CHAP. I.
Wherein is rehearsed the Calling, and Exercise, of the Renowned Gentleman, Don-Quixote of the Mancha.

THere lived not long since in a certain Vilage of the Mancha (the hame whereof I purposely omit) a Gentleman of their calling that use to pile up in their Halls old Launces, Halbards, Morri­ons, and such other Armours and Weapons. He was besides Master of an ancient Target, a Lean Stallion, and a swift Gray­hound. His pot consisted daily of somewhat more Beef then Mutton, a Galli mawfry each night, Collops and Eggs on Saturdayes, Lentils on Fridayes, and now and then a lean Pigeon on Sundayes, did consume three parts of his Rents; the rest and remnant thereof was spent on a Jerkin of fine Puke, a pair of Velvet hose, with Pantofles of the same for the Holy-dayes, and one Sute of the finest Vesture; for therewithall he honoured and see out his person on the work dayes. He had in his house a woman servant of about fourty yeers old, and a Neece not yet twenty, and a man that served him both in field and at home and could saddle his Horse, and likewise manage a pruning hook. The Master himself was about fifty yeers old, of a strong complexion, dry flesh, and a wi­thered face: He was an early riser, and a great friend of hunting. Some affirm that his surname was Qixada or Quesada (for in this there is some varience among the Authors that write his life) although it may be gathered by very probable conjectures, that he was called Quixanall Yet all this concerns our Historicall Relation but lit­tle [...] Let it then suffice, that in the Narration thereof we will not vary a jot from the truth.

You shall therefore wit, that this Gentleman above named, the spirts that he was idle (which was the longer part of the year) did apply himself wholly to the reading of [Page] Books of Knight-hood, and that with such gusts and delights, as he almost wholly neglected the exercise of hunting; yea, and the very administration of his houshould affairs: and his curiosity and folly came to that passe, that he made away many Acres of arable Land to buy him books of that kinde, and therefore he brought to his house as many as ever he could get of that Subject: And among them all, none pleased him better then those which famous Felician of Silva composed. For the smoothness of his Prose, with now and then some intricate sentence meddled, seemed to him peerlesse; and principally when he did read the courtings, or Letters of challenge that Knights sent to Ladies, or one to another; where, in many places he found written, The rea­son of the unreasonablenesse, which against my reason is wrought, doth so weaken my reason, as withall reason I doe justly complain on your Beauty. And also when he read the high Heavens, which with your Divinity doe fortifie you divinely with the Starrs, and make you deserveresse of the Deserts which your Greatnesse deserves, &c. With these and other such passages, the poor Gentleman grew distracted, and was breaking his brains day and night, to understand and unbowell their sense. An endlesse labour; foreven Aristotle himself would not understand them, though he were again resuscitated only for that purpose. He did not like so much the unproportionate blows that Don Belianie gave and took in fight; for, as he imagined, were the Surge­ons never so cunning that cured them, yet was it impossible but that the Patient his Face and all his Body must remain full of scars and tokens: yet did he praise notwith­standing in the Author of that History, the conclusion of his book, with the promise of the endlesse adventure; and many times he himself had a desire to take pen and finish it exactly, as it is there promised; and would doubtlesly have performed it, and that [...] with happy successe, if other more urgent and continuall thoughts had not di­sturbed him.

Many times did he fall at varience with the Curate of his Village (who was a learned man, graduated in Ciguenca) touching who was the better Knight, Palmerin of Eng­land, or Amadis de Gaule: But Mr. Nicholas the Barber of the same Town would affirm, that none of both arrived in worth to the Knight of the Sun; and if any one Knight might paragon with him, it was infallibly Don Galaor, Amadis de Gaule's brother, whose nature might fitly be accommodated to any thing; For he was not so coy and whyning a Knight as his brother, and that in matters of Valour, he did not bate him an Ace.

In resolution, he plunged himself so deeply in his reading of these books, as he spent many times in the Lecture of them whole dayes and nights; and in the end, through his little sleep and much reading, he dryed up his brains in such sort, as he lost wholy his Judgement. His fantasie was filled with those things that he read, of Enchantments, Quairels, Battels, Challenges, Wounds, Wooings, Loves, Tempests, and other im­possible follies. And these toyes did so firmly possesse his imagination with an infal­lible opinion, that all that Machina of dreamed inventions which he read, was true, as he accounted no History in the World to be so certain and sincere as they were. He was wont to say, that the Gid Ruydiaz (A famous Captain of the Spanish Nation.) was a very good Knight, but not to be compared to the Knight of the burning Sword, which with one thwart blow cut asunder two fierce and mighty Gyants. He agreed better with Bernarde del Carpio, because he flew the enchanted Rowland in Roncesuales. He likewise liked of the shift Hercules used when he smothered Antean, the son of the earth, between his arms. He praised the Gyant Margant marvelously, because, though he was of that Monstrom Progenie, who are commonly all of them proud and rude, yet he only was affable and courteous. But he agreed best of all with Reinauld of Mount Alban; and most of all then, when he saw him fallie out of his Castle to Rob as many as ever he could meet: And when moreover he Rob'd the Idoll of Mahome's made of God, as his History recounts, and would be content to give his old woman; yea, and his Neece also, for a good oportunity on the Traytor Galalon, that he might Lamb-skin and trample him into Powder.

Finally, his wit being wholy extinguished; he fell into one of the strangest conceits [Page 2] that ever mad-man stumbled on in this World, to wit, It seemed unto him very re­quisite and behoovefull, as well for the augmentation of his Honour, as also for the benefit of the Common-wealth, that he himself should becom a Knight Errant, and goe throughout the World, with his Horse and Armor to seek Adventures, and practise in person all that he had read was used by Knights of yoare; revenging all kinde of injuries, and offering him-self to occasions and dangers: which being once happily atchieved, might gain him eternall renown. The poor soul did already figure himself crowned, through the valour of his Arm, at least Emperor of Trapesonda; and led thus by these soothing thoughts, and borne away with the exceeding delight he found in them, he hastened all that he might, to effect his urging desires.

And first of all he caused certain old rusty Arms to bee scowred, that belonged to his great Grand-father, and lay many ages neglected and forgotten, in a by-corner of his house; he trim'd them and dressed them the best he mought, and then perceived a great defect they had; for they wanted an helmet, and had only a plain morrion; but he by his industry supplied that want, and framed with certain Papers pasted together, a Beaver for his Morrion. True it is, that to make tryall whether his pasted Beaver was strong enough, and might abide the adventure of a blow; he out with his sword and gave it a blow or two, and with the very first did quite undoe his whole weeks labour: the facility wherewithall it was dissolved liked him nothing; wherefore to assure him self better the next time from the like danger, he made it anew, placing certain Iron bars within it, in so artificiall manner, as he rested at once satisfied, both with his inven­tion, and also the solidity of the work; and without making a second tryall, he deputed and held it in estimation of a most excellent Beaver. Then did he presently visit his Horse, who (though he had more quarters then pence in a sixpence, through leannesse, and more faults then Gonellas) having nothing on him but skin and bone; yet he thought that neither Alexanders Bucephalus, nor the Cid his horse Balie [...]a, were in any respect equall to him. He spent four dayes devising him a name: for (as he reasoned to himself) it was not fit that so famous a Knights horse, and chiefly being so good a beast, should want a known name; and therefore he endeavoured to give him such a one, as should both declare what sometime he had been, before he pertained to a Knight Errant, and also what at present he was: for it stood greatly with reason, seeing his Lord and Master changed his estate and vocation, that he should alter likewise his de­nomination, and get a new one, that were famous and altisonant, as becomed the new order and exercise which he now professed: and therefore after many other names which he framed, blotted out, rejected, added, undid, and turned again to frame in his memory and imagination, he finally concluded to name him Rozinante, (A horse of la­bor or carriage, in Spanish, is called Rozin, and the word Ante signifies Before; so that Rozinante is a horse that sometime was of carriage.) A name in his opinion lofty, full, and significant, of what he had been when he was a plain Jade, before he was exalted to his new dignitie; being, as he thought, the best carriage Beast of the World. The name being thus given to his Horse, and so to his minde, he resolved to give himself a name also; and in that thought he laboured other eight dayes; and in conclusion, called himself Don-Quixote; whence (as is said) the Authors of this most true History de­duce, that he was undoubtedly named Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would have it. And remembring that the valorous Amadis was not satisfied only with the dry name of Amadis, but added thereunto the name of his Kingdome and Countrey, to render his own more redoubted, terming himself Amadis de Gaula; so he, like a good Knight, would add to his own, that also of his Province, and call himself Don Quixote of the Mancha, wherewith it appeared, that he very lively declared his Linage and Countrey, which he did honour, by taking it for his surname.

His Armour being scowred, his Morrion transformed into an Helmet, his Horse na­med, and himself confirmed with a new name also; he forthwith bethought himself, that now he wanted nothing but a Lady, on whom he might bestow his service and affe­ction; for the Knight Errant that is lovelesse, resembles a Tree that wants leaves and fruit, or a body without a soul: and therefore he was wont to say, If I should for [Page] my sinns, or by good hap, encounter there abroad with some Gyant (as Knights Er­rant doe ordinarily) and that I should overthrow him with one blow to the ground, or cut him with a stroak in two halves, or finally overcome, or make him yield to me, would it not be very expedient to have some Lady, to whom I might present him? And that he entring in her presence, doe kneel before my sweet Lady, and say unto her with an humble and submissive voice; Madam, I am the Gyant Caraculiambro, Lord of the Island called Malindran [...]a, whom the never-too-much-praised Knight Don-Quixote de la Mancha hath overcome in single Combat; and hath commanded to present my self to your greatnesse, that it may please your highnesse to dispose of me according unto your liking! O [...] how glad was our Knight when he had made this discourse to himself, but chiefly when he had found out one whom he might call his Lady? For as it is imagined, there dwelled in the next Village unto his Mannor, a young handsome wench, with whom he was sometime in Love, although, as is under­stood, she never knew or took notice thereof. She was called Aldonsa Lorenso, and her he thought fittest to intitle with the name of Lady of his thoughts, and searching a name for her that should not vary much from her own, and yet should draw and a­verre somewhat to that of a Princesse or great Lady, he called her D [...]lcinea del Toboso (for there she was borne) a name in his conceit harmonious, strange, and significant, like to all the others that he had given to his things.

CHAP. II.
Of the first Sally that Don-Quixote made to seek Adventures.

THings being thus ordered, he would defer the execution of his de­signes no longer, being spur'd on the more vehemently, by the want which he esteemed his delayes wrought in the World, according to the wrongs that he resolved to right, the harmes he meant to re­dresse, the excesses he would amend, the abuses that he would better, and the debts he would satisfie. And therefore without acquainting any living creature with his intentions he, unseen of any, upon a certain Morning, somewhat before the day (being one of the warmest of Iuly) Armed himself Cap a pie, mounted on Rozinante, laced on his ill-contrived Helmet, imbraced his Target, took his Launce, and by a Postern door of his base-Court issued out to the Field, marveilous jocund and content to see with what facility he had commenced his good desires. But scarce had he sallied to the Fields, when he was suddainly assaulted by a terrible thought, and such a one as did well nigh overthrow his former good purposes; which was, he remembred he was not yet dub'd Knight; and therefore by the Laws of Knighthood, neither could nor ought to Combat with any Knight. And though he were one, yet ought he to weare white Armour like a new Knight, without any device in his shield untill he did win it by force of Arms.

These thoughts did make him stagger in his purposes; but his follies prevailing more then any other reason, he purposed to cause himself to be Knighted by the first he met, to the imitation of many others that did the same, as he had read in the books which distracted him. As touching white Armour, he resolved with the first oportunity, to scower his own so well, that they should rest whiter then Ermines: And thus he pacified his minde and prosecuted his Journey, without chusing any other way then that which his horse pleased, believing that therein consisted the vigor of Knightly adven­tures. Our burnish'd Adventurer travelling thus onward, did parle with himself in this manner: ‘Who doubts in the ensuing Ages, when the true History of my famous Acts shall come to light, but that the wise man who shall write it, will begin it, [Page 3] when he comes to declare this my first Sally so early in the morning, after this manner? Scarce had the ruddy Apollo spread over the face of the vast and spacious earth the golden twists of his beautyfull hairs; and scarce had the little enameld Birds with their naked tongues saluted with sweet and mellistuous [Mellodious] harmony, the arri­vall of Ros [...]e Aurora; when abandoning her jealous husbands soft Couch, she shews her self to mortall wights through the gates and windows of the Manchegall Orizon, [His Countrey the Mancha.] When the famous Knight Don-Quixote of the Man­cha, abandoning the slothfull plumes, did mount upon his renowned Horse Rozinante, and began to travell through the ancient and known Fields of Moh [...]l, (as indeed he did) and following still on with his discourse, he said: O! happy the age, and for­tunate the time, wherein my famous feats shall be revealed, feats worthy to be graven in Brasse, carved in Marble, and delivered with most curious Art in Tables, for a future instruction and memory. And, thou wise Enchanter, whosoever thou beest, whom it shall concern to be the Chronicler of this strange History, I desire thee not to forget my good horse Rozinante, mine eternall and inseparable Companion in all my Journies and Courses. And then, as if he were verily enamoured, he said, O Prin­cesse Dulcinea, Lady of this captive heart, much wrong hast thou done me by dis­missing me, and reproaching me with the rigorous Decree and Commandement, Not to appear before thy beauty: I pray thee, sweet Lady, deign to remember thee of this poor subjected heart, that for thy Love suffers so many tortures.’ And with these words he inserted a thousand other ravings, all after the very same manner that his books taught him, imitating as neer as he could, their very phrase and language, and did ride there withall so slow a pace, and the Sun did mount so swiftly, and with so great heat, as it was sufficient to melt his brains if he had had any left.

