of Don Quixote's own village.
At once they approached him. They asked him about his master, but it was not until they had threatened to believe that he had robbed and murdered Don Quixote—for was he not mounted on Rocinante?—that he divulged the secret of his master's hiding-place. He told them of everything; even about his master's strange and unbounded love for the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo and the letter he had written to her. When the curate asked to see it, Sancho could not find it; and then he suddenly remembered that Don Quixote had given him neither the letter nor the order for the ass-colts. He turned pale and green, and beat his chest frantically, but it produced no miracle. The curate and the barber told him that the only thing to do was to find Don Quixote and get him to write them anew; and the thought of losing the ass-colts made Sancho only too anxious to return.
When the squire had been comforted somewhat, he tried to recite Don Quixote's epistle of love; and his recital amused the two friends to such a degree that he had to repeat it thrice, each time adding new absurdities. Finally they invited him to come into the inn and eat, while they talked over the journey to their friend's wilderness paradise of penitence. Sancho was quick to refuse; but he gave no reason for so doing. He said he preferred to eat outside and asked that they bring him the food, and also some barley for Rocinante.
While the barber was serving Sancho and Rocinante, the curate was developing a plan of strategy which was unanimously adopted by all concerned. It was arranged that the curate should invade the region of knightly penitence, dressed as an innocent-looking maiden with a masked countenance; while his friend the barber should appear on the scene behaving like a squire. The bogus maiden should be in great distress and ask for protection, when Don Quixote, valiant knight that he was, would be sure to give it. She would then beg him to shield her on her journey, and, as a favor, to ask her no questions regarding her identity, until she was safely at home. Once they had him there, they would try to find a cure for his strange madness.
THE curate proceeded to borrow the needed dress from the landlady, whose curiosity he satisfied by explaining Don Quixote's madness and their mission in the mountains. The landlady recognized Don Quixote by the description the curate gave, and willingly furnished the clothes, and an ox-tail out of which the barber made himself a beard. As security for these things the curate left behind a brand-new cassock.
When the curate's transfiguration was completed, however, his conscience began to trouble him; so it was agreed that he and the barber were to change rôles. The curate shed his female attire, and the barber decided not to don it until they approached the mountainside. Meanwhile Sancho was instructed as to how to act and what to say, when he saw his master.
The day after they set out, they came to the place where Sancho's branches were strewn. The curate thought it best that they send Sancho ahead to take to his master Lady Dulcinea's reply; this was agreed to, and Sancho left.
While the two conspirators were resting in the shade of some trees they were suddenly startled by hearing a man singing in the distance. It was clearly a voice trained inthe art of singing, and the verses he sang were not of rustic origin. Soon they perceived the singer, and it was no other than Cardenio, the Ragged One. Now he was untouched by madness, for he spoke quite sanely, telling them of his woeful misfortune, the memory of which, he said, would sometimes overpower and strangle his senses. The curate and the barber were both eager to know the story of the comely youth's life, and he then told them of the faithlessness of his friend. This time he was not interrupted, and he finished his story, which was one of a great love as much as one of misfortune. He had just reached the end, when from no great distance came the sound of a lamenting voice.
WHEN Cardenio and the curate and the barber looked about they discovered a youth with exquisite, delicate features bathing his feet in the brook below them. His garb was that of a peasant lad; on his head he had amontera. Having finished bathing, he took from under themonteraa cloth with which he dried his feet. In removing the cap there fell from under it a mass of auburn hair, and all were amazed to find that instead of a youth, it was a most lovely maiden. In their astonishment eitherthe curate or the barber uttered a cry; and frightened at the sight of them, the girl took to flight, but soon stumbled and fell.
The curate was the first one to reach her. He spoke some kind words and told her that they were there to help her, to fulfill any wish she might express. And he begged her to cast away any pretence, for he was certain that she was there because of some misery that had befallen her.
At first the maiden seemed bewildered, but after a while she showed that the curate had gained her confidence, and she spoke to him in a beautiful, melancholy voice. She seated herself on a stone, while the three gathered around her, and confided to them with tears in her eyes the reasons for her being there. She told them of a certain grandee of Spain, living in Andalusia, of whom her father, lowly in birth but rich in fortune, was a vassal. This grandee had two sons. She had been betrothed to the younger one of these, Don Fernando, and he had jilted her in favor of a lady of noble birth, whose name was Luscinda.
