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The Life and Achievements of Don Quixote De La Mancha is a Spanish epic novel by Miguel de Cervantes. Originally published in two parts, in 1605 and 1615, its full title is The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha. A founding work of Western literature, it is often labelled as the first modern novel and one of the greatest works ever written. Don Quixote is also one of the most-translated books in the world.

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CHAPTER XXIV.
The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued; with otherpleasant adventures.

The joy of the whole company was unspeakable by the happy conclusionof this perplexed business. Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thoughtthe sudden change of their affairs too surprising to be real; andcould hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Fernando thankedHeaven a thousand times for having led him out of a labyrinth, inwhich his honour and virtue were like to have been lost. The curate,as he was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, hadlikewise no small share in the general joy; and that no discontentmight sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curateengaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed byDon Quixote; only poor Sancho drooped sadly. He found his lordship andhis hopes vanished into smoke; the Princess Micomicona was changed toDorothea, and the giant to Don Fernando. Thus, very musty andmelancholy, he slipt into his master's chamber, who had slept on, andwas just wakened, little thinking of what had happened.

"I hope your early rising will do you no hurt," said he, "Sir Knightof the Sorrowful Figure; but you may now sleep on till doom's-day ifyou will; nor need you trouble your head any longer about killing anygiant, or restoring the princess; for all that is done to your hand.""That is more than probable," answered the knight; "for I have had themost extraordinary, the most prodigious and bloody battle with thegiant that I ever had, or shall have, during the whole course of mylife. Yet with one cross stroke I laid his head on the ground, whencethe great effusion of blood seemed like a violent stream of water.""Of wine, you mean," said Sancho; "for you must know (if you know itnot already), that your worship's dead giant is a broached wine-skin;and the blood some thirty gallons of tent which it held in its body.""What sayest thou, madman?" said the Don; "thou art frantic, sure.""Rise, rise, sir," said Sancho, "and see what fine work you have cutout for yourself; here is your great queen changed into a privategentlewoman, called Dorothea, with some other such odd matters, thatyou will wonder with a vengeance." "I can wonder at nothing here,"said Don Quixote, "where you may remember I told you all things wereruled by enchantment." "I believe it," quoth Sancho, "had my adventurewith the blanket been of that kind; but sure it was likest the realtossing in a blanket of anything I ever knew in my life. And this sameinnkeeper, I remember very well, was one of those that tossed me intothe air, and as cleverly and heartily he did it as a man could wish, Iwill say that for him; so that, after all, I begin to smell a rat, anddo greatly suspect that all our enchantment will end in nothing butbruises and broken bones." "Heaven will retrieve all," said theknight; "I will therefore dress, and march to the discovery of thesewonderful transformations."
Meanwhile the curate gave Don Fernando and the rest an account of DonQuixote's madness, and of the device he used to draw him from thedesert, to which the supposed disdain of his mistress had banished himin imagination. Sancho's adventures made also a part in the story,which proved very diverting to the strangers. He added, that sinceDorothea's change of fortune had baulked their design that way, someother scheme should be devised to decoy him home. Cardenio offered hisservice in the affair, and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea."No, no," answered Don Fernando; "Dorothea shall humour the jeststill, if this honest gentleman's habitation be not very far off.""Only two days' journey," said the curate. "I would ride twice asfar," said Don Fernando, "for the pleasure of so good and charitablean action." By this time Don Quixote had sallied out armed cap-a-pie,Mambrino's helmet (with a great hole in it), on his head; his shieldon his left arm, and with his right he leaned on his lance. Hismeagre, yellow, weather-beaten face of half a league in length; theunaccountable medley of his armour, together with his grave and solemnport, struck Don Fernando and his companions dumb with astonishment;while the champion, casting his eyes on Dorothea, with great gravitybroke silence with these words:
"I am informed by this my squire, beautiful lady, that your greatnessis annihilated, and your majesty reduced to nothing; for of a queenand mighty princess, as you used to be, you are become a privatedamsel. If any express order from the necromantic king your father,doubting the ability and success of my arm in the reinstating you, hasoccasioned this change, I must tell him that he is no conjuror inthese matters, and does not know one half of his trade; nor is heskilled in the revolutions of chivalry; for had he been conversant inthe study of knight-errantry as I have been, he might have found thatin every age champions of less fame than Don Quixote de la Mancha havefinished more desperate adventures; since the killing of a pitifulgiant, how arrogant soever he may be, is no such great achievement;for not many hours past I encountered one myself; the success I willnot mention, lest the incredulity of some people might distrust thereality; but time, the discoverer of all things, will disclose it whenleast expected. To conclude, most high and disinherited lady, if yourfather, for the reasons already mentioned, has caused thismetamorphosis in your person, believe him not; for there is no perilon earth through which my sword shall not open a way; and assureyourself that in a few days, by the overthrow of your enemy's head, itshall fix on yours that crown which is your lawful inheritance." HereDon Quixote stopped, waiting the princess's answer; she, assured ofDon Fernando's consent to carry on the jest till Don Quixote was gothome, and assuming a face of gravity, answered, "Whosoever hasinformed you, valorous Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, that I havealtered or changed my condition, has imposed upon you; for I am justthe same to-day as yesterday. It is true some unexpected but fortunateaccidents have varied some circumstances of my fortune, much to myadvantage, and far beyond my hopes; but I am neither changed in myperson, nor altered in my resolution of employing the force of yourredoubtable and invincible arm in my favour. I therefore apply myselfto your usual generosity, to have these words spoken to my father'sdishonour recalled, and believe these easy and infallible means toredress my wrongs the pure effects of his wisdom and policy, as thegood fortune I now enjoy has been the consequence of your surprisingdeeds, as this noble presence can testify. What should hinder us,then, from setting forward to-morrow morning, depending for a happyand successful conclusion on the will of Heaven, and the power of yourunparalleled courage?"
The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quixote turning to Sanchowith all the signs of fury imaginable, "Tell me, rogue, scoundrel, didnot you just now inform me that this princess was changed into alittle private damsel, called Dorothea, with a thousand otherabsurdities? I vow I have a mind so to use thee, as to make theeappear a miserable example to all succeeding squires that shall dareto tell a knight-errant a lie." "Good your worship," cried Sancho,"have patience, I beseech you; mayhap I am mistaken or so, about mylady Princess Micomicona's concern there; but that the giant's headcame off the wine-skin's shoulders, and that the blood was as goodtent as ever was tipt over tongue, I will take my oath on it; for arenot the skins all hacked and slashed within there at your bed's-head,and the wine all in a puddle in your chamber? But you will guess atthe meat presently by the sauce; the proof of the pudding is in theeating, master; and if my landlord here do not let you know it to yourcost, he is a very honest and civil fellow, that is all." "Sancho,"said the Don, "I pronounce thee non compos; I therefore pardon thee,and have done." "It is enough," said Don Fernando; "we, therefore, inpursuance of the princess's orders, will this night refresh ourselves,and to-morrow we will all of us set out to attend the lord Don Quixotein prosecution of this important enterprise he has undertaken, beingall impatient to be eye-witnesses of his celebrated and matchlesscourage." "I shall be proud of the honour of serving and waiting uponyou, my good lord," replied Don Quixote, "and reckon myself infinitelyobliged by the favour and good opinion of so honourable a company;which I shall endeavour to improve and confirm, though at the expenseof the last drop of my blood."