He travelled almost all that day without encountring any thing worthy the reci­tall, which made him to fret for anger: for he desired to encounter presently some one, upon whom he might make tryall of his invincible strength. Some Authors write, that his first adventure was that of the L [...]picean straits; others, that of the Winde-mills: But what I could only finde out in this affair, and which I have found written in the Annals of the Mancha is, that he travelled all that day long, and at night both he and his Horse were tyred, and marvellously prest by hunger, and looking about him on every side, to see whether he could discover any Castle or Sheep-fold, wherein he might retire himself for that night, and remedy his wants; he perceived an Inn neer unto the high-way, wherein he travelled, which was as welcome a sight to him as if he had seen a Star that did addresse him to the Porch, if not to the Palace of his redemption. Then spurring his horse, he hyed all he might towards it, and arrived much about night fall. There stood by chance at the Inn door, two young women Adventurers likewise, which travelled toward Sivill with certain Carriers, and did by chance take up their lodging in that Inn the same evening; and for as much as our Knight Errant esteemed all which hee thought, saw, or imagined, was done or did really passe in the very same form, as he had read the like in his books; forthwith as soon as he espied the Vent, he feigned to himself that it was a Castle with four Turrets, whereof the Pinacles were of glistring silver, without omitting the draw-Bridge, deep Fosse, and other adherents be­longing to the like places: And approaching by little and little to the Vent, when he drew neer to it, checking Rozin [...]nte with the bridle, he rested a while to see whether any Dwarf would mount on the battlements to give warning with the sound of a Trumpet, how some Knight did approach the Castle: but seeing they staid so long, and also that Rozinante kept a colle to goe to his Stable, he went to the Inn door, and there beheld the two loose Baggages that stood at it, whom he presently supposed to be two beau­tifull Damze [...]s or lovely Ladies, that did solace themselves before the Castle gates. And in this space it befell by chance, that a certain Swine heard as he gathered together his Hogs, blew the horne, whereat they are wont to come together; and instantly Don-Quixote imagined, it was what he desired, to wit, some Dwarf who gave notice of his arrivall; and therefore with marveilous satisfaction of minde he approached to the Inn and Ladies; who beholding one Armed in that manner to draw so neer, with his [Page] Launce and Target, they made much haste, being greatly affrighted, to get to their lodging. But Don-Quixote perceiving their fear by their flight, lifting up his pasted Beaver, and discovering his withered and dusty countenance, did accost them with gen­tle demeanor and grave words in this manner: ‘Let not your Ladyships flie, nor fear any outrage; for to the order of Knighthood which I doe professe, it toucheth nor appertaineth not to wrong any body, and least of all such worthy Damzels as your presences denote you to be.’ The wenches looked on him very earnestly, and did search with their eyes for the visage, which his ill-fashioned Beaver did conceal: but when they heard themselves termed damzels, a thing so far from their profession, they could not contain ther laughter, which was so loud, as Don-Quixote waxed ashamed thereat; and therefore said to them; ‘Modesty is a comely ornament of the beautifull, and the excessive laughter that springs from a light occasion must be reputed great folly: But I doe not object this unto you to make you the more ashamed, or that you should take it in ill part; for my desire is none other then to doe you all the honour and service I may.’ This he spake unto them in such uncouth words, as they could not understand him, which was an occasion, joyned with his own uncomelinesse, to increase their laughter and his wrath, which would have passed the bounds of reason, if the Inn-Keeper had not come out at the instant; being a man who by reason of his exceeding fatnesse must needs have been of a very peaceable condition, who beholding that counterfeit figure, all Armed in so unsutable Armour as were his Bridle, Launce, Target, and Corslet, was very neer to have kept the Damzels company in the pleasant shewes of this merriment: but fearing in effect the Machina and bulk contrived of so various furnitures, he determined to speak him fairly; and therefore began to him in this manner: If your Worship (Sir Knight) doe seek for Lodging, you may chalk your self a Bed (for there is none in this Inn) wherein you shall finde all other things in abun­dance. Don-Quixote noting the lowlinesse of the Constable of that Fortresse (for such the Inn and Inn-keeper seemed unto him) answered, Any thing, Sir Constable, may serve me; for mine Arms are mine ornaments, and Battels mine ease, &c. The Host thought he had called him a Castellano or Constable, [Here the Spanish is Castellano; that is in the Spanish tongue, either a Constable of a Castle or one born in Castile.] because he esteemed him to be one of the sincere and honest men of Castile, whereas he was indeed an Andaluzian, and of the Commark of S. Lucars, no lesse thievish then Cacus, nor less malicious and crafty then a Student or Page: and therefore he answered him thus: If that be so, your Bed must be hard Rocks, & your sleep a perpetuall Watching; and being such, you may boldly alight, and shall finde certainly here occasion & oportunity to hold you waking this twelvemonth more, for one night: and saying so, laid hold on Don-Quixote's stirrop, who did forthwith alight, though it was with great difficulty & pain (as one that had not eaten all the day one crum) and then he requested his Host to have speciall care of his horse, saying, He was one of the best pieces that ever eate bread. The Inn-keeper viewed and reviewed him, to whom he did not seem half so good as Don-Quixote valued him; and setting him up in the Stable, he turned to see what his Ghuest would command, who was a disarming by both the Damzels (which were by this time recon­ciled to him) who, though they had taken off his breast-plate and back parts; yet knew they not how, nor could any wise undoe his Gorget, nor take off his conterfeit Beaver, which hee had fastened on with green Ribbands; and by reason the knots were so in­tricate, it was requisite they should be cut, whereunto he would not in any wise agree; and therefore remained all the night with his Helmet on, and was the strangest and plea­santest figure thereby that one might behold. And as he was a disarming (imagining those light wenches that holp him, to be certain principall Ladies and Dames of that Castle) he said unto them with a very good grace, Never was any Knight so well atten­ded on, and served by Ladies as was Don-Quixote; when he departed from his Vil­lage Damzels attended on him, and Princesses on his Horse. O Rozinante! for (La­dies) that is the name of my Horse, and Don-Quixote de la Mancha is mine own. For although I meant at the first not to have discovered my self, untill the Acts done in your service and benefit should manifest me; yet the necessity of accommodating to our [Page 4] present purpose, the old Romance of Sir Launcelot, hath been an occasion that you should know my name before the right season: But the time will come wherein your Ladyships may command me, and I obey, and then the valour of mine arme shall discover the desire I have to doe you service.

The wenches being unaccustomed to hear so Rhetoricall terms, answered never a word to him, but only demanded, whether he would eat any thing? That I would re­plied Don-Quixote, for as much as I think the taking of a little meat would be very be­hoovefull for me. It chanced by hap to be on Friday, and therefore there was no other meat in the Inn, then a few pieces of a Fish called in Castile Abadexo, in Andaluzia, Bacallao, and in some places Curadillo, and in others Truchuela, and is but poor-Iohn.

They demanded of him therefore, whether he would eat thereof? giving it the name, used in that place, of Truchuela, or little Trout; for there was no other Fish in all the Inn to present unto him but such. Why then (quoth Don-Quixote) bring it in; for if there be many little Trouts, they may serve me instead of a great one; i [...] being all one to me, to be paid my money (if I were to receive any) in eight single Realls, or to be paid the same in one Reall of eight. And moreover those little Trouts are perhaps like unto Veal, which is much more delicate flesh then Beef; or the Kid which is better then the Goat; but be it what it list, let it be brought in presently; for the labour and weight of arms cannot be well borne without the well supplying of the Guts. Then was there straight laid a Table at the Inn door, that he might take the air; and the Host brought him a portion of evill-watered, and worse boyled poor-John, and a loaf as black and hoary as his Harnesse: But the onely sport was to behold him eat: for by reason his Helmet was on, and his Beaver lifted, he could put nothing into his mouth himself, if others did not help him to finde the way; and therefore one of those Ladies served his turn in that: but it was altogether impossible to give him drink after that manner, and would have remained so for ever, if the Inn-keeper had not boared a Cane, and setting the one end in his mouth, powred down the wine at the o­ther: all which he suffered most patiently, because he would not break the Ribbands of his Helmet. And as he sate at Supper, there arrived by chance a Sow-gelder, who as soon as he came to the Inn, did sound four or five times a whistle of Canes, the which did confirm Don-Quixote, that he was in some famous Castle, where he was served with Musick, and that the poor-John was Trouts; the Bread of the finest Flower; the Whores, Ladies; and the Inn-keeper, Constable of the Castle; Wherefore he ac­counted his resolution and departure from his own house very well imployed. But that which did most afflict him, was, that he was not yet dubbed Knight, for as much as he was fully perswaded, that he could not lawfully enterprize, or follow any adven­ture, untill he received the order of Knight-hoood.

CHAP. III.
Wherein is recounted the pleasant manner observed in the Knight­ing of Don-Quixote.

AND being thus tossed in minde, he made a short beggerly supper; which being finished, he called for his Horse, and shutting the Stable door very fast, he laid himself down upon his knees in it before him, saying, I will never rise from the place where I am valourous Knight, untill your courtesie shall grant unto me a Boone that I mean to demand of you, the which will redound unto your renown, and also to the profit of all humane kinde. The Inn-keeper seeing his ghest at his feet, and hearing him speak those words, remained confounded beholding him, not knowing [Page] what he might doe or say, and did studie and labour to make him arise: But all was in vain, untill he must have promised unto him, that he would grant him any gift that he sought at his hands. I did never expect lesse (replied Don-Quixote) from your magnificence, my Lord: And therefore I say unto you that the boon which I demand. of you, and that hath been granted unto me by your liberality, is, that to morrow in the morning you will dubb me Knight, and this night I will watch mine Armour in the Chappell of your Castle, and in the morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be accomplished, that I may goe in due manner throughout the four parts of the World, to seek Adventures, to the benefit of the needy, as is the duty of Knight-hood, and of Knights Errant, as I am; whose desires are wholy inclined and dedica­ted to such achievements. The Host, who, as we noted before, was a great giber, and had before gathered some arguments of the defect of wit in his ghest, did wholy now perswade himself that his suspicions were true, when he heard him speak in that manner: and that he might have an occasion of laughter, he resolved to feed his humor that night, and therefore answered him, that he had very great reason in that which he desired and sought, and that such projects were proper and naturall to Knigh [...]s of the garbe and worth he seemed to be of: And that he himself likewise in his youthfull years had followed that honourable exercise, going through divers parts of the World to seek Adventures, without either omitting the dangers of Malaga, [Percheles] the Isles of Riaran, the compasse of Sivill, the [Azuguezo] Quick-silver­house of Segovia, the Olive-field of Valencia, the Circuit of Granada, the Wharf of S. Lucor, the Potro or Cowlt of Cordova, [The Potron of Cordova is a certain Foun­tain wherein stands a Pegasus, and to that fountain resort a number of cunny-catching fel­lowes, as Duke Humfrey at Paules] and the little Taverns of Toledo; and many other places, wherein he practised the dexteritie of his hands, doing many wrongs, sollici­ting many widowes, undoing certain maydens, and deceiving many Pupils, and final­ly making himself known and famous in all the Tribunals and Courts almost of all Spain, and that at last hee had retired himselfe to that his Castle, where hee was sustai­ned with his own and other mens goods, entertaining in it all Knights Errant, of what­soever quality and condition they were; only for the great affection hee bore towards them, and to the end they might divide with him part of their winnings in recompence of his good-will; hee added besides, that there was no Chappell in his Castle, wherein hee might watch his Armes, for hee had broken it down to build it up a new: But not­withstanding hee knew very well, that in a case of necessitie they might lawfully bee watched in any other place, and therefore hee might watch them that night in the base Court of the Castle; for in the morning, an't pleased God, the Ceremonies requisite should bee done in such sort as hee should remaine a dubbed Knight, in so good fashion as in all the World hee could not bee bettered. Hee demanded of Don-Quixote whe­ther hee had any money? who answered that hee had not a blanck, for hee had never read in any History of Knights Errant, that any one of them ever carried any money. To this his Host replyed, that hee was deceived; for admit that Histories made no men­tion thereof, because the Authors of them deemed it not necessary to expresse a thing so manifest and needfull to bee carried as was money and clean shyrts, it was not therfore to bee credited that they had none; and therefore hee should hold for most certain and manifest, That all the Knights Errant, with the story of whose Acts so many Bookes are replenished and heaped, had their purses well lined for that which might befall, and did moreover cary with them a little Casket of oyntments and salves, to cure the wounds which they received, for they had not the commodity of a Surgeon to cure them, every time that they fought abroad in the fields and desarts, if they had not by chance some wise Enchanter to their friend, who would presently succour them, bring­ing unto them, in some Cloud, through the Ayre, some Damzell or Dwarfe, with a Viol of water of so great virtue, as tasting one drop thereof, they remained as whole of their sores and wounds, as if they had never received any: But when they had not that benefit, the Knights of times past held it for a very commendable and secure course that their Squires should bee provided of money and other necessary things, as Lynt and [Page 5] Oyntments for to cure themselves; and when it befell that the like Knights had no Squires to attend upon them (which hapned but very seldom) then would they them­selves cary all this provision behind them on their Horses, in some sleight and subtle Wallets, which could scarce be perceived, as a thing of very great consequence. For, if it were not upon such an occasion, the cariage of Wallets was not very tollerable a­mong Knights Errant. And in this respect hee did advise him, seeing hee might yet command him, as one that by receiving the Order of Knighthood at his hands, should very shortly become his God-childe, that hee should not travell from thence forward without money and other the preventions he had then given unto him; and hee should perceive himselfe how behoovefull they would prove unto him, when hee least expe­cted it.

Don Quixote promised to accomplish all that hee had counselled him to doe, with all punctualitie; and so Order was forthwith given how hee should watch his Armes in a great yard that lay neere unto one side of the Inne: Wherefore Don-Quixote gathe­ring all his Armes together, laid them on a Cistern that stood neer unto a Well: And buckling on his Target hee laid hold on his Launce, and walked up and down before the Cisterne very demurely, and when hee began to walke, the night likewise began to lock up the splendor of the day. The In-keeper, in the mean season, recounted to all the rest that lodged in the Inne, the folly of his Guest, the watching of his Armes, and the Knighthood which hee expected to receive. They all admired very much at so strange a kinde of folly, and went out to behold him from a far off, and saw that som­times he pranced too and fro with a quiet gesture, other times, leaning upon his Launce, he looked upon his Armor, without beholding any other thing save his Armes for a good space.