When Cardenio heard his own lady's name, he bit his lips and tears came to his eyes. Dorothea—for that was the maiden's name—wondered at such interest and such emotion, but she continued her story. She told of how, upon Don Fernando's marriage to lady Luscinda, she had fled in despair from house and home. A herdsman in the heart of the Sierra had given her employment as a servant; but when he had discovered that she was a woman, she was forced to leave. While she was bemoaning her evil fate, and praying to God in the woods, she had cut her feet on the stones; and she was bathing them in the brook when she encountered the present gathering.
DOROTHEA had told her story with great simplicity. When she had ended it, the curate arose to console her; but Cardenio was already at her side.
"Are you not the daughter of the rich Clenardo?" he asked of her eagerly.
She gazed at him in wonder, for she had not spoken her father's name. She asked the youth who he might be, and he told her that he was the Cardenio who had been wronged by Don Fernando, the faithless friend and faithless lover; and he swore then and there a holy oath that he should see her married to Don Fernando or the latter would perish by his, Cardenio's, sword. Dorothea was moved to tears by the youth's words and thanked him profusely. The curate then made the suggestion that both of them return with him and the barber to their village where they could make further plans as to what to do to set things aright. And Dorothea and Cardenio accepted this kind offer gratefully.
Sancho was now seen arriving, and the curate told the youth and the maiden the reason for his being there. He explained to them the curious nature of Don Quixote's madness, and Cardenio mentioned to the curate his meeting with the knight.
Sancho had found Don Quixote nearly dead with hunger, crying aloud for his Dulcinea; and when his squire entreated him in her name to return to El Toboso, he refused, declaring that his penitence was not yet complete; that he was not yet worthy of her favor. Sancho was quite worried lest he should lose his island and his titles and all the other honors he had expected, and the curate did his best to calm his fears. The good man then explained to Cardenio and Dorothea how they had planned to take Don Quixote back to his home by persuading him to go there on an adventure in aid of a distressed damsel.
Dorothea at once offered to play the part of the damsel. Having read a good many books of chivalry, herself, she thought she could qualify in asking favors of our knight. She had brought with her a complete woman's dress, with lace and rich embroidery, and when Sancho Panza saw her in her new array, he asked, in astonishment, what great lady she might be. The curate replied that she was the ruler of the great kingdom of Micomicon, and after having been dethroned by an evil giant had come all the way from Guinea to seek the aid of Don Quixote. Immediately Sancho's hope for his titles and possessions was revived, for the thought of his master's fame having spread to such distant parts seemed most encouraging.
While Sancho Panza was entertaining these visions, Dorothea mounted the curate's mule, and the barber decorated himself with the ox-tail for a beard. Sancho was told to lead the way, and the curate explained to him that the success of their mission depended on him. He waswarned that he must not give away the identity of the curate and the barber; if he did, the empire would be lost. And then they started out, leaving the curate and Cardenio behind, as that was thought best.
They had gone almost a league when they saw Don Quixote on a rock, clothed, but wearing no armor. Dorothea was helped from her horse. She walked over to Don Quixote and knelt before him; and she told him the errand that had brought her there, saying that she would not rise until he had granted her the boon she was asking. While she was kneeling before him, Sancho Panza was anxiously whispering to Don Quixote bits of information about her and her kingdom, afraid that his master might refuse her; but, demented though he was, rank and riches mattered little to Don Quixote, for he drew his sword, he said, in defense of anything that was righteous, and the meek and downtrodden always found in him a ready and courteous defendant. When he learned from the Princess that a big giant had invaded her kingdom, he at once granted her the promise of his services. Dorothea wanted to kiss his hand as a proof of her gratitude; but Don Quixote would not permit her to do this, being ever a respectful and courteous knight. He commanded his squire to saddle his horse immediately, while he put on his armor, mounted, and was ready for the crusade.
They set out, Sancho on foot, cheerfully grinning to himself at the covetous thought of all the possessions that would be his in a short time. Soon they passed the place where Cardenio and the curate were hiding. The curate had by this time conceived the idea of shearing Cardenioof his beard that Don Quixote would be unable to recognize him; and he had furnished him with his own grey jerkin and a black cloak, so that he himself appeared in breeches and doublet only. Having effected the change, they took a short-cut through the woods and came out on the open road ahead of Don Quixote.
As he approached them, the curate feigned astonishment beyond words at seeing his old friend; and Don Quixote was so surprised that he hardly recognized the curate. He courteously offered Rocinante to him, but the curate remonstrated and finally accepted the long-bearded squire's mule, inviting the squire to sit behind him. This arrangement did not please the mule, however, for he commenced to kick with his hind legs. Luckily the beast did not damage the barber, but the demonstration frightened him so that he turned a somersault in a ditch. In so doing, his beard came off, but he had enough presence of mind to cover his face at the same moment, crying that his teeth were knocked out. When Don Quixote saw the beard on the ground without any sign of flesh or blood, he was struck with amazement, and thought that the barber had been shaved by a miracle.