The night coming on, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernando'sfriends, having made haste to provide them the best supper he could,the cloth was laid on a long table, there being neither round norsquare in the house. Don Quixote, after much ceremony, was prevailedupon to sit at the head; he desired the Lady Micomicona to sit nexthim; and the rest of the company having placed themselves according totheir rank and convenience, they eat their supper very heartily. DonQuixote, to raise the diversion, never minded his meat, but inspiredwith the same spirit that moved him to preach so much to thegoatherds, began to hold forth in this manner: "Certainly, gentlemen,if we rightly consider it, those who make knight-errantry theirprofession often meet with surprising and most stupendous adventures.For what mortal in the world, at this time entering within thiscastle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will imagine and believeus to be the same persons which in reality we are? Who is there thatcan judge that this lady by my side is the great queen we all know herto be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful Figure souniversally made known by fame? It is, then, no longer to be doubtedbut that this exercise and profession surpasses all others that havebeen invented by man, and is so much the more honourable as it is moreexposed to dangers. Let none presume to tell me that the pen ispreferable to the sword. This may be ascertained by regarding the endand object each of them aims at; for that intention is to be mostvalued which makes the noblest end its object. The scope and end oflearning, I mean human learning (in this place I speak not ofdivinity, whose aim is to guide souls to Heaven, for no other canequal a design so infinite as that), is to give a perfection todistributive justice, bestowing upon every one his due, and to procureand cause good laws to be observed; an end really generous, great, andworthy of high commendation, but yet not equal to that whichknight-errantry tends to, whose object and end is peace, which is thegreatest blessing man can wish for in this life. And, therefore, thefirst good news that the world received was that which the angelsbrought in the night--the beginning of our day--when they sang in theair, 'Glory to God on high, peace on earth, and to men good-will.' Andthe only manner of salutation taught by our great Master to hisfriends and favourites was, that entering any house they should say,'Peace be to this house.' And at other times he said to them, 'Mypeace I give to you,' 'My peace I leave to you,' 'Peace be among you.'A jewel and legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel so precious thatwithout it there can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. Thispeace is the true end of war; for arms and war are one and the samething. Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, andthat in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh thebodily labours the scholar undergoes against those the warriorsuffers, and then see which are greatest."
The method and language Don Quixote used in delivering himself weresuch, that none of his hearers at that time looked upon him as amadman; but on the contrary, most of them being gentlemen to whom theuse of arms properly appertains, they gave him a willing attention;and he proceeded in this manner: "These, then, I say, are thesufferings and hardships a scholar endures. First, poverty (not thatthey are all poor, but to urge the worst that may be in this case);and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing more need beurged to express his misery; for he that is poor enjoys no happiness,but labours under this poverty in all its parts, at one time inhunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in allof them together; yet his poverty is not so great, but still he eats,though it be later than the usual hour, and of the scraps of the rich;neither can the scholar miss of somebody's stove or fireside to sitby; where, though he be not thoroughly heated, yet he may gatherwarmth, and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will nottouch upon other less material circumstances, as the want of linen,and scarcity of shoes, thinness and baldness of their clothes, andtheir surfeiting when good fortune throws a feast in their way; thisis the difficult and uncouth path they tread, often stumbling andfalling, yet rising again and pushing on, till they attain thepreferment they aim at; whither being arrived, we have seen many ofthem, who having been carried by a fortunate gale through all thesequick-sands, from a chair govern the world; their hunger being changedinto satiety, their cold into comfortable warmth; their nakedness intomagnificence of apparel, and the mats they used to lie upon, intostately beds of costly silks and softest linen, a reward due to theirvirtue. But yet their sufferings being compared to those the soldierendures, appear much inferior, as I shall in the next place make out."

CHAPTER XXV.
A continuation of Don Quixote's curious and excellent discourse uponarms and learning.