The night being shut up at last wholly, but with such cleerenesse of the Moone, as it might well compare with his brightnesse that lent her her splendor; every thing which our new Knight did, was easily perceived by all the beholders. In this season one of the Carriers that lodged in the Inne resolved to water his Mules, and for that purpose it was necessarie to remove Don-Quixotes Armour that lay on the Cistern; who see­ing him approach, said unto him with a loud voice: O thou! whosoever thou beest, bold Knight, that commest to touch the Armour of the most valorous Adventurer that ever gyrded sword, looke well what thou dost, and touch them not, if thou meanest not to leave thy life in payment of thy presumption. The Carrier made no account of those words (but it were better hee had, for it would have redounded to his benefit) but rather laying hold on the leatherings, threw the Armour a pretty way off from him which being perceived by Don-Quixote, hee lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and ad­dressing his thoughts (as it seemed) to his ‘Lady Dulcinea, hee said; Assist mee deere Lady in this first dangerous affront and adventure offered to this breast, that is enthralled to thee, and let not thy favor and protection faile mee in this my first Traunce.’ And uttering these and other such words, hee let slip his Target, and lift­ing up his Launce with both hands, hee paid the Carrier so round a knock therewithall on the Pate, as hee overthrew him to the ground in so evill taki [...]g, as if hee had secon­ded it with another, hee should not have needed any Surgeon to cure him. This done hee gathered up his Armour again, and laying them where they had-beene before, hee walked after up and downe by them, with as much quietnesse as hee did at the first.

But very soone after, another Carrier without knowing what had hapned (for his companion lay yet in a Trance on the ground) came also to give his Mules water, and coming to take away the Armes, that hee might free the Cistern of incumbrances, and take water the easier: Don-Quixote saying nothing, nor imploring favor of his Mis­tris or any other, let slip again his Target, and lifting his Launce, without breaking of it in peeces, made more then three of the second Carriers noddle; for hee broke it in foure places. All the People of the Inne, and amongst them the Host likewise repay­red at this time to the noyse: which Don-Quixote perceiving, imbracing his Targe [...], and laying hand on his sword, hee said: ‘O Lady of all Beauty, Courage and Vigour [Page] of my weakened heart, it is now high time that thou doe convert the eyes of thy greatnesse to this thy captive Knight, who doth expect so marveilous great an Adven­ture.’ Saying thus, hee recovered as hee thought so great courage, that if all the Ca­riers of the world had assayled him, hee would not goe one step backward. The woun­ded mens fellowes, seeing them so evill dight, from a far off began to raine stones on Don-Quixote, who did defend himself the best hee might with his Target, and durst not depart from the Cistern, lest hee should seeme to abandon his Armes. The Inkeep­er cryed to them to let him alone; for hee had already informed them that hee was mad, and for such a one would scape scot free although hee had slain them all. Don-Quixote likewise cryed out louder, terming them all disloyall men and traytors, and that the Lord of the Castle was a treacherous and bad Knight, seeing that hee consented that Knights Errant should be so basely used; and that if hee had not yet received the ‘Order of Knighthood, hee would make him understand his treason, but of you base and rascally Kenell (quoth he) I make no reckoning at all: throw at mee, ap­proach, draw neere, and doe mee all the hurt you may, for you shall ere long re­ceive the reward you shall carie for this your madnesse and outrage:’ Which words hee spoke with such great spirit and boldnesse, as hee stroke a terrible feare into all those that assaulted him: and therefore moved both by it, and the Inkeepers perswasi­ons, they left oft throwing stones at him, and hee permitted them to carry away the wounded men, and returned to the guard of his Armes, with as great quietnes and gra­vity, as he did at the beginning.

The Inkeeper did not like very much these tricks of his Guest, and therefore hee de­termined to abbreviate, and give him the unfortunate Order of Knighthood forthwith, before some other disaster befell: and with this resolution coming unto him, hee excu­sed himself of the insolencies those base fellowes had used to him, without his privity or consent, but their rashnesse, as hee said, remained well chastized: Hee added how he had already told unto him, that there was no Chappel in his Castle, and that for what yet rested unperfected of their intention, it was not necessarie, because the chiefe point of remayning Knighted consisted chiefly in blowes of the neck and shoulders, as hee had read in the ceremoniall Booke of the Order, and that, that might bee given in the very midst of the fields; and that hee had already accomplished the obligation of watching his Armes, which with only two houres watch might bee fullfilled; how much more after having watched foure, as hee had done. All this Don-Quixote belee­ved, and therefore answered, That hee was most ready to obey him, and requested him to conclude with all the brevity possible: for if hee saw himselfe Knighted, and were once again assaulted, hee meant not to leave one person alive in all the Castle, ex­cept those which the Constable should command, whom he would spare for his sake.

The Constable being thus advertised, and fearfull that hee would put this his delibe­ration in execution, brought out a Booke presently, wherein hee was wont to write downe the accounts of the straw and Barly which hee delivered from time to time, to such Carriers as lodged in his Inne, for their Beasts: and with a But of a candle which a boy held lighted in his hand before him, accompanied by the two Damzels above mentioned, hee came to Don-Quixote, whom hee commanded to kneele upon his knees and reading in his Manual (as it seemed some devout Orison) hee held up his hand in the midst of the Lecture, and gave him a good blow on the neck, and after that gave him another trim thwack over the shoulders with his own sword (alwaies murmuring somthing between the teeth, as if hee prayed) this being done, hee com­manded one of the Ladies to gyrd on his sword, which shee did with a singular good grace and dexteritie, which was much, the matter being of it self so ridiculous, as it wanted but little to make a man burst with laughter at every passage of the Ceremonies: but the prowesse which they had already beheld in the new Knight, did lymit and con­tain their delight: At the gyrding on of his sword, the good Lady said, God make you a fortunate Knight, and give you good successe in all your debates. Don-Quixote deman­ded then how shee was called, that hee might thence forward know to whom hee was so much obleged for the favor received? and shee answered with great buxomnesse [Page 6] that shee was named Tolosa, and was a Butchers daughter of Toledo, that dwelt in Sancho Benegas street, and that shee would ever honour him as her Lord, Don-Quixote replied, requesting her, for his sake, to call her selfe from thence forth the Lady Tolosa which shee promised to perform. The other Lady buckled on his Spur, with whom he had the very like conference, and asking her name, shee told him shee was called Mo­linera, and was daughter to an honest Miller of Antequera: her likewise our Knight intreated to call her selfe the Lady Molinera, proferring her new services and favours. The new and never seen before Ceremonies being thus speedily finished, as it seemed with a gallop, Don-Quixote could not rest untill hee was mounted on horseback, that hee might goe to seeke Adventures; wherefore causing Rozinante to bee instantly sad­led, hee leaped on him, and imbracing his Hoste, hee said unto him such strange things, gratifying the favor hee had done him in dubbing him Knight, as it is impossible to hit upon the manner of recounting them right. The Inkeeper that hee might bee quickly rid of him, did answere his words with others no lesse [...]hetoricall, but was in his speech somwhat breefer; and without demanding of him any thing for his lodging, hee suffe­red him to depart in a fortunate houre.

CHAP. IV.
Of that which befell to our Knight, after hee had departed from the Inne.

AVRORA began to display her beauties about the time that Don-Quixote issued out of the Inne, so content, lively and jocund to be­hold himself Knighted, as his very horse gyrts were ready to burst for joy: but calling to memory the Counsels that his Hoste had given him, touching the most needfull implements that hee was ever to ca­ry about him, of money and clean shirts, hee determined to returne to his House, and to provide himself of them, and also of a Squire: making account to entertain a certain labourer, his neighbour, who was poore and had children, but yet one very fit for this purpose and Squirely function, belonging to Knighthood. With this determination hee turned Rozinante towards the way of his owne Village, who knowing, in a manner, his will, began to trot on with so good a pace, as hee seemed not to touch the ground. Hee had not travelled far, when he thought that hee heard certain weake and delicate cries, like to those of one that complained, to issue out from the thickest of a Wood that stood on the right hand. And scarce had hee heard them when hee said: ‘I render infinite thanks to heaven for the favour it doth mee, by proferring mee so soone occasion wherein I may accomplish the duty of my professi­on, and gather the fruits of my good desires: these Plaints doubtlesly bee of some di­stressed man or woman, who needeth my favour and ayd.’ Then turning the reynes, hee guided Rozinante towards the place from whence hee thought the complaints sally­ed; and within a few paces after he had entred into the thicket, hee saw a Mare tyed unto an Holme Oake, and to another was tyed a young youth all naked from the mid­dle upward, of about the age of fifteen yeeres, and was hee that cried so pittifully: and not without cause, for a certain Countryman of comly personage did whip him with a gyrdle, and accompanied every blow with a reprehension and counsell, for hee said; The tongue must peace, and the Eyes bee warie: and the boy answered I will never do it again, good Master; for the passion of God, I will never doe it again. And I pro­mise to have more care of your things from henceforth.

But Don-Quixote viewing all that passed, said with an angry voice: ‘Discourteous [Page] Knight, it is very uncomly to see thee deale thus with one that cannot defend himself, mount therfore on horseback and take thy Launce (for the Farmer had also a Launce leaning to the very same tree whereunto his Mare was tyed) for I will make thee know that it is the use of Cowards to doe that which thou doest.’ The other behold­ing such an Antick to hover over him, all laden with Armes, and brandishing of his Launce towards his face, made full account that hee should bee slaine, and therefore hee answered with very milde and submissive words saying, Sir Knight, the boy which I chastise is mine own servant, and keepeth for mee a slock of sheep in this Commarke; who is grown so neglignet, as hee loseth one of them every other day, and because I correct him for his carelessenesse and knavery, hee sayes I doe it through covetousnesse and pinching, as meaning to defraud him of his wages; but before God, and in Con­science hee belies me. ‘What? the Lie in my presence rascally Clown? quoth Don-Quixote, by the Sun that shines on us, I am about to run thee through and through with my Launce base Carle; pay him instantly without more replying, or else by that God which doth mannage our sublunar affairs, I will conclude thee, and annihilate thee in moment; loose him forthwith.’ The Countreyman hanging downe of his head, made no reply, but loosed his servant; of whom Don-Quixote demanded how much did his Master owe unto him? hee said nine Moneths hire, at seven Reals a Moneth. Don-Quixote made then the account, and found that all amounted to sixty one Reals, and therefore commanded the Farmer to pay the money presently, if hee meaned not to die for it. The fearfull Countryman answered, That by the Trance wherein hee was then, and by the Oath hee had made (which was none at all, for hee swoar not) that hee ought not so much; for there should bee deducted out of the ac­counts three paire of shoes hee had given unto him, and a Reall for twice letting him blood, being sick. All is well, quoth Don-Quixote, but let the price of the shoes and letting blood, goe for the blowes which thou hast given him without any desert; for if hee have broken the leather of those shoes thou hast bestowed on him, thou hast likewise torne the skin of his body; and if the Barbe [...] tooke away his blood being sick, thou hast taken it out, hee beeing in health; so as in that respect hee owes thee nothing. The dammage is Sir Knight, replyed the boyes Master, that I have no money here about me. Let Andrew come with mee to my house, and I will pay him his wages, one Reall up­on another. I goe with him, quoth the boy, evill befall me [...] then. No Sir, I never meant it; for as soone as [...]ver hee were alone, hee would fley mee like S. Bartholomew. Hee will not dare to doe it, quoth Don-Quixote, for my command is sufficient to make him respect mee, and so that hee will sweare to mee to observe it, by the Order of Knighthood which hee hath received, I will set him free, and assure thee of the pay­ment. Good Sir, quoth the youth, marke well what you say, for this man my Ma­ster, is no Knight, nor did ever receive any Order of Knighthood, for hee is Iohn Hal­dudo the rich man, a dweller of Qui [...]tanar. That makes no matter, quoth Don-Qui­xote, for there may bee Knights of the Haldudos: and what is more, every one is son of his workes. That's true, quoth Andrew, but of what workes can this my Master be sonne? seeing hee denies mee my wages, and my sweat and labour? I doe not deny thy wages, friend Andrew, quoth his Master; doe mee but the pleasure to come with mee, and I sweare by all the Orders of Knighthood that are in the World, to pay thee as I have said, one Reall upon another, yea and those also perfumed. ‘For the per­fuming I thanke thee, quoth Don-Quixote, give it him in Reals, and with that I will rest satisfied; and see that thou fullfillest it as thou hast sworn: if not, I sweare a­gaine to thee by the same Oath to return and search thee, and chastise thee, and I will finde thee out, though thou shouldst hide thy self better then a Lizard; and if thou desirest to note who commands thee this, that thou maist remaine more firmly oblie­ged to accomplish it, know that I am the valorous Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the righter of wrongs and undoer of injuries, and so farewell: and doe not forget what thou hast promised and sworn, on paine of the paines already pronounced.’ And saying these words, hee spurred Rozinante, and in short space was got far off from them. The Countryman pursued him with his eye, and perceiving that hee was past the wood, [Page 7] and quite out of sight, hee returned to his man Andrew, and said to him, come to me childe, for I will pay thee what I owe thee; as that righter of wrongs hath left mee commanded. That I sweare, quoth Andrew, and you shall deale discreetly in fullfil­ling that good Knights commandement, who I pray God may live a thousand yeeres; for seeing hee is so valorous and so just a judge, I sweare by Rocque, that if you pay mee not, hee shall return and execute what hee promised. I also doe sweare the same, quoth the Farmer, but in respect of the great affection I beare unto thee, I will aug­ment the debt, to increase the payment; and catching the youth by the arme, hee tyed him again to the Oake, where hee gave him so many blowes as hee left him for dead; call now master Andrew (quoth hee) for the righter of wrongs, and thou shalt see that hee cannot undoe this, although I beleeve it is not yet ended to bee done; for I have yet a desire to flea thee alive, as thou didst thy selfe feare: Notwithstanding all these threats, hee untied him at last, and gave him leave to goe seeke out his Judge, to the end hee might execute the Sentence pronounced. Andrew departed somewhat discontent, swearing to search for the valorous Don-Quixote of the Mancha, and re­count unto him, word for word, all that had past, and that hee should pay the abuse with usury: but for all his threats hee departed weeping, and his Master remayned behinde laughing; and in this manner the valorous Don-Quixote redressed that wrong.

Who glad above measure for his successe, accounting himself to have given a most noble beginning to his feats of Armes, did travell towards his Village, with very great satisfaction of himself, and said in a low tune these words following: ‘Well maist thou call thy self happy above all other women of the earth, O! above all Beauties beautifull Dulcinea of Toboso, since thy good fortune was such, to hold subject and prostrate to thy will and desire, so valiant and renowned a Knight as is, and ever shall bee, Don-Quixote of the Mancha, who as all the world knowes, received the Order of Knighthood but yesterday, and hath destroyed to day the greatest outrage and wrong that want of reason could forme, or cruelty commit. To day did he take away the whip out of that pittilesse enemies hand, which did so c [...]uelly scourge with­out occasion the delicate Infant.’