The curate hastened breathlessly to the barber's side, and began to mumble incomprehensible words, while the barber was groaning on the ground in an uncomfortable position. When the barber finally rose, Don Quixote's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets, for he beheld the barber bearded again. He begged the curate to teach him the charm that could produce such a miracle, and the curate promised he would. Then they proceeded on the journey.
The curate now began to wonder about the road (all thiswas pre-arranged) and said that in order to go to the kingdom of Micomicon, they had to take the road to Cartagena, where they would embark on a ship. That, he said, would take them through his own village, and from there it was a journey of nine years to Micomicon. Here the Princess corrected him, saying that it had taken her only two years to make the journey here, in quest of the noble and famous knight who had now sworn to restore her kingdom to her.
Don Quixote at this moment happened to observe the light attire of the curate, and was curious to know the reason for it. Whereupon the curate (having learned of the incident through Sancho) related how he and Master Nicholas, on their way to Seville, had been held up by a gang of liberated galley-slaves. These criminals, it was said, had been set free by a man on horseback, as brave as he was bold, for he had fought off all the guards, single-handed. The curate criticized this man heartlessly, called him a knave and a criminal for having set himself against law and order and his king, and expressed a belief that he could not have been in his right mind. The Holy Brotherhood, he said further, was searching for him now, and he himself was afraid that the man's soul would be lost. He finished his story by calling upon the Lord to pardon this unregenerate being who had taken away the galley-slaves from the punishment that had been meted out to them by justice.
Don Quixote seemed to take the curate's sermon to heart, and bent his head humbly, not daring to admit that he was the culprit, and not knowing that the curate knew it.
WHEN Sancho heard the harsh sermon of the curate, he, being a good Christian, became afraid that his own soul might be lost too; for was he not an accomplice? So he confessed then and there his own and his master's guilt, much to the shame and anger of Don Quixote. The Princess was quick to sense the danger, and she calmed our hero before his anger had risen to any great height, by reminding him of his promise, and how he had sworn to engage in no conflict of any kind until her kingdom had been saved. He answered her with infinite courtesy and expressed his regrets for having let his anger get the better of him; he would stand by his word. Then he asked her to tell him all that she could about herself and her kingdom. She would willingly do that, she said, and began her story.
But she came very near ending it then and there, for she could not remember the name she had assumed. Luckily the curate—who had invented her long and difficult name—was there to prompt her, and the situation was saved. Having told Don Quixote that her name was Princess Micomicona, she continued her story, relating how she was left an orphan, how a certain giant and lordof an island near her kingdom had asked for her hand in marriage and she had refused, how his forces had overrun her country and she had fled to Spain, where it had been predicted by a magician she would find a certain great knight errant by the name of Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, who would be recognized by a gray mole with hairs like bristles under the left shoulder.
Immediately upon hearing this, Don Quixote wanted to strip, but Sancho assured them that he did have just such a mark. Dorothea said she was quite sure he must, for in other respects the description that the magician had given fitted him; and she hastened to relate to him how she had first heard of him on her landing at Osuna. But evidently the pretended Princess had not been as careful a student of geography as Don Quixote, who was quick to ask her: "But how did you land at Osuna, señorita, when it is not a seaport?" Again the curate displayed proof of rare presence of mind, for he broke in: "The Princess meant to say that after having landed at Malaga, the first place where she heard of your worship was Osuna." And Dorothea immediately corroborated the curate's explanation with great self-assurance.
However, she thought it best to end her story here, for fear of complications, and only added how happy she was to have found him so soon. She also pointed out, demurely enough, that it had been predicted if after having cut off the giant's head the knight should ask her to marry him, she would accept. But Don Quixote said he would be true to his Dulcinea; and this made Sancho exclaim withdismay that he was out of his head, for Dulcinea could never come up to this fair princess.
Sancho's remark angered his master so intensely that he knocked him to the ground with his spear; and if the Princess had not interfered the unfortunate squire might never again have been able to say his ave-marias or credos or, more to the point, have eaten another square meal. He was quick to cry out that he had meant no ill by what he said, and acting upon the suggestion of the Princess, he kissed his master's hand.
At this moment a man, mounted on an ass, was seen on the road, and Sancho, no doubt feeling instinctively the proximity of his beloved animal, recognized in the man Gines de Pasamonte. Wildly shouting, he set out after the galley-slave, who threw himself off the ass at Sancho's first shout. Sancho, crying with joy, was so glad to have his faithful donkey returned to him that he did not pursue the thief. And Don Quixote himself was so pleased that he entirely forgot about his quarrel with Sancho. He called him to his side, and asked him to repeat everything his Dulcinea had told him, over and over again.