"Since, speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty, and itsseveral parts," continued Don Quixote, "let us now observe whether thesoldier be any richer than he; and we shall find that poverty itselfis not poorer; for he depends on his miserable pay, which he receivesbut seldom, or perhaps never; or else on that he makes by marauding,with the hazard of his life, and trouble of his conscience. Such issometimes his want of apparel, that a slashed buff-coat is all hisholiday raiment and shirt; and in the depth of winter being in theopen field, he has nothing to cherish him against the sharpness of theseason but the breath of his mouth, which issuing from an empty place,I am persuaded is itself cold, though contrary to the rules of nature.But now see how he expects night to make amends for all thesehardships in the bed prepared for him, which, unless it be his ownfault, never proves too narrow; for he may freely lay out as much ofthe ground as he pleases, and tumble to his content without danger oflosing the sheets. But above all, when the day shall come, wherein heis to put in practice the exercise of his profession, and strive togain some new degree, when the day of battle shall come; then, as amark of honour, shall his head be dignified with a cap made of lint,to stop a hole made by a bullet, or be perhaps carried off maimed, atthe expense of a leg or arm. And if this do not happen, but thatmerciful Heaven preserve his life and limbs, it may fall out that heshall remain as poor as before, and must run through many encountersand battles, nay always come off victorious, to obtain some littlepreferment; and these miracles, too, are rare; but, I pray tell me,gentlemen, if ever you made it your observation, how few are those whoobtain due rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers that perish?Doubtless you will answer that there is no parity between them, thatthe dead cannot be reckoned up; whereas those who live and arerewarded may be numbered with three figures. It is quite otherwisewith scholars, not only those who follow the law, but others also, whoall either by hook or by crook get a livelihood; so that though thesoldier's sufferings be much greater, yet his reward is much less. Tothis it may be answered, that it is easier to reward two thousandscholars, than thirty thousand soldiers, because the former arerecompensed at the expense of the public, by giving them employments,but the latter cannot be gratified but at the cost of the master thatemploys them; yet this very difficulty makes good my argument. Now fora man to attain to an eminent degree of learning costs him time,watching, hunger, nakedness, dizziness in the head, weakness in thestomach, and other inconveniences, which are the consequences ofthese, of which I have already in part made mention. But the risinggradually to be a good soldier is purchased at the whole expense ofall that is required for learning, and that in so surpassing a degreethat there is no comparison betwixt them, because he is every momentin danger of his life. To what danger or distress can a scholar bereduced equal to that of a soldier, who, being besieged in some strongplace, and at his post in some ravelin or bastion, perceives the enemycarrying on a mine under him, and yet must upon no account remove fromthence, or shun the danger which threatens him? All he can do is, togive notice to his commander, that he may countermine, but musthimself stand still, fearing and expecting, when on a sudden he shallsoar to the clouds without wings, and be again cast down headlongagainst his will. If this danger seem inconsiderable, let us seewhether that be not greater when two galleys shock one another withtheir prows in the midst of the spacious sea. When they have thusgrappled, and are clinging together, the soldier is confined to thenarrow beak, being a board not above two feet wide; and yet though hesees before him so many ministers of death threatening, as there arepieces of cannon on the other side pointing against him, and not halfa pike's length from his body; and being sensible that the first slipof his feet sends him to the bottom of Neptune's dominions,-still,for all this, inspired by honour, with an undaunted heart, he stands amark to so much fire, and endeavours to make his way by that narrowpassage into the enemy's vessel. But what is most to be admired is,that no sooner one falls, where he shall never rise till the end ofthe world, than another steps into the same place; and if he alsodrops into the sea, which lies in wait for him like an enemy, another,and after him another, still fills up the place, without suffering anyinterval of time to separate their deaths; a resolution and boldnessscarce to be paralleled in any other trials of war. Blessed be thosehappy ages that were strangers to the dreadful fury of these devilishinstruments of artillery which is the cause that very often a cowardlybase hand takes away the life of the bravest gentleman, and that inthe midst of that vigour and resolution which animates and inflamesthe bold, a chance bullet (shot perhaps by one that fled, and wasfrighted at the very flash the mischievous piece gave when it wentoff) coming nobody knows how or from whence, in a moment puts a periodto the brave designs, and the life, of one that deserved to havesurvived many years. This considered, I could almost say I am sorry atmy heart for having taken upon me this profession of a knight-errantin so detestable an age; for though no danger daunts me, yet itaffects me to think that powder and lead may deprive me of theopportunity of becoming famous, and making myself known throughout theworld by the strength of my arm and dint of my sword. But let Heavenorder matters as it pleases; for if I compass my designs, I shall beso much the more honoured by how much the dangers I have exposedmyself to are greater than those the knights-errant of former agesunderwent."
i.e. do not exceed hundreds.