In this discourse hee came to a way that divided it self into foure, and presently these thwarting crosse wayes represented themselves unto his imagination, which oft times held Knights Errant in suspence which way they should take, and that hee might imi­tate them; hee stood still a while, and after hee had bethought himself well, hee let slip the reines to Rozinante, subjecting his will to that of his horse, who presently pursued his first Designe, which was to return home unto his own slable: and having travelled some two miles, Don-Quixote discovered a great troup of People, who as it was after known, were certain Merchants of Tol [...]do, that rode towards M [...] to buy silkest they were six in number, & came with their Quitaso [...] [a thing made like a [...] and is used by Travellers to keepe away the [...]] or shadowes of the [...], foure serving [...] men on horseback, and three La [...]quies [...] Scarce had Don-Quixote perceived them, when hee straight imagined them to bee a new [...] Adventure: and because hee would [...] as much as was possible the passages which hee read in this bookes, hee represented this to himself to bee just such an Adventure as hee purposed to [...]. And [...] comely gesture hardinesse, set [...]ing himself well in the stirdops, hee set his [...] into his rest, and imbraced his Targe [...], and placing himself in the midst of the way, hee stood awayting when those Knights Errant should arive; [...] now hee judged and tooke them for such: and when they were so neere as they might heare and [...] him, he li [...]ed up his voice and said: ‘Let all the world stund and passe no further, if all the world will not confesse, that there is not in all the world a more beautifull [...] then the Empresse of the Mancha, the peerelesse D [...]loin [...] of Toboso.’ The Merchants stayed at these words to behold the marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spoke them, and by his fashion and them joyned, did incontinently gather his folly and di­straction, and notwithstanding would leisurely behold to what tended that confession which hee exacted of them; and therefore one of them who was somewhat given to gi­bing, [Page] and was withall very discreet, said unto him, Sir Knight, wee doe not know that good Lady of whom you speake: shew her therefore to us, and if shee bee so beautifull as you affirm, wee will willingly and without any compulsion confesse the truth which you now demand of us. If I did shew her to you, replied Don-Quixote, what masterie were it then for you to acknowledge a truth so notorious? The conse­quence of mine affaires consists in this, that without beholding her, you doe beleeve, confesse, affirm, sweare and defend it; which if you refuse to perform, I challenge you all to Battell, proud and unreasonable folke, and whether you come one by one (as the order of Knighthood requires) or all at once, as is the custome and dishono­rable practise of men of your broode, here will I expect and await you all, trusting in the reason which I have on my side, Sir Knight, replied the Merchant, I request you in all these Princes names, as many as wee bee here, that to the end wee may not bur­then our Consciences, confessing a thing which wee never beheld nor heard, and chief­ly being so prejudiciall to the Empresses and Queenes of the Kingdomes of Alcarria and Estremadura, you will please to shew us some portraiture of that Lady, although it be no biger then a grain of Wheat: for by one threed we may judge of the whole olew, and we will with this favor rest secure and satisfied, and you likewise remain con­tent and appaid. And I doe believe moreover, that we are already so inclined to your side, that although her picture shewed her to bee blinde of the one eye, and at the other that she ran fire and brimstone; yet would we notwithstanding, to please you, say in her favour all that you listed. There drops not base Scoundrels, quoth Don-Quixote, all inflamed with choller; there drops not, I say, from her that which thou say'st, but Amber and Civet among bombase: and she is not blinde of an eye, or crook-back'd; but is straighter then a spindle of Guadarama [...] but all of you together shall pay for the great blasphemy thou hast spoken against so immense a beauty, as is that of my Mistrisse. And saying so, he abased his La [...]ce against him that had answered, with such furie and anger, as if good fortune had not so ordained it, that Rozinante should stumble, and fall in the mid'st of the Carriere, it had gone very ill with the bold Merchant. Rozinante fell in fine, and his Master reeled over a good peece of the field; and though hee at­tempted to rise, yet was he never able, he was so encombred by his Launce, Target, Sp [...], Helmet, and his weighty old A [...]ur. And in the mean while that he strived to arise, and could not, he cried, Flie not cowardly Folk, abide base people, abide; for I lye not here through mine own fault, but through the defect of my horse.

One of the Lacquies that came in the company, and seemed to be a man of none of the best intentions, hearing the poor overthrown Knight speak such insolent words, could not forbear them without returning him an answer on his ribbs; and with that intention approaching to him, he took his Launce, and after he had broken it in peeces, he gave Don Quixote so many blows with one of them, that in despite of his Armor he threshed him sike a shea [...] of Wheat. His Masters cried to him, commanding him, not to beat him so much, but that he should leave him: But all would not serve, for the youth was angry, and would not leave off the play, until he had avoyded the rest of his [...]holer. And therefore running for the other peeces of the broken Launce, he broak them all on the miserable fallen Knight; who, for all the tempest of blows that rained on him, did never shut his mouth, but threatned heaven and earth, and those [Malan­ [...]rines] Murtherers; for such they seemed to him. The Lacquie tyred himself [...]: last, and the Merchants followed on their way, carrying with them occasion enough of talk of the poor belaboured Knight; who, when he saw himself alone, turned again to make tryall whether he might arise: but if he could not doe it when he was whole and sound, how was it possible he being so bruised and almost destroyed? And yet he ac­counted himself very happie, preswading himself that his disgrace was proper and inci­dent to Knights Errant, and did attribute all to the fault of his horse, and could in no wise get up, all his body was so [Bramado] bruised and loaden with blows.

CHAP. V.
Wherein is prosecuted the former Narration of our Knights mis­fortunes.

BUt seeing in effect that he could not stir himself, he resolved to have recourse to his ordinary remedy, which was to think on some passage of his Histories; and in the instant his folly presented to his memory that of Valdovinos, and the Marquesse of Mantua, then when Car­loto had left him wounded in the Mountain. A History known by children, not hidden to youg men, much celebrated, yea, and believed by many old men; and is yet for all that no more authenticall then are Mahomets Miracles. This History, as it seemed to him, was most fit for the trance wherein he was; and therefore he began, with signes of great pain, to tumble up and down, and pronounce with a languishing breath the same that they feign the wounded Knight to have said in the wood:

And after this manner he did prosecute the old song, untill these verses that say: O noble Marquesse of Mantua, my carnall Lord and Vncle. And it befell by chance, that at the very same time there past by the place where he lay a man of his own Village, who was his neighbour, and returned after having carried a loaf of wheat to the Mill; who be­holding a man stretched on the ground, he came over to him, and demanded what hee was, and what was it that caused him to complain so dolefully? Don-Quixote did verily belive that it was his Uncle, the Marquesse of Mantua; and so gave him no other answer, but only followed on in the repetition of his old Romance, wherein he gave him account of his misfortune, and of the love the Emperours son bore to his Spouse, all in the very same manner that the Ballad recounts it. The laborer remained much astonished, hearing those follies. And taking off his Vizard, which with the Lacquies blows was broken all to peeces, he wiped his face that was full of dust [...] and scarce had he done it when he knew him, to whom he said; Master Quixada (for so he was probably called when he had his wits, before he left the state of a staid Yeoman, to become a wandring Knight) who hath used you after this mannner? But he continu­ed his Romance, answering out of it, to every question that was put to him. Which the good man perceiving, disarmed him the best he could, to see whether he had any wound, but he could see no blood, or any token on him of hurt. Afterward he endeavoured to raise him from the ground, which he did at the last with much adoe; and mounted him on his Asse, as a Beast of easiest carriage. He gathered then together all his Arms, and left not behinde so much as the splinters of the Launce, and tied them altogether upon Rozinante, whom he took by the bridle, and the Asse by his halter, and led them both in that equipage fair and easily towards his Village, being very pensative to hear the follies that Don-Quixote spoak. And Don-Quixote was no lesse melancholy, who was so beaten and bruised, as he could hardly hold himself upon the Asse; and ever and anon he breathed forth such grievons sighs, as he seemed to fix them in Heaven; which moved his neighbour to intreat him again to declare unto him the cause of his grief. And it seems none other, but that the very Devill himself did call to his memorie, Hi­stories accommodated to his successes. For in that instant, wholy forgeting Valdovinos he remembred the Moor Abindaraez then, when the Constable of Antequera Rode­rick Narvaez had taken him, and carried him prisoner to his Castle. So that when his [Page] neighbour turned again to aske of him how hee did, and what ailed him; he answered the very same words and speech that Captive Abencerrase said to Narvaez, just as hee had read them in Diana of Montemayor, where the History is written; applying it so properly to his purpose, that the labourer grew almost mad for anger to heare that Machina of follies; by which hee collected that his neighbour was distracted, and ther­fore hee hied as fast as possible hee could to the Village, that so hee might free himself from the vexation that Don-Quixotes idle and prolixe discourse gave unto him. At the end whereof the Knight said, Don Rodericke of Narvaez: You shall understand that this beautifull Xarifa, of whom I spoak, is now the faire Dulcinea of Toboso; for whom I have done, I doe, and will doe such famous acts of Knighthood as ever have beene, are, and shall be seen in all the World. To this his neighbour answered, doe not you perceive Sir, sinner that I am, how I am neyther Don Roderick de Narvaez, nor the Marquesse of Mantua, but Peter Alonso your neighbour; nor are you Val­dovinos, nor Abindaraez, but the honourable yeoman Master Quixada. I know ve­ry well who I am quoth Don-Quixote, and also I know that I may not only bee those whom I have named, but also all the twelve Peeres of France, yea and the nine wor­thies; since mine Acts shall surpasse all those that ever they did together, or every one of them apart.

With these and such other discourses they arived at last at their Village about Sun-set, but the labourer awayted untill it waxed somwhat darke, because folke should not view the Knight so simply mounted. And when hee saw his time he entred into the Towne, and went to Don-Quixotes house, which hee found full of confusion. There was the Curate & the Barbar of the Village, both of them Don-Quixotes great friends: to whom the old woman of the house said in a lamentable manner; What doe you think Master Licentiate Pere Perez (for so the Curate was called) of my Masters misfortune? These six dayes neyther hee nor his horse have appeared, nor the Target, Launce or Armour, unfortunate woman that I am, I doe suspect, and I am as sure it is true as that I shall die; how those accursed Books of Knighthood which hee hath, and is wont to reade ordinarily, have turned his judgement; for now I remember that I have heard him say often times, speaking to himself, that hee would become a Knight Errant, and goe seeke Adventures throughout the World. Let such Books bee recommended to Sathan and Barrabas, which have destroyed in this sort the most delicate understand­ing of all the Mancha. His Niese affirmed the same, and did add, moreover you shall understand good Master Nicholus (for so hight the Barbar) that it many times befell my Uncle to continue the Lecture of those unhappy Books of disventures two dayes and two nights together. At the end of which, throwing the book away from him, he would lay hand on his Sword, and would fall a slashing of the walls, and when hee were wearied, hee would say that hee had slain foure Giants as great as foure Towres, and the sweat that dropped down, through the labour hee tooke, hee would say was blood that gushed out of those wounds which hee had received in the conflict, and then would hee quaffe off a great pot full of cold water, and straight hee did become whole and quiet; saying, that water was a most precious drinke, which the wise man Esquife, a great Enchanter or Sorcerer, and his friend, had brought unto him. But I am in the fault of all this, who never advertis'd you both of mine Uncles raving, to the end you might have redrest it ere it came to these termes, and burnt all those Excommunicate Books; for hee had many that deserved the Fire as much as if they were Hereticall. That doe I likewise affirme, quoth Master Curate, and in soothe to morrow shall not passe over us, without making a publique Processe against them, and condemn them to bee burned in the Fire, that they may not minister occasion again to such as may read them, to doe that which I feare my good friend hath done.

The Labourer and Don-Quixote stood hearing all that which was said, and then hee perfectly found the disease of his neighbour, and therefore he began to crie aloud; Open the doores to Lord Valdovinos, and to the Lord Marquesse of Mantua, who comes very sore wounded and hurt, and to the Lord Moore Abindaraez, whom the valorous Ro­dericke of Narvaez Constable of Antequera brings as his Prisoner. All the houshould [Page 9] ran out, hearing these cries, and some knowing their friend, the others their Master and Uncle, who had not yet alighted from the Asse, because he was not able, they ran to embrace him, but he forbad them, saying stand still and touch me not, for I returne very sore wounded and hurt, through default of my horse, carie me to my bed, and if it be possible send for the wise Viganda, that she may cure and looke to my hurt. See in an ill houre (quoth the old woman straight way) if my heart did not very well fore­tell me on which foote my Master halted; come up in good time, for we shall know how to cure you well enough without sending for that Viganda you have mentioned; Accursed say I, once again, and a hundred times accursed may those bookes of Knight­hood be, which have brought you to such a state: With that they bore him up to his bed, and searching for his wounds could not finde any, and then hee said all was but bruising, by reason of a great fall hee had with his horse Rozinante, as hee fought with ten Giants, the most unmeasurable and boldest that might bee found in a great part of the Earth. Hearken quoth the Curate, wee have also Giants in the dance: by mine honesty I will burne them all before to morrow at night. Then did they aske a thousand questions of Don-Quixote, but hee would answere to none of them, and only reque­sted them to give him some meate and suffer him to sleep, seeing rest was most behoove­full for him. All which was done, and the Curate informed himself at large of the la­boring man, in what sort hee had found Don-Quixote, which hee recounted to him, and also the follies hee said, both at his finding and bringing to Towne; which did kin­dle more earnestly the Licentiates desire to doe what hee had resolved the next day; which was to call his friend the Barber M. Nicholas, with whom hee came to Don-Qui­xotes House.

CHAP. VI.
Of the pleasant and curious search made, by the Curate and the Barbar of Don-Quixotes Library.

WHO slept yet soundly. The Curate sought for the keyes of the Libra­ry, the only authors of his harme; which the Gentlemans Niese gave unto him very willingly: All of them entred into it, and a­mong the rest the old woman, wherein they found more then a hun­dred great Volumes, and those very well bound, beside the small ones. And as soone as the old woman had seene them, shee depar­ted very hastily out of the chamber, and eftsoones returned with as great speed, with a holy-water pot and a sprinkler in her hand, and said; Hold Master Licentiate and sprinkle this chamber all about, lest there should lurke in it some one Inchanter of [...]he many which these bookes contain, and cry quittance with us for the penalties wee meane to inflict on these Bookes, by banishing them out of this world. The simplicitie of the good old woman caused the Licentiat to laugh: who comman­ded the Barber to fetch him down the Books from their shelves, one by one, that hee might peruse their Arguments; for it might happen some to bee found, which in no fort deserved to bee chastised with Fire. No, replyed the Niese, no; you ought not to pardon any of them, seeing they have all beene offenders; it is better you throw them all into the base Court, and there make a pile of them, and then set them a Fire; if not, they may bee carried into the yard, and there make a bon-fire of them, and the smoak will offend no body; the old woman said as much, both of them thirsted so much for the death of these Innocents, but the Curate would not condiscend thereto, untill he had first read the Titles, at the lest, of every booke.