DON QUIXOTE was anxious to know what jewel his fair one had bestowed on Sancho before the leave-taking. Sancho replied that the only jewel Dulcinea hadgiven him was some bread and cheese; whereupon Don Quixote remarked that no doubt she had had no jewels at hand. He expressed wonder at the speedy trip Sancho had made, to which Sancho replied that Rocinante had gone like lightning; and Don Quixote then was sure some friendly enchanter had carried him through the air.
THE following day they reached the inn. The landlady at once wanted her ox-tail back, so it was decided that the barber should hereafter appear in his own true character, having supposedly arrived at the inn after the galley-slaves' hold-up.
Don Quixote was tired, and was given a bed in the garret where he had slept once before. While the others were having dinner, the landlady was confidentially telling all who would listen of Don Quixote's absurdities during his previous visit, and also of Sancho Panza's being juggled in the blanket. And while the curate was discussing Don Quixote's madness, the innkeeper confided to him that he himself had a weakness for reading about deeds of the past, particularly stories of chivalry. Often, he said, he would read aloud from these books to his family and servants. He had just read a novel entitled "Ill-Advised Curiosity," which he had found very interesting.He showed the manuscript of it to the curate, who seemed to think it might make very good reading and expressed a desire to copy it. Whereupon the innkeeper asked him whether he would not read it aloud to them; and as they were all eager to hear it, the curate commenced the reading of the manuscript.
THE curate had almost finished the reading of the novel, (which consumed all of the two chapters which are omitted here) when Sancho Panza burst into the room, excitedly shouting that his master was having the wildest battle he had ever seen, up in the garret. He pleaded for reinforcements, and wanted them all to join in conquering the enemy who, he declared, was no other than the fierce giant that had invaded the kingdom of Micomicon. He said he had left just as his master had cut the giant's head clean off with his sword, leaving the beast to bleed like a stuffed pig.
While Sancho was relating his blood-curdling story, a tremendous noise and loud exclamations poured forth from the garret, and the innkeeper, suddenly remembering all the many wine-skins he had hung up there on the previousnight sprang out of his chair and toward the scene of action, followed by the rest.
The worst that the innkeeper might have feared was true; for there, on the garret floor, was a sea of red wine, with hosts of empty skins floating about upon it. In the middle of the sea stood Don Quixote, sword in hand, slashing right and left, dressed in nothing but his shirt. But the strangest thing of all was not his attire, but the fact that he was fast asleep, his eyes shut tightly,dreaming that he had already arrived in the distant realm of the Princess Micomicona and had encountered the giant enemy.
Seeing all his precious wine floating away, the innkeeper became enraged and set upon Don Quixote with his bare fists; but the beating had no effect on the knight except, perhaps, that it made him sleep more soundly. It was not until the barber had drenched him in cold water that he came to his senses.
The Princess Micomicona, who had been listening to the saving of her kingdom outside the door, became eager, after she had heard the tempest subside, to enter and see the conquered giant; but she retired hastily and with a slight exclamation of horrified modesty on seeing the abbreviated length of her defender's night-shirt, the tail of which had been sacrificed to his prayers in the wilderness.
The landlord, cursing his luck, swore that this time the knight errant and his squire should not escape without paying. But Don Quixote, whose hand the curate was holding in an endeavor to calm him, merely fell on his kneesbefore the curate, exclaiming: "Exalted and beautiful Princess! Your Highness may now live in peace; for I have slain the giant!" He imagined that he was at the feet of Micomicona. Soon after having spoken thus, he showed signs of great weariness, and the curate, the barber and Cardenio carried him to his bed, where he fell asleep.
Next they had to console Sancho, who was grief-stricken because he had been unable to find the giant's head. He swore he had seen it falling when his master cut it off, and imagined that if it could not be produced there would be no reward for either him or his master; but Dorothea, in her rôle of Princess, calmed and comforted him.
All this time the innkeeper's wife was crying about the ox-tail, which, she said, had lost its usefulness after having served as beard, and the innkeeper was demanding that he be paid for the spilt wine and other losses. The curate assured them that he himself would see to it that they were reimbursed for everything; and when the excitement in the inn had simmered down, and everybody had gathered again in the room where they had heard the curate read from "Ill-Advised Curiosity," he was asked to resume the reading. This he did; and they all thought it a very entertaining story and listened intensely to what the curate was reading.