All this long preamble Don Quixote made whilst the company supped,never minding to eat a mouthful, though Sancho Panza had several timesadvised him to mind his meat, telling him there would be time enoughafterwards to talk as he thought fit. Those who heard him were afreshmoved with compassion, to see a man who seemed, in all other respects,to have a sound judgment, so distracted when any mention was made ofknight-errantry.

CHAPTER XXVI.
Of occurrences at the inn; and of many other things worthy to beknown.

Night was now advanced, and a coach arrived at the inn with somehorsemen. The travellers wanted lodging for the night, but thehostess told them that there was not an inch of room disengaged in thewhole inn. "Notwithstanding that," said one of the men on horseback,"there must be room made for my lord judge here in the coach." Onhearing this the hostess was disturbed and said, "Sir, the truth is, Ihave no bed; but if his worship, my lord judge, brings one with him,let him enter in God's name; for I and my husband will quit our ownchamber to accommodate his honour."
"Be it so," quoth the squire; and by this time a person had alightedfrom the coach whose garb immediately shewed the nature and dignity ofhis station; for his long gown and tucked-up sleeves denoted him to bea judge, as his servant had said. He led by the hand a young ladyapparently about sixteen years of age, in a riding-dress, so lovelyand elegant in her person that all were struck with so much admirationthat, had they not seen Dorothea and Lucinda, they would never havebelieved that there was such another beautiful damsel in existence.Don Quixote was present at their entrance, and he thus addressed them:"Your worship may securely enter and range this castle; for, howeverconfined and inconvenient it may be, place will always be found forarms and letters; especially when, like your worship, they appearunder the patronage of beauty; for to this fair maiden not onlycastles should throw open wide their gates, but rocks divide andseparate, and mountains bow their lofty heads in salutation. Enter,sir, into this paradise; for here you will find suns and stars worthyof that lovely heaven you bring with you. Here you will find arms intheir zenith, and beauty in perfection!" The judge marvelled greatlyat this speech, and he earnestly surveyed the knight, no lessastonished by his appearance than his discourse; and was consideringwhat to say in reply, when the other ladies made their appearance,attracted by the account the hostess had given of the beauty of theyoung lady. Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, paid theircompliments in a more intelligible manner than Don Quixote, and allthe ladies of the castle welcomed the fair stranger. In short, thejudge easily perceived that he was in the company of persons ofdistinction; but the mien, visage, and behaviour of Don Quixoteconfounded him. After mutual courtesies and inquiries as to whataccommodation the inn afforded, the arrangements previously made wereadopted; namely, that all the women should lodge in the large chamber,and the men remain without, as their guard. The judge was content thatthe young lady, who was his daughter, should accompany the otherladies; and she herself readily consented: thus, with the innkeeper'snarrow bed, together with that which the judge had brought with him,they passed the night better than they had expected.
The night being now far advanced, they proposed retiring to reposeduring the remainder, Don Quixote offering his service to guard thecastle, lest some giant or other miscreant errant, tempted by thetreasure of beauty there enclosed, should presume to make an attackupon it. His friends thanked him, and took occasion to amuse the judgewith an account of his strange frenzy. Sancho Panza alone was out ofall patience at sitting up so late. However, he was betteraccommodated than any of them, upon the accoutrements of his ass, forwhich he dearly paid, as shall be hereafter related. The ladies havingretired to their chamber, and the rest accommodated as well as theycould be, Don Quixote, according to his promise, sallied out of theinn to take his post at the castle-gate.
A short time before daybreak, a voice reached the ears of the ladies,so sweet and melodious that it forcibly arrested their attention,especially that of Dorothea, by whose side slept Donna Clara deViedma, the daughter of the judge. The voice was unaccompanied by anyinstrument, and they were surprised at the skill of the singer.Sometimes they fancied that the sound proceeded from the yard, and atother times from the stable. While they were in this uncertainty,Cardenio came to the chamber-door and said, "If you are not asleep,pray listen, and you will hear one of the muleteers singingenchantingly." Dorothea told him that they had heard him, upon whichCardenio retired. Then listening with much attention, Dorothea plainlydistinguished the following words.