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands, was that of Amadis of Gaule; which the Curate perusing a while, this comes not to mee first of all others without [Page] some mystery: for as I have heard told, this is the first Book of Knighthood that ever was printed in Spain, and all the others have had their beginning and originall from this; and therefore methinks that we must condemn him to the fire, without all remission, as the Dogmatizer and head of so bad a Sect. Not so, fie quoth the Barber, for I have heard that it is the very best contrived book of all those of that kinde; and therefore he is to be pardoned, as the only compleat one of his profession. That is true replied the Curate, and for that reason we doe give him his life for this time. Let us see that other which lyes next unto him. It is, quoth the Barber, The [Las S [...]rgas pag. 73.] Adventure of Splandian Amadis of Gaules lawfully begotten son: Yet on mine ho­nesty, replyed the Curate, his fathers goodnesse shall nothing avail him, take this book old Masters and open the window, throw it down into the yard, and let it lay the foun­dation of our heap for the fire we mean to make. She did what was commanded with great alacrity, and so the good Splandian fled into the yard, to expect with all patience the fire, which he was threatned to abide. Forward quoth the Curate. This that comes now, said the Barber, is Amadis of Greece; and as I conjecture, all those that lye on this side are of the same linage of Amadis. Then let them goe all to the yard, quoth the Curate, in exchange of burning Queen Pintiquinestra, and the Sheepheard Darinel, with his Eglogues, and the subtle and intricate Discourses of the Author, which are able [...]o intangle the father that ingendred me, if he went in form of a Knight Errant. I am of the same opinion, quoth the Barber: And I also, said the Niese. Then since it is so, quoth the old wife, let them come, and to the yard with them all. They were ren­dred all up unto her, which were many in number: wherefore, to save a labour of go­ing up and down the stairs, she threw them out at the window.

What bundle is that, quoth the Curate? This is, answered Master Nicholas, Don Olivante of Laura. The authour of that booke, quoth the Curate composed likewise The Garden of flowers, and in good sooth I can scarce resolve which of the two works is truest, or to speake better, is lesse lying: onely this much I can determine; that this must goe to the yard, being a booke foolish and arrogant. This that followes is Flo­rismarte of Hircania, quoth the Barber. Is Lord Florismarte there? then replyed the Curate; then by mine honesty he shall briefly make his arrest in the yard, in despight of his wonderfull birth and famous Adventures; for the drouth and harshnesse of his stile deserves no greater favour. To the yard with him, and this other (good Masters.) with a very good will, quoth old Mumpsimus; and streight way did execute his com­mandement with no small gladnesse. This is Platyr (quoth the Barber.) It is an an­cient book replyed the Curate, wherin I finde nothing meriting pardon; let him, with­out any reply, keep company with the rest. Forthwith it was done. Then was another book opened, and they saw the title thereof to be The Knight of the Crosse. For the holy title which this book beareth, quoth the Curate, his ignorance might be pardoned: but it is a common saying, The Devill lurks behinde the Crosse: wherefore let it goe to the fire. The Barber taking another book, said; This is The Mirror of Knighthood. I know his worship well, quoth the Curate. There goes among those books, I see, the Lord Raynold of Montalban with his friends and companions, all of them greater Theeves then Cacus, [A Theefe that used to steal Cattell, and pull them backward, by the tayles, that none might trace them] and the twelve Peers of France, with the Historiogra­pher Turpin. I am in truth about to condemn them only to exile, for as much as they contain some part of the famous Poet Matthew Boyardo his invention. Out of which the Christian Poet Lodovick Ariosto did likewise weave his work, which if I can finde among these, and that he speaks not his own native tongue, I'le use him with no respect; but if he talk in his own language, I will put him, for honours sake, on my head. If that be so, quoth the Barber, I have him at home in the Italian, but cannot understand him. Neither were it good you should understand him, replyed the Curate; and here we would willingly have excused the good Captain that translated it into Spanish, from that labour, or bringing it into Spain, if it had pleased himself. For he hath deprived it of much naturall worth in the translation; a fault incident to all those that presume to translate Verses out of one language into another: for, though they imploy all their [Page 10] industry and wit therein, they can never arive to the height of that Primitive conceit, which they bring with them in their first byrth. I say therefore that this booke, and all the others that may bee found in this Library, to treate of French affaires, bee cast and deposited in some drie Vault, untill wee may determine with more deliberation, what wee should doe with them: alwaies excepting Bernardo del Carpio, which must bee there amongst the rest, and another called Roncesualles; for these two coming to my hands, shall bee rendred up to those of the old guardian, and from hers into the fires, without any remission. All which was confirmed by the Barbar, who did ratifie his Sentence, holding it for good and discreete, because hee knew the Curate to bee so ver­tuous a man, and so great a friend of the truth, as he would say nothing contrary to it for all the goods of the world.

And then opening another booke, he saw it was Palmerin de Oliva, neere unto which stood another, intituled Palmerin of England: which the [...]icenciat perceiving, said let Oliva be presently rent in pieces, and burned in such sort, that even the very ashes there­of may not be found: and let Palmerin of England be preserved, as a thing rarely de­lectable, and let such another box as that which Alexander found among Darius spoyls, and depured to keep Homers works, be made for it: for gossip this booke hath suffici­ent authority for two reasons; the first, because of it self it is very good and excellent­ly contrived; the other, for as much as the report runnes, that a certain discreet King of Portugal was the author thereof. All the Adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda, are excellent and artificiall. The discourses very cleere and courtly, observing ever­more a decorum in him that speaks, with great propriety and conceit, therefore I say Master Nicholas, if you think good, this and Amadis de Gaule may bee preserved from the fire; and let all the rest without farther search or regard perish. In the devills name doe not so, gentle gossip (replyed the Barbar) for this which I hold now in my hand is the famous Don Belianis: What hee? quoth the Curate, the second, third and fourth part thereof have great neede of some Ruybarbe to purge his excessive choller, and wee must moreover take out of him all that of the Castell of Fame, and other im­pertinencies of more consequence. Therefore wee give them a terminus Vltramarinus, and as they shall bee corrected, so will wee use Mercy or justice towards them; and in the meane space Gossip, you may keepe them at your house, but permit no man to read them. I am pleased, quoth the Barbar, and being unwilling to tyre himself any more by reading of Titles, hee bad the old woman to take all the great volumes, and throw them into the yard; the words were not spoken to a Mome or deaf person, but to one that had more desire to burn them then to weave a peace of Linnen, were it ne­ver so great and fine; and therefore taking eight of them together, shee threw them all out of the window, and returning the second time, thinking to carry away a great ma­ny at once, one of them fell at the Barbers feet, who desirous to know the Title, saw that it was the Historie of the famous Knight Tirante the white. Good God, quoth the Curate with a loud voice, is Tirante the white here? Give mee it Gossip, for I make account to find in it a Treasure of delight. and a copious Mine of pastime. Here is Don Quireleison of Montalban, a valiant Knight, and his brother Thomas of Montal­ban, and the Knight Fonseca, and the combat which the valiant Detriante fought with Alano, and the witty conceits of the damzell Plazerdeminida, with the love and guiles of the widow Reposada, and of the Empresse enamoured on her Squire Ipolite. I say unto you gossip, that this booke is for the stile, one of the best of the world; in it Knights doe eate and drinke and sleepe, and die in their beds naturally, and make their testaments before their death; with many other things, which all other bookes of this subject doe want, yet notwithstanding, if I might bee Judge, the Author thereof de­served, because hee purposely penned and writ so many follies, to bee sent to the Gal­lies for all the dayes of his life. Carie it home and read it, and you shall see all that I have said thereof to bee true. I beleeve it very well, quoth the Barber. But what shall wee doe with these little bookes that remaine? These as I take, said the Curate are not bookes of Knighthood, but of Poetry; and opening one, hee perceived it was The Diana of Montemayor, and beleeving that all the rest were of that stampe, hee said, [Page] these deserve not to bee burned with the rest, for they have not, nor can doe so much hurt as bookes of Knighthood, being all of them works full of understanding and con­ceits, and doe not prejudice any other. O good Sir, quoth Don-Quixote his Niese, your reverence shall likewise doe well to have them also burned, lest that mine Uncle af­ter h [...] bee cured of his Knightly disease, may fall, by reading of these, in an humor of becomming a Sheepheard, and so wander through the woods and fields, singing of Rounde layes; and playing on a Crowd; and what is more dangerous then to become a Poet? which is as some say, an incurable and infectious disease. This maiden saies true, quoth the Curate, and it will not bee amisse to remove this stumbling block and occasi­on out of our friends way; and since wee begin with the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion that it bee not burned, but only that all that which treates of the wise Feli­cia, and of the inchanted water bee taken away, and also all the longer verses, and let him remaine with his Proses, and the honour of being the best of that kinde. This that followes, quoth the Barber, is the Diana called the second, written by him of Sala­manca, and this other is of the same name, whose Author is Gil Polo. Let that of Sala­manca answered Master Parson, augment the number of the condemned in the yard, and that of Gil Polo bee kept as charity, as if it were Apollo his owne worke: and goe forward speedily good Gossip, for it growes late. This booke, quoth the Barber, ope­ning of another is, The twelve bookes of the fortunes of Love, written by Anthony L [...]fra­so, the [...] Poet. By the holy Orders which I have received, quoth the Curate; since Apollo was Apollo, and the Muses Muses, and Poets Poets, was never writ­ten so delightful band extravagant a worke as this; and that in his way and vaine, it is the only one of all the bookes that have everissued of that kinde to view the light of the world, and hee that hath not read it may make account that hee hath never read matter of delight. Give it to men Gossip, for I doe prize more the finding of it, then I would the gift of a Ca [...]ocke of the best sate in of Florence and so with great joy bee laid it a­side, and the Barbar prosecuted, saying, these that follow bee, The Sheepheard of I [...]e­ [...], The Nymphs of Enares; and the Rec [...]ing of the [...]. Then there is no more to bee done but to deliver them up to the secular arm of the old wife, and doe not de­mand the reason, for that were never to make an end. This that comes is The Sheep­heard of Filida. That is not a Sheepheard, quoth the Curate, but a very compleat Courtier, let it bee reserved as a precious jewell, This great one that followes, is, said the Barber intituled [...] The Treasure of divers Poems; If they had not beene so many, re­plyed the Curate, they would have beene more esteemed. It is necessary that this book bee carded and purged of certain base things, that lurke among his high conceits. Let Him bee kept, both because the Author is my very great friend, and in regard of other more Heroicall and lost in works hee hath written. This is, said the Barber, The ditty booke of Lopez Maldonad [...]. The Author of that worke is likewise my great friend, re­plyed the Parson, and his lines pronounced by himselfe doe ravish the hearers, and such is the sweetnesse of his voice when hee sings them, as it doth enchant the eare. Hee is somwhat prolix in his Eglogues, but that which is good, is never superfluous; let him bee kept among the choysest. But what booke is that which lies next unto him? The Galatea of Michael Cervantes quoth the Barber. That Cervantes, said the Curate, is my old acquaintance this many a yeere, and I know hee is more practised in misfortunes then in verses: His booke hath some good invention in it, hee intends and propounds somwhat, but concludes nothing; therefore wee must expect the second Part, which hee hath promised, perhaps his amendment may obtaine him a generall remission, which until now is denied him; and whilest we expect the sight of his second work, keep this part closely imprisoned in your lodging. I am very well content to do so, good Gossip, said the Barber; and here there come three together, The Auracana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, The Austriada of Iohn Ruffo, one of the Magistrates of Cordova, and The Monserrato of Christopher de Virnes, a Valentian Poet. All these three books, quoth the Curate, are the best that are written in heroicall verse in the Castilian tongue, and may compare with the most famous of Italy: reserve them as the richest pawns that Spain enjoyeth of Poetry. The Curate with this grew weary to see so many books, and so [Page 11] he would have all the rest burned at all adventures. But the Barber ere the Sentence was given had opened by chance one entituled The Tears of Angelica. I would have shed those tears my self, said the Curate, if I had wittingly caused such a book to bee burned; for the Author thereof, was one of the most famous Poets of the World, not only of Spain: And was most happy in the translation of certain Fables of Ovid.

CHAP. VII.
Of the second departure which our good Knight, Don-Quixote, made from his house, to seek Adventures,

WHile they were thus busied, Don-Quixote began to cry aloud, say­ing, Here, here valourous Knights, here it is needfull that you shew the force of your valiant armes; for the Courtiers begin to bear away the best of the Tourney. The folk repairing to this rumour and noyse, was an occasion, that any farther speech and visitation of the books was omitted; and therefore it is to be suspected, that The Ca [...]le [...] and Lyon of Spain, with the acts of the Emperor Charles the fifth, written by Don Luis de Avila, were burned, without being ever seen or heard; and perhaps if the Curate had seen them, they should not have pas'd under so rigorous a sentence. When they all arrived to Don-Quixote his Chamber he was risen already, out of his Bed, and continued still his out-cries, cutting and flashing on every side, being as b [...]dly awake, as if he never had slept. Wherefore, taking him in their arms, they returned him by main force into his Bed, and after he was somewhat quiet and setled, he said turning himself to the Curate, In good sooth Lord Archbishop Turpin, it is a great dishonor to us that are called the twelve Peers, to permit the Knights of the Court to bear thus away the glory of the Tournay without more adoe; seeing that we the Adventures have gained the prize thereof the three formost dayes. Hold your peace good Gossip, quoth the Curate, for fortune may be pleased to change the successe; & what is lost to day, may be wonn again to morrow: Look you to your health for the present; for you seem at least to be very much tyred, if besides, you be not sore wounded. Wounded, no, quoth Don-Quixote! but doubtless I am somewhat bruised: for that Bastard Don Rowland hath beaten me to powder with the stock of an Oake-tree; and all for envy, because he sees that I only dare oppose my self to his valour: But let me be never again called Ray­nold of Montealban, if he pay not deerly for it, as soon as I rise from this Bed, in despite of all his inchantment. But I pray you call for my breakfast, for I know it will doe me much good, and have the revenge of this wrong to my charge. Presently meat was brought; and after he had eaten he fell a sleep, and they remained astonished at his wonderfull madnesse. That night the old woman burned all the books that she found in the house and yard; and some there were burned, that deserved, for their worthy­nesse, to be kept up in everlasting Treasuries, if their fortunes and the lazinesse of the Searchers had permitted it. And so the proverb was verrified in them, That the Just payes sometimes for the Sinners. One of the remedies which the Curate and the Bar­ber prescribed for that present, to help their friends Disease, was, that they should change his Chamber, and dam up his Study, to the end, that when he arose, he might not finde them: for perhaps by removing the cause, they might also take away the effects: And moreover, they bad them to say, that a certain Inchanter had carried them away, studie and all; which device was presently put in practise. And within two dayes after, Don-Quixote got up, and the first thing he did, was to goe and visit his books; and seeing he could not finde the Chamber in the same place where he had left it, hee [Page] went up and down to finde it. Sometimes he came to the place where the door stood, and felt it with his hands, and then would turn his eyes up and down here and there to seek it, without speaking a word. But at last after deliberation, he asked of the old woman, the way to his books? She as one well-schooled before what she should an­swer, said, What Study? or what nothing is this you look for? There is now no more Study nor books in this house; for the very Divell himself carried all away with him. It was not the Divell, said his Niese, but an Inchanter that came here one night upon a cloud, the day after you departed from hence; and alighting down from a Serpent, upon which he rode, he entred into the study, and what he did therein I know not; and within a while after he fled out at the roof of the house, and left all the house full of smoak: And when we accorded to see what he had done, we could neither see Book or Studie: only this much the old woman. And I doe remember very well, that the naughty old man at his departure said, with a loud voyce, that he for hidden enmity that he bore to the Lord of those books had done all the harme to the house that they might perceive when he were departed, and added that he was named the wise Muni­aton Frestron, you would have said, quoth Don-Quixote. I know not, quoth the old woman, whether he height Frestron or Friton, but well I wot, that his name ended with Ton. That is true, quoth Don-Quixote, and he is a very wise Inchanter, and my great adversary, and looks on me with a sinister eye; for he knows by his Art and Science, that I shall in time fight a single combat with a Knight, his very great friend, and over­come him in battell, without being able to be by him assisted, and therefore he labours to doe me all the hurt he may: and I have sent him word, that he strives in vain to divert or shun that, which is by heaven already decreed. Who doubts of that, quoth his Niese? But I pray you good Unkle say; what need have you to thrust your self into these difficulties and brabbles? were it not better to rest you quietly in your own house, then to wander through the world, searching bread of [Buscardo pan de Tra­strigo p. 47.) blasted corn? without once considering, how many there goe to seek for wooll, that return again shorn themselves. O Niese! quoth Don-Quixote, how ill doest thou understand the matter? before I permit my self to be shorn, I will pill and pluck away the beards of as many as shall dare or imagine to touch but a hair only of me. To these words the woman would make no reply, because they saw his choler increase.

Fifteene dayes he remained quietly at home, without giving any argument of se­conding his former vanities: in which time past many pleasant encounters betweene him and his two gossips, the Curate and Barber, upon that point which he defended, to wit, that the world needed nothing so much as Knights errant, and that the errati­call Knighthood ought to be again renewed therein. Master Parson would contradict him sometimes, and other times yeeld unto that he urged; for had they not observed that manner of proceeding, it were impossible to bring him to any conformity. In this space Don-Quixote dealt with a certain labourer his neighbour, an honest man (if the ti­tle of honesty may be given to the poore) but one of a very shallow wit; in resolution he said so much to him, and perswaded him so earnesty, and made him so large pro­mises, as the poore fellow determined to goe away with him, and serve him as his Squire. Don-Quixote among many other things bad him to dispose himself willingly to depart with him; for now and then such an adventure might present it self, that in as short space as one would take up a couple of straws, an Island might be won, and he be left as Governor thereof. With these and such like promises Sancho Panca, for so he was called, left his wife and children, and agreed to be his Squire. Afterward Don-Quixote began to cast plots how to come by some money; which he atchieved by selling one thing, pawning another, and turning all up-side down. At last he got a pretty sum, and accommodating himself with a buckler which he had borrowed of a friend, and patching up his broken Beaver again as well he could: he advertised his Squire Sancho of the day and hour wherein he meant to depart, that he might likewise furnish him­self with that which he thought needfull; but above all things he charged him to pro­vide himself of a Wallet; which he promised to perform, and said that he meant also [Page 12] to carry a very good Asse, which he had of his own, because he was not wont to travell much a foot. In that of the Asse Don-Quixote stood a while pensive, calling to minde whether ever he had read, that any Knight Errant carried his Squire Assishly mounted; but he could not remember any authority for it: yet notwithstanding he resolved that he might bring his beast, with intention to accomodate him more honourably, when occasion were offered, by dismounting the first-discourteous Knight they met, from his horse, and giving it to his Squire; he also furnished himself with Shirts, and as many other things as he might, according unto the Inn-keepers advise. All which being fi­nished, Sancho Panca without bidding his wife and children farewell, or Don-Quixote his Niese and old servant, they both departed one night out of the Village unknown to any person living; and they travelled so farr that night, as they were sure in the morning not to be found, although they were pursued. Sancho Pancha rode on his beast like a Patriark with his Wallet and Bottle, and a marvellous longing to see him­self Governour of the Island which his master had promised unto him.

Don-Quixote took by chance the same very course and way that he had done in his first voyage through the field of Montiel, wherein he travelled then with lesse vexation then the first; for by reason it was early, and the Sun beams stroke not directly down, but athwart; the heat did not trouble them much. And Sancho Pancha seeing the opor­tunity good, said to his Master, I pray you have care good Sir Knight, that you forget not that Government of the Island which you have promised me, for I shall be able to Govern it, were it never so great. To which Don-Quixote replyed; ‘You must un­derstand friend Sancho Pancha, that it was a custome very much used by ancient Knights Errant, to make their Squires Governours of the Islands and Kingdoms that they conquered; and I am resolved that so good a custome shall never be abolished by me; but rather I will passe and exceed them therein: for they sometimes, and as I take it, did for the greater part expect untill their Squires waxed aged, and after they were cloyed with service, and had suffered many bad dayes and worse nights; then did they bestow upon them some title of an Earl, or at least of a Marquesse of some Valley or Province, of more or lesse account. But if thou livest, and I withall; it may happen, that I may conquer such a Kingdome within six dayes, that hath other King­domes adherent to it, which would fall out as just as it were cast in a mould for thy purpose, whom I would crown presently King of one of them. And doe not ac­count this to be any great matter, for things and chances do happen to such Knights Adventurers as I am, by so unexpected and wonderfull wayes and means, as I might give thee very easily, a great deal more then I have promised.’ After that manner, said Sancho Pancha, if I were a King through some miracle of those which you say, then should Iean Gutierez my wife become a Queen, and my children Princes. Who doubts of that, said Don-Quixote? That doe I, replyed Sancha Panca; for I am fully per­swaded, that although God would rain Kingdomes down upon the earth, none of them would sit well on Mary Gutierez her head. For Sir, you must understand that shee's not worth a Dodkin for a Queen. To be a Countesse would agree with her better; and yet I pray God that she be able to discharge that calling. Commend thou the matter to God, quoth Don-Quixote, that he may give her that which is most conveni­ent for her. But doe not thou abase thy minde so much, as to content thy self with lesse then at the least to be a Vice-Roy. I will not, good Sir, quoth Sancho, especially seeing I have so worthy a Lord and Master as your self, who knows how to give me all that may turn to my benefit, and that I shall be able to discharge in good sort.

CHAP. VIII.
Of the good successe Don-Quixote had, in the dreadfull and never imagined adventure of the Winde-mils, with other acci­dents worthy to be recorded.

AS thus they discoursed, they discovered some thirty or forty Wind-mils, that are in that field; and as soone as Don- Quixote espied them, hee said to his Squire, Fortuue doth addresse our affaires better then wee our selves could desire; for behold there, friend Sancho Panca, how there appeares thirty or forty monstrous Giants, with whom I mean to fight, and deprive them all of their lives, with whose spoyles wee will begin to bee rich, for this is a good Warre, and a great service unto God, to take away so bad a seede from the face of the Earth. What Giants? quoth Sancho Panca, Those that thou seest there, quoth his Lord, with the long armes, and some there are of that race, whose armes are almost two leagues long, I pray you understand, quoth Sancho Panca, that those which appeare there, are no Giants but Windmills; and that which seemes in them to bee armes, are their Sayles, that are swinged about by the Winde, doe also make the Mill goe. It seemes well, quoth Don-Quixote, that thou art not yet acquainted with matter of Adventures: they are Gi­ants, and if thou beest afraid, goe aside and pray whilst I enter into cruell and unequall battell with them: And saying so, hee spur'd his horse Rozinante, without taking heed to his Squire Sanchoes cryes, advertising him how they were doubtlesse Windmills that hee did assault, and no Giants; but hee went so fully perswaded that they were Giants as hee neither heard his Squires out-cries, nor did discern what they were, although hee drew very neere to them, but rather said as loud as hee could: Flie not ye Cowards and vile creatures, for it is only one Knight that assaults you. With this the winde in­creased, and the Mill Sailes began to turne about, which Don-Quixote, espying, said, although thou movedst more armes then the Giant Briares, thou shalt stoope to mee, and after saying this, and commending himself most devoutly to his Lady Dulcinea, de­siring her to succour him in that trance, covering himself well with his Buckler, and set­ting his Launce on his rest, hee spurred on Rozinante, and encountred with the first Mill that was before him, and striking his Launce into the Sayle, the wind swinged it about with such furie, that it broke his Launce into shivers, carrying him and his Horse after it, and finally tumbled him a good way off from it on the field in very evill plight. Sancho Panca repayred presently to succour him as fast as his Asse could drive; and when hee arived. hee found him not able to stir, hee had gotten such a crush with Rozi­nante. Good God, quoth Sancho, did I not foretell unto you that you should looke well what you did, for they were none other then Windmills, nor could any thinke o­therwise, unlesse hee had also Windmills in his braines. Peace Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, (for matters of Warre are more subject then any other thing to continuall change; how much more seeing I doe verily perswade my self, that the wise Freston who robbed my Studie and Bookes, hath transformed these Giants into Mills, to de­prive mee of the glory of the Victory; such is the enmitie hee beares towards mee. But yet in fine, all his bad arts shall but little prevaile against the goodnesse of my Sword. God grant it, as hee may, said Sancho Panca, and then helpt him to arise, and present­ly hee mounted on Rozinante, who was half shoulder-pitcht [Medio spaldado] by rough encounter; and discoursing upon that Adventure, they followed on the way which guided towards the passage or gate of Lapice (A passage through the Moun­tains) for there as Don-Quixote avouched, it was not possible but to finde many Ad­ventures, because it was a through-fare much frequented, and yet hee affirmed that he [Page 13] went very much grieved because hee wanted a Launce, and telling it to his Squire hee said, I remember how I have read that a certain Spanish Knight, called Diego Peres of Vargas, having broken his Sword in a Battell, tore off a great branch or stock from an Oake tree, and did such marvailes with it that day, and battered so many Moors, as he remained with the surname of Machuca, which signifies a stumpe, and as well hee as all his Progenie were ever after that day called Vargas and Machuca, I tell thee this, because I mean to tear another branch, such, or as good as that at least, from the first Oake, we shall encounter, and I mean to atchieve such Adventures therewithall, as thou wilt account thy self fortunate, for having merited to behold them, and be a witnesse of things almost incredible. In Gods name quoth Sancho, I doe believe every word you said: But I pray you sit right in your saddle; for you ride sideling, which pro­ceeds, as I suppose, of the bruising you got by your fall. Thou sayest true, quoth Don-Quixote; And if I doe not complain of the grief, the reason is; because Knights Errant use not to complain of any wound, although their guts did issue out thereof. If it be so (quoth Sancho) I know not what to say; but God knows that I would be glad to hear you to complain when any thing grieves you. Of my self I dare affirm, that I must complain of the least grief that I have, if it be not likewise meant that the Squires of Knights Errants must not complain of any harm. Don-Quixote could not refrain laughter, hearing the simplicity of his Squire; and after shewed unto him, that hee might lawfully complain, both when he pleased, and as much as he listed, with desire, or without it; for he had never yet read any thing to the contrary, in the order of Knighthood. Then Sancho said unto him, that it was dinner time: To whom he answered, that he needed no repast; but if he had will to eat, he might begin when hee pleased. Sancho having obteined his licence, did accommodate himself on his Asse back, the best he might, taking out of his Wallet some Belly-munition; he rode after his Master tra­velling and eating at once, and that with great leisure; and ever and anon he lifted up his bottle with such pleasure as the best fed Victualer of Malaga might envie his state; and whilest he rode multiplying of quaffs in that manner, he never remembred any of the promises his Master had made him; nor did he hold the fetch of Adventures to be a la­bour, but rather a great recreation and ease, were they never so dangerous. In conclu­sion they past over that night under certain Trees, from one of which Don-Quixote [...]oar a withered branch, which might serve him in some sort for a Launce; and there­fore he set thereon the iron of his own, which he had reserved when it was broken. All that night Don-Quixote slept not one wink, but thought upon his Lady Dulcinea, that he might conform himself to what he had read in his books of Adventures, when Knights passed over many nights without sleep in forrests and fields only entertained by memory of their Mistrisses. But Sancho spent not his time so vainly; for having his stomack well stuffed, and that not with Succory water, he carried smoothly away the whole night in one sleep: and if his Master had not called him up, neither the Sun­beams which struck on his visage, nor the melody of the Birds, which were many, and did cheerfully welcome the approach of the new day, could have been able to awake him: At his arriving he gave one assay to the bottle, which he found to be somewhat more weak then it was the night before, whereat his heart was somewhat grieved; for he mistrusted that they took not a course to remedy that defect so soon as he wished: Nor could Don [...] Quixote break his fast, who, as we have said, meant only to sustein himself with pleasant remembrances. Then did they return to their commenced way towards the Port of Lapice, which they discovered about three of the clock in the afternoon. Here (said Don-Quixote) as soon as he kend it, may we (friend Sancho) thrust our hands up to the very elbows in that which is called Adventures. But observe well this Caveat which I shall give thee, that although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the World, thou must not set hand to thy sword in my defence, if thou doest not see that those which assault me be base and vile vulgar people; for in such a case thou mayst assist me. Marry if they be Knights thou may'st not doe so in any wise, nor is it per­mitted by the laws of arms, that thou may'st help me, untill thou beest likewise dub'd knight thy self. I doe assure you Sir, quoth Sancho, that herein you shall be most pun­ctually [Page] obeyed: And therefore chiefly, in respect that I am of mine own nature a quiet and peaceable man, and a mortall enemy of thrusting my self into stirrs or quarrells: Yet it is true that touching the defence of mine own person, I will not be altogether so observant of those Laws, seeing that both divine and humane allow every man to defend himself from any one that would wrong him. I say no lesse, answered Don-Quixote, but in this of ayding me against any Knight, thou must set bounds to thy na­turall impulses. I say I will doe so, quoth Sancho; and I will observe this commande­ment as punctually, as that of keeping holy the Saboth day.

Whil'st thus they reasoned, there appeared in the way two Monks of S. Benets Or­der, mounted on two Dromedaries; for the Mules whereon they rode were but little lesse. They wore masks with spectacles in them, to keep away the dust from their faces; and each of them besides boar their Umbrills; after them came a Coach, and four or five a horse-back accompanying it, and two Lacquies that ran hard by it. There came therein, as it was after known, a certain Biscaine Lady, which travelled towards Sivil, where her husband so journed at the present, and was going to the Indies, with an ho­nourable charge: The Monks rode not with her although they travelled the same way. Scarce had Don-Quixote perceived them, when he said to his Squire; Either I am deceived, or else this will prove the most famous Adventure that ever hath been seen. For these two great black bulk, which appear there, are questionlesse Inchanters that steal, or carry away perforce, some Princesse in that Coach; and therefore I must with all my power undo that wrong. This wil be worse then the adventure of the Wind­mills, quoth Sancho. Doe not you see Sir, that those are Fryers of S. Benets Order? & the Coach can be none other then of some travellers. Therefore listen to mine advice, and see well what you doe, lest the Devill deceive you. I have said already to thee Sancho, that thou art very ignorant in matter of Adventures. What I say is true, as now thou shalt see. And saying so, he spur'd on his horse, and placed himself just in the mid'st of the way, by which the Fryers came; and when they approached so neer, as he supposed they might hear him, he said with a loud voyce: ‘Divilish and wicked people, leave present­ly those high Princesses which you violantly carry away with you in that Coach; or if you will not, prepare your selves to recive suddain death, as a just punishment of your bad works.’ The Fryers held their horses, and were amazed both at the shape and words of Don-Quixote. To whom they answered, Sir Knight, we are neither divillish nor wicked, but religious men of S. Benets Order, that travell about our affairs; and wee know not whether or no there comes any Princesses forced in this Coach. With me fair words take no effect, quoth Don-Quixote. For I know you very well treache­rous knaves; and then, without expecting their reply, he set spurs to Rozinante, and laying his Launce on the thigh, charged the first Fryer with such fury and rage, that if he had not suffered himself willingly to fall off his Mule, he would not only have over­thrown him against his will; but likewise have slain, or at least wounded him very ill with the blow. The second religious man seeing how ill his companion was used made no words; but seting spurs to that Castell his Mule, did fly away through the field, as swift as the winde it self. Sancho Panca seeing the Monk overthrown, dismounted very speedily off his Asse, and ran over to him, and would have ransackt his habits. In this arrived the Monks two Lacquies, and demanded of him why he thus dispoyled the Fryer? Sancho reply'd, that it was his due by the Law of arms, as lawfull spoyles gained in battell by his Lord Don-Quixote. The Lacquies which understood not the jest, nor knew not what words of battell or spoyles meant, seeing that Don-Quixote was now out of the way speaking with those that came in the Coach, set both at once upon Sancho, and left him not a hair in his beard; but they pluck't, and did so trample him under their feet, as they left him stretched on the ground without either breath or feel­ing. The Monk cutting off all delayes, mounted again on horse back, all affrighted, having scarce any drop of blood left in his face through fear. And being once up, he spur'd after his fellow, who expected him a good way off, staying to see the successe of that assault; and being unwilling to attend the end of that strange Adventure, they did prosecute their journey, blessing & crossing themselves as if the Divell did pursue them.

[Page 14] Don-Quixote, as is rehearsed, was in this season speaking to the Lady of the Coach, to whom he said, ‘Your beauty deer Lady, may dispose from henceforth of your person, as best yee liketh; for the pride of your Robbers lyes now prostrated on the ground, by this my invincible arme. And because you may not be troubled to know your de­liverer his name, know that I am called Don-Quixote de la Mancha; a Knight Errant and Adventurer, and Captive to the Peerlesse and Bautifull Lady Dulcinea of To­boso: and in reward of the benefit which you have received at my hands, I demand nothing else but that you return to Toboso; and there present your selves in my name before my Lady, and recount unto her, what I have done to obtain your Liberty.’ To all these words which Don-Quixote said, a certain Biscaine Squire that accompanied the Coach, gave ear; who seeing that Don-Quixote suffered not the Coach to passe onward, but said that it must presently return back to Toboso, he drew neer to him, and laying hold on his Launce, he said in his bad Spanish and worse Basquish; Get thee away Knight in an ill hour; by the God that created me, if thou leave not the Coach, I will kill thee, as sure as I am a Biscaine. Don-Quixote understanding him, did an­swer with great staidnesse; If thou wer'st a Knight [Cavallero in Spanish is taken as well for a Gentleman as for a Knight] as thou art not, I would by this have punished thy folly and presumption, crafty creature. The Biscaine replyed with great furie; Not I a Gentleman? I swear God thou lyest, as well as I am a Christian: If thou cast away thy Launce, and draw thy sword, [pag. 58.] thou shalt see the water as soon as thou shalt carrie away the Cat: A Biscaine by Land, and a Gentleman by Sea, a Gentleman in despight of the Devill; and thou lyest if other things thou sayest. Straight thou shalt see that, said Agrages, replyed Don-Quixote; and throwing his Lannce to the ground, he out with his Sword, and took his Buckler, and set on the Biscaine, with re­solution to kill him. The Biscaine seeing him approach in that manner, although he desired to alight off his Mule, which was not to be trusted, being one of those naughty ones which are wont to be hired, yet had he no leisure to doe any other thing then to draw out his Sword: but it befell him happily to bee neer to the Coach, out of which he snatched a Cushion that served him for a Shield, and presently the one made upon the other like mortall enemies. Those that were present laboured all that they might, but in vain, to compound the matter between them; for the Biscaine swore in his bad Language, that if they hindred him from ending the Battell, he would put his Lady, and all the rest that dared to disturb him to the Sword.

The Lady astonished and fearfull of that which shee beheld, commanded the Coach­man to goe a little out of the way, and face aloo [...]e, beholding the rigorous conflict. In the progresse whereof the Biscaine gave Don-Quixote over the Target a mighty blow on one of the shoulders, where if it had not found resistance in his armour, it would doubtlesly have cleft him down to the girdle. Don-Quixote feelling the waight of that unmeasurable blow, cried with a loude voice, saying, ‘O Dulcinea, Lady of my soule, the flower of all beauty, succour this thy Knight, who to set forth thy worth, findes himself in this dangerous trance.’ The saying of these words, the griping fast of his Sword, the covering of himself wel with his Buckler, & the assayling of the Biscaine, was done all in one instant, resolving to venter all the successe of the battell on that one only blow. The Bicaine, who perceived him come in that manner, perceived by his dough­tinesse his intention, and resolved to doe the like, and therefore expected him very well covered with his Cushion, not being able to manage his Mule as hee wished from one part to another, who was not able to goe a step, it was so wearied, as a beast never be­fore used to the like toyes. Don-Quixote, as wee have said, came against the weary Bis­caine, with his Sword lifted a loft, with a full resolution to part him in two, and all the beholders stood with great feare suspended to see the successe of those monstrous blows wherewithall they threatned one another. And the Lady of the Coach with her Gen­tlewomen made a thousand Vowes and Offerings to all the devoute places of Spain, to the end that God might deliver the Squire and themselves out of that great danger wherein they were.

[Page]But it is to bee deplored how in this very point and terme, the Author of this Histo­ry leaves this Battell depending, excusing himselfe that hee could find no more written of the Acts of Don-Quixote then those which hee hath already recounted. True it is that the second writer of this worke would not beleeve that so curious a History was drowned in the jawes of Oblivion, or that the wits of the Mancha were so little curi­ous as not to reserve among their Treasuries or Records, some papers treating of this famous Knight; and therefore encouraged by this presumption, hee did not despaire to finde the end of this pleasant History; which Heaven being propicious to him, hee got at last, after the manner that shall bee recounted in the second Part.

CHAP. I.
Wherein is related the events of the fearfull Battell which the gallant Biscaine fought with Don-Quixote.

WEE left the valorous Biscaine and the famous Don-Quixote, in the first Part, with their Swords lifted up and naked, in termes to discharge one upon another two furious Cleevers, and such, as if they had lighted rightly, would cut and divide them both from the top to the toe, and open them like a Pomgranat. And that in so doubtfull a taking the delightfull Historie stopped and remained dismembred, the Author thereof leaving us no notice where wee might find the rest of the narration. This grieved mee not a little, but wholly turned the pleasure I tooke in reading the beginning there­of into disgust, thinking how small commodity was offered, to finde out so much as in my opinion wanted of this so delectable a tale. It seemed unto mee almost impossible, and contrary to all good order, that so good a Knight should want some wise man that would undertake his wonderfull prowesses and feats of Chivalry. A thing that none of those Knights Errant ever wanted, of whom People speake, for each of them had one or two wise men of purpose, that did not only write their Acts, but also depain­ted their very least thoughts and toyes, were they never so hidden. And surely so good a Knight could not bee so unfortunate as to want that wherewith Platyr and others his like abounded: and therefore could not induce my self to beleeve, that so gallant a Historie might remaine maimed and lame, and did rather cast the fault upon the malice of the time, who is a consumer and devourer of all things, which had eyther hidden or consumed it. Me thought on the other side, seeing that among his bookes were found some modern workes, such as the Vndeceiving of Iealousie, and the Nymphs and Sheep­heards of Henares. That also his owne Historie must have been new; and if that it were not written, yet was the memory of him fresh among the dwellers of his owne Village, and the other Villages adjoyning. This imagination held mee suspended and desirous to learn really and truly all the life and miracles of our famous Spanyard, Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the light and mirror of all Manchicall Chivalrie; being the first who in this our age and time, so full of calamities, did undergoe the travells and exercise of armes Errant; and undid wrongs, succour'd widdowes, protected Dam­zels that rode up and down with their whips and Palfreys, and with all their virginity [Page] on their backs from hill to hill, and dale to dale; for if it hapned not that some lewd miscreant, or some Clowne with a hatchet and long haire, or some monstrous Giant did force them, Damzels there were in times past that at the end of fourescore yeeres, all which time they never slept one day under a roofe, went as entyre and pure may dens to their Graves, as the very mother that bore them. Therefore I say, that as well for this as for many other good respects, our gallant Don-Quixote is worthy of continu­all and memorable praises; nor can the like bee justly denied to my self, for the labour and diligence which I used to finde out the end of this gratefull History, although I know very well that if Heaven, Chance, and Fortune had not assisted mee, the world had beene deprived of the delight and pastime that men may take for almost two houres together, who shall with diligent attention read it. The manner therefore of finding it was this.

Being one day walking in the Exchange of Toledo, a certain Boy by chance would have sold divers old quires & scroules of bookes to a Squire that walked up and down in that place, and I being addicted to read such scroules, though I found them torn in the streets, borne away by this my naturall inclination, tooke one of the quires in my hand, and perceived it to bee written in Arabicall Characters, and seeing that although I knew the Letters, yet could I not read the substance, I looked about to view whether I could perceive any Moor turned Spanyard thereabouts, that could reade them; nor was it very difficult to finde there such an Interpreter, for if I had searched one of another better and more ancient language [to Wit a Iew] that place would easily afford him. In fine, my good fortune presented one to mee, to whom telling my desire, and giving him the booke in his hand, hee opened it, and having read a little therein, began to laugh, I demanded of him why hee laughed? and hee answered, at that marginall note which the booke had. I bad him to expound it to mee, and with that tooke him a little aside, and hee continuing still his laughter said, there is written here on this margin these words. This Dulcinea of Toboso so many times spoaken of in this Historie, had the best hand for powdring of Porkes, of any woman in all the Mancha. When I heard it make mention of Dulcinea of Toboso, I rested amazed and suspended, and imagined forthwith that those quires contained the Historie of Don-Quixote, with this conceit I hastned him to read the ibegnning, which hee did, and translating the A­rabicall into Spanish in a trice, hee said that it began thus. The Historie of Don-Quixote of the Mancha, written by Cyde Hamete Benegeli, an Arabicall Historiographer. Much discretion was requisite to dissemble the content of mind I conceived when I heard the Title of the book, and preventing the Squire, I bought all the boyes scroles and papers for a Riall, and were he of discretion, or knew my desire, he might have promised himself easily, and also have borne away with him more then six Reals for his Merchan­dize. I departed after with the Moor to the Cloyster of the great Church, & I requested him to turn me all the Arabicall sheets that treated of Don-Quixote into Spanish, with­out adding or taking away any thing from them; and I would pay him what hee listed for his paines: hee demanded fifty pounds of Raisons, and three Bushells of Wheat, and promised to translate them speedily, well, and faithfully. But I, to hasten the mat­ter more, least I should lose such an unexpected and welcome treasure, brought him to my house, where he translated all the work in lesse then a moneth and a half, even in the manner that it is here recounted.