CHAPTER XXVII.
The agreeable history of the young muleteer; with other strangeaccidents.

I.
Toss'd in doubts and fears I rove On the stormy seas of love; Far from comfort, far from port, Beauty's prize, and fortune's sport; Yet my heart disdains despair While I trace my leading-star.
II.
But reservedness, like a cloud, Does too oft her glories shroud. Pierce to the gloom, reviving light! Be auspicious as you're bright. As you hide or dart your beams, Your adorer sinks or swims!
Dorothea thought it was a great loss to Donna Clara not to hear suchexcellent singing; she therefore gave her a gentle shake and awokeher. "Excuse me, my dear, for disturbing you," she said, "since it isonly that you may have the pleasure of hearing the sweetest voicewhich perhaps you ever heard in your life." Clara, half awake, wasobliged to ask Dorothea to repeat what she had said to her; afterwhich she endeavoured to command her attention, but had no soonerheard a few words of the song than she was seized with a fit oftrembling as violent as the attack of a quartan ague; and, clinginground Dorothea, she cried, "Ah, my dear lady! why did you wake me? Thegreatest service that could be done me would be for ever to close bothmy eyes and ears, that I might neither see nor hear that unhappymusician." "What do you say, my dear?" answered Dorothea; "is it not amuleteer who is singing?" "Oh no," replied Clara; "he is a younggentleman of large possessions, and so much master of my heart that,if he reject it not, it shall be his eternally." Dorothea wassurprised at the passionate expressions of the girl, which she wouldnot have expected from one of her tender years. She therefore said toher, "Your words surprise me, Sigñora Clara; explain yourself farther;what is this you say of heart and possessions--and who is thismusician whose voice affects you so much? But stay, do not speak justyet; he seems to be preparing to sing again, and I must not lose thepleasure of hearing him." Clara, however, stopped her own ears withboth hands, to Dorothea's great surprise, who listened veryattentively to the music.
When the singing had ceased, Donna Clara again began to sigh; and allthis so excited Dorothea's curiosity, that she pressed her to explainwhat she had just before said. Clara embraced her, and putting herface close to her ear, she whispered, lest she should be overheard byLucinda, "that singer, my dear madam," said she, "is the son of anArragonian gentleman who is lord of two towns, and, when at court,lives opposite to my father. Although my father kept his windowscovered with canvass in the winter, and lattices in summer, ithappened, by some chance, that this young gentleman saw me--whether atchurch or where it was I know not, but in truth he fell in love withme, and expressed his passion from the window of his house, by so manysigns and so many tears that I was forced to believe him, and even tolove him too. Among other signs he often joined one hand with theother, signifying his desire to marry me; and though I should havebeen very glad if it might have been so, yet being alone, and havingno mother, I knew not who to speak to on the subject, and thereforelet it rest, without granting him any other favour than, when hisfather and mine were both abroad, to lift up the lattice-window, justto shew myself, at which he seemed so delighted that you would havethought him mad. When the time of my father's departure drew near, heheard of it, though not from me, for I never had an opportunity tospeak to him; and soon after he fell sick, as I was told, for grief;so that, on the day we came away, I could not see him to sayfarewell, though it were only with my eyes. But, after we hadtravelled two days, on entering a village about a day's journey hence,I saw him at the door of an inn, in the habit of a muleteer, sodisguised that, had not his image been deeply imprinted in my heart, Icould not have known him. I was surprised and overjoyed at the sightof him, and he stole looks at me unobserved by my father, whom hecarefully avoids when he passes, either on the road or at the inns.When I think who he is, and how he travels on foot, bearing so muchfatigue, for love of me, I am ready to die with pity, and cannot helpfollowing him with my eyes. I cannot imagine what his intentions are,nor how he could leave his father, who loves him passionately, havingno other heir, and also because he is so very deserving, as you willperceive, when you see him. I can assure you, besides, that all hesings is of his own composing; for I have heard that he is a greatscholar and a poet. Every time I see him, or hear him sing, I trembleall over with fright, lest my father should recollect him, anddiscover our inclinations. Although I never spoke a word to him in mylife, yet I love him so well that I never can live without him. This,dear madam, is all I can tell you about him whose voice has pleasedyou so much; by that alone you may easily perceive he is no muleteer,but master of hearts and towns, as I have already told you."