There was painted in the first Quier very naturally the battell betwixt Don-Quixote and the Biscaine; even in the same manner that the History relateth it, with their Swords lifted aloft, the one covered with his Buckler, the other with the Cushion: and the Biscaines Mule was delivered so naturally as a man might perceive it was hired; al­though he stood farther oft then the shot of a Cross-bow. The Biscaine had a title written under his feet, that said, Don Sancho de Azpetia, for so belike he was called: and at Rozinante his feet, there was another that said Don-Quixote. Rozinante was marvellous well pourtraited, so long and lank, so thin and lean, so like one labouring with an incurable consumption, as he did shew very cleerly with what consideration and propriety he had given unto him the name Rozinante. By him stood Sancho Pan­ca, [Page 16] holding his Asse by the halter; at whose feet was another scroule, saying, Sancho Cancas: And I think the reason thereof was, that as his picture shewed, he had a great belly, a short stature, and thick leggs. And therefore I judge he was called Pan­ca or Canca, for both these names were written of him indifferently in the History. There were other little things in it worthy nothing; but all of them are of no great Im­portance, nor any thing necessary for the true relation of the History, for none is ill if it be true. And if any objection be made against the truth of this; it can be none o­ther then that the Authour was a Moor; and it is a known propriety of that Na­tion to be lying: Yet in respect that they hate us so mortally, it is to be conjectured that in this History there is rather want and concealement of our Knights worthy acts, then any superfluity; which I imagine the rather, because I finde in the progresse thereof many times, that when he might; and ought to have advanced his penn in our Knights prayses, he doth as it were of purpose passe them over in silence. Which was very ill done, seeing that Historiographers ought and should be very precise, true, and unpassi­onate; and that neither profit, or fear, rancor or affection should make them to tread awry from the truth, whose mother is History; the Emulatresse of time; the depository of actions; the witnesse of things past; and advertiser of things to come. In this Hi­storie I know a man may finde all that he can desire in the most pleasing manner; and if they want any thing to be desired, I am of opinion that it is through the fault of that ungracious knave that translated it, rather then through any defect in the subject. Finally, the second part thereof (according to the translation) began in this man­ner.

The trenchant Swords of the two valorous and inraged combatants being listed a loft, it seemed that they threatned Heaven, the Earth, and the Depths. Such was their hardnesse and courage: And the first that discharged his blow was the Biscaine, which fell with such force and fury, as if the Sword had not turned a little in the way, that only blow had been sufficient to set an end to the rigorous Contention, and all other the Adventures of our Knight. But his good fortune which resolved him for greate [...] Affairs, did wrest his adversaries Sword away in such sort, as though he stroke him on the left shoulder, yet did it no more ha [...] then disarm all that side carying away with it a great part of his Beaver, with the half of his eare; all which fell to the ground with a dreadfull ruine, leaving him in very ill case for a good time. Good God! who is he that can well describe at this present, the fury that entred in the heart of our Man­chegan, seeing himself used in that manner? Let us say no more, but that it was such, that stretching himself again in the stirrops, and griping his Sword fast in both his hands, he discharged such a terrible blow on the Biscaine, hitting him right upon the Cushion and by it on the head, that the strength and thicknesse thereof so little availed him, that as if a whole Mountain had faln upon him, the blood gushed out of his mouth, nose, and ears, all at once, and he to [...]teredi so on his Mule, that every step he took, he was ready to fall off, as he would indeed if he had not taken him by the neck: yet never­thelesse he lost the stirrops, and loosing his gripe of the Mule, it being likewise frighted by that terrible blow, ran away as fast as it could, about the Fields, and within two or three winches overthrew him to the ground. All which Don-Quixote stood beholding with great quietnesse; and as soon as he saw him fall, he leapt off his Horse, and ran over to him very speedily; and setting the poynt of his Sword on his eyes, he bad him yeeld himself, or else he would cut off his head. The Biscaine was so amazed as he could not speak a word; and it had succeeded very ill with him, considering Don-Quixote fury, if the Ladies of the Coach, which untill then had beheld the Conflict with great anguish, had not come where he was, and earnestly be sought him to doe them the fa­vour to pardon their Squiers life. Don-Quixote answered with a great loftinesse and gravity. ‘Truly fair Ladyes I am well appaid to grant you your request, but it must be with this agreement and condition, that this Knight shall promise me to goe to Toboso, and present himself in my name to the Peerlesse Ladie Daloinea, to the end she may dispose of him as shee pleaseth.’ The timerous and comfortlesse Lady with­out considering what Don-Quixote demanded, or asking what Dul [...] was, promised [Page] that her Squire should accomplish all that he pleased to command. Why then quoth Don-Quixote, trusting to your promise, I'le doe him no more harme, although he hath well deserved it at my hands.

CHAP. II.
Of that which after befell unto Don-Quixote, when he had left the Ladies.

BY this Sancho Panca had gotten up, though somewhat abused by Fri­ars Lackeyes, and stood attentively beholding his Lords combate, and prayed to God with all his heart, that it would please him to give him the victory; and that he might therein winn some Island, whereof he might make him governour, as he had promised. And seeing the controversie ended at last, and that his Lord remounted upon Rozinante; he came to holde him the stirrop, and cast him­self on his knees before him ere hee got up, and taking him by the hand, hee kist it, say­ing, I desire that it will please you good my Lord Don-Quixote, to bestow upon mee the government of that Island which in this terrible Battell you have wonne; for though it were never so great, yet doe I finde my selfe able enough to govern it, as wel as any other whatsoever that ever governed Island in this world. To this demand Don-Quixote answered, thou must note friend Sancha, that this Adventure, and others of this kinde are not adventures of Islands, but of thwartings and high wayes, wherein no­thing else is gained but a broaken pate, or the losse of an ear. Have patience a while, for Adventures will be offered, whereby thou shalt not only be made a Gover­nor, but also a greater man. Sancho rendred him many thanks, and kissing his hand again, and the skirt of his Habergeon; he did help him to get up on Rozinante, and he leapt on his Asse, and followed his Lord: who with a swift pace, without taking leave or speaking to those of the Coach, he entred into a wood that was hard at hand. Sancho followed him as fast as his beast could trot; but Rozinante went off so swiftly, as he perceiving he was like to be left behinde, was forced to call aloud to his Master that he would stay for him; which Don-Quixote did by checking Rozinante with the bridle, untill his wearied Squire did arrive: who, as soon as he came, said unto him; Me­thinks (Sir) that it will not be amisse to retire our selves to some Church; for ac­cording as that man is ill dight with whom you fought. I certainly perswade my self that they will give notice of the fact to the Holy Brotherhood, and they will seek to appre­hend us; which if they doe, in good faith before we can get out of their claws, I fear me we shall sweat for it. Peace, quoth Don-Quixote, where hast thou ever read or seen that Knight Errant, that hath been brought before the Judge, though he com­mitted never so many homicides and slaughters? I know nothing of Omicills, quoth Sancho, nor have I cared in my life for any; but well I wot that it concerns the Holy Brotherhood to deal with such as fight in the Fields, and in that other I will not inter­meddle. Then be not afraid friend, quoth Don-Quixote, for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Caldeans; how much more out of those of the Brotherhood? But tell me in very good earnest, whether thou did'st ever see a more valarous Knight then I am, on the face of the earth? did'st thou ever read in Histories of any other that hath or ever had more courage in assayling; more breath in persevering; more dexterity in offend­ing; or more art in overthrowing, then I? The truth is, quoth Sancho, that I have never read any History; for I can neither read nor write: But that which I dare wager is, that I never in any life served a bolder Master then you are; and I pray God that we [Page 17] pay not for this boldnesse, there where I have said, That which I request you is, that you will cure your selfe, for you lose much blood by that eare, and here I have lint and a little Vnguentum Album in my Wallet. All this might bee excused, quoth Don-Qui­xote, if I had remembred to make a Violl-full of the Balsamum of Fierebras, for with one drop of it wee might spare both time, and want well all those other Medecines. What Violl, and what Balsamum is that, said Sancho Panca? It is, answered Don-Quixote, a Balsamum whereof I have the receipt in memory, which one possessing hee needs not fear death, nor ought he to think that he may be killed by any wound: and therefore after I have made it, and given it unto thee, thou hast nothing else to doe. but when thou shalt see that in any Bateel I bee cloven in twaine (as many times it happens) thou shalt take faire and softly that part of my Body that is faln to the ground, and put it up again with great subtlety, on the part that rests in the Saddle, before the blood congeale, having evermore great care that thou place it just and equal­ly, then presently after thou shalt give mee two draughts of that Balsamum of which I have spoken, and thou shalt see me streight become founder then an Apple. If that bee true, quoth Sancho, I doe presently here renounce the government of the Island you promised, and will demand nothing else in recompence of my services of you, but only the receit of this precious liquor; for I am certain that an ounce thereof will be worth two Rials in any place, and when I have it I should neede nothing else to gain my li­ving easily and honestly. But let mee know, is it costly in making? With lesse then three Reals, quoth Don-Quixote, a man may make three gallons of it, But I meane to reach thee greater secrets then this, and doe thee greater favours also. And now let me cure my self, for mine eare grieves me more then I would wish. Sancho then tooke out of his Wallet his lynt and oyntment to cure his Master. But when Don-Quixote saw that the vizar of his Helmet was broken, he was ready to run mad; and setting his hand to his Sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, I vow to the creator of all things, and to the foure Gospels where they are largest written, to leade such ano­ther life as the great Marquesse of Mantua did, when he swore to revenge the death of his Nephew Valdovinos, which was; not to eate on Table cloath, nor sport with his Wife, and other things, which although I doe not now remember, I give them here for expressed, untill I take compleate revenge on him that hath done me this outrage.

Sancho hearing this said, you must note, Sir Don-Quixote, that if the Knight hath ac­complished that which you ordained, to goe and present himselfe before my Lady Dul­cinea of Toboso, then hath hee fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no new punishment, except hee commit a new fault. Thou hast spoken well and hit the marke right, said Don-Quixote, and therefore I disanull the Oath, in that of taking any new revenge on him; but I make it, and confirm it again, that I will leade the life I have said until I take another Helmet like, or as good as this, perforce from some Knight. And doe not think Sancho that I make this resolution lightly, or as they say, with the smoak of strawes, for I have an Author whom I may very well imitate herein, for the very like in every respect past about Mambrinoes Helmet, which cost Sacriphante so deerely. I would have you resigne those kind of Oathes to the Devill, quoth Sancho, for they will hurt your health, and prejudice your Conscience. If not, tell mee now, I beseech you if wee shall not these many dayes encounter with any that weares a Helmet, what shall wee doe? Will you accomplish the Oath in despight of all the inconveniences and dis­commodities that ensue thereof? to wit, to sleepe in your clothes, nor to sleepe in any dwelling, and a thousand other penitencies, which the Oath of the mad old man, the Marquesse of Mantua contained, which you meane to ratifie now? Doe not you con­sider that armed men travell not in any of these wayes, but Carriers, and Waggoners, who not only carie no Helmets, but also for the most part never heard speake of them in their lives? Thou dost deceive thy self saying so, replied Don-Quixote, for wee shall not haunt these wayes two houres, before wee shall see more armed Knights then were at the siege of Albraca, to conquer Angelica the faire. Well then, let it bee so, quoth Sancho, and I pray God it befall us well, whom I devoutly beseech that the time [Page] may come of gayning that Island which costs mee so deere, and after let me die present­ly and I care not. I have already said to thee Sancho, quoth his Lord, that thou shouldst not trouble thy self in any wise about this Affair; for if an Island were wanting, we have then the Kingdome of Denmark or that of Sobradisa, which will come as fit for thy purpose as a Ring to thy finger, and principally thou art to rejoyce, because they are on the continent. But omitting this till his own time; see whether thou hast any thing in they Wallet, and let us eat it, that afterward wee may goe search out some Ca­stle, wherein we may lodg this night, and make the Balsamum which I have told thee. For I vow to God that this ear grieves me marvellously. I have here an Onion, re­plied the Squire, a peece of Cheese and a few crusts of bread, but such grosse meats are not befitting so noble a Knight as you are. How ill doest thou understand it? an­swered Don-Quixote. I let thee to understand Sancho, that it is an honour for Knights Errant, not to eat once in a moneths space; and if by chance they should eat, to eat only of that which is next at hand. And this thou mightest certainly conceive, hadst thou read so many books as I have done. For though I past over many, yet did I never finde recorded in any, that Knights Errant did ever eat, but by meer chance and Adven­ture, or in some costly Banquests that were made for them, and all the other dayes they past over with hearbs and roots: and though it is to be understood that they could not live without meat, and supplying the other needs of nature, because they were in effect men as wee are: It is likewise to be understood, that spending the greater part of their lives in Forrests and Deserts, and that too without a Cook, that their most ordinary meats were but course and rusticall, such as thou doest now offer unto me. So that friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which is my pleasure, nor goe not thou about to make a new world, or to hoist Knight Errantry off of her hinges. Pardon me good Sir, quoth Sancho; for by reason I can neither read nor write, as I have said once before I have not fallne rightly in the Rules and Laws of Knighthood; and from hence forth my Wallet shall be well furnished with all Kindes of dry fruits for you, because you are a Knight: and for my self, seeing I am none, I will provide Fowls and other things, that are of more substance. I say not Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, that it is a forcible Law to Knights Errant, not to eat any other things then such fruits; but that their most ordinary sustenance could be none other then those, and some herbs they found up and down the Fields, which they knew very well, and so doe I also. It is a virtue, quoth Sancho, to know those Hearbs; for as I imagine that knowledge will some day stand us in stead: And saying so, he took out the provision he had, which they both eat together with good conformity. But being desirous to search out a place where they might lodg that night, they did much shorten their poor dinner, and mount­ing anon a horse-back, they made as much haste as they could, to finde out some dwel­lings, before the night did fall; but the Sun and their hopes did fail them at once, they being neer the Cabins of certain Goat-heards; and therefore they concluded to take up their lodging there for that night: For, though Sancho's grief was great, to lie out of a Village yet Don-Quixote's joy exceeded it farr, considering he must sleep under open Heaven, because he made account as oft as this befell him, that he did a worthy act, which did facilitate and ratifie the practise of his Chivalry.

CHAP. III.
Of that which past between Don-Quixote and certain Goat-heards.

HE was entertained very cheerfully by the Goat-heards, and Sancho ha­ving set up Rozinante and his Asse, as well as he could, he presently repaired to the smell of certain peeces of Goat-flesh, that stood boy­ling in a Kettle over the Fire; and although he thought in that very moment to try whether they were in season to be translated out of the Kettle into the Stomack, he did omit it, because he saw the Heards take them off the Fire, and spreading certain Sheep-skins, which they had for that purpose on the ground, lay in a trice their rusticall table, and invited the Master and man with very cheerfull minde, to come and take part of that which they had. There sate down round about the skinns six of them, which were all that dwelled in that Fold; having first (using some course complements) placed Don-Quixote upon a Trough, turning the bottome up. Don-Quixote sate down and Sancho stood, to serve the Cup, which was made of horn. His Master seeing him