"Enough, my dear Clara," said Dorothea, kissing her a thousand times;"you need not say more; compose yourself till morning, for I hope tobe able to manage your affair so that the conclusion may be as happyas the beginning is innocent." "Ah, sigñora!" said Donna Clara, "whatconclusion can be expected, since his father is of such high rank andfortune that I am not worthy to be even his servant, much less hiswife? As to marrying without my father's knowledge, I would not do itfor all the world. I only wish this young man would go back and leaveme; absence, perhaps, may lessen the pain I now feel; though I fear itwill not have much effect. What a strange sorcery this love is! I knownot how it came to possess me, so young as I am--in truth, I believewe are both of the same age, and I am not yet sixteen, nor shall I be,as my father says, until next Michaelmas." Dorothea could not forbearsmiling at Donna Clara's childish simplicity; however, she entreatedher again to sleep the remainder of the night, and to hope for everything in the morning.
Profound silence now reigned over the whole house; all being asleepexcept the innkeeper's daughter and her maid Maritornes, who, knowingDon Quixote's weak points, determined to amuse themselves by observinghim while he was keeping guard without doors. There was no window onthat side of the house which overlooked the field, except a smallopening to the straw-loft, where the straw was thrown out. At thishole the pair of damsels planted themselves, whence they commanded aview of the knight on horseback, leaning on his lance, and could hearhim, ever and anon, heaving such deep and mournful sighs that theyseemed torn from the very bottom of his soul. They could alsodistinguish words, uttered in a soft, soothing, amorous tone; such as,"O my lady Dulcinea del Toboso! perfection of all beauty, quintessenceof discretion, treasury of wit, and pledge of modesty! what may now bethy sweet employment? Art thou, peradventure, thinking of thy captiveknight, who voluntarily exposes himself to so many perils and toilsfor thy sake? O thou luminary, bring me swift tidings of her! Perhapsthou art now gazing at her, envious of her beauty, as she walksthrough some gallery of her sumptuous palace, or leans over somebalcony, considering how she may, without offence to her virtue anddignity, assuage the torment which this poor afflicted heart of mineendures for her! or meditating on what glory she shall bestow on mysufferings, what solace to my cares, or recompense to my longservices!" While the knight thus employed himself, four men onhorseback came up to the inn, well appointed and accoutred, withcarbines hanging on their saddle-bows. Not finding the inn-door open,they called aloud, and knocked very hard; upon which Don Quixote criedout from the place where he stood sentinel, in a loud and imperioustone, "Knights, or squires, or whoever ye are, desist from knocking atthe gate of this castle; for at this early hour its inmates aredoubtless sleeping; at least they are not accustomed to open the gatesof their fortress until the sun has spread his beams over the wholehorizon; retire therefore until daylight shall inform us whether it beproper to admit you or not." "What kind of a fortress or castle isthis," quoth one of them, "that we are obliged to observe all thisceremony? If you are the innkeeper, make somebody open the door, forwe are travellers, and only want to bait our horses, and go on, as weare in haste." "What say ye, sirs--do I look like an innkeeper?" saidDon Quixote. "I know not what you look like," answered the other; "butI am sure you talk preposterously to call this inn a castle." "Acastle it is," replied Don Quixote, "and one of the best in the wholeprovince; and at this moment contains within its walls persons whohave had crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands." "You hadbetter have said the reverse," quoth the traveller; "the sceptre onthe head, and the crown in the hand; but perhaps some company ofstrolling players are here, who frequently wear such things; this isnot a place for any other sort of crowned heads." "Your ignorance mustbe great," replied Don Quixote, "if you know not that such events arevery common in chivalry." The other horseman, impatient at thedialogue, repeated his knocks with so much violence that he roused notonly the host, but all the company in the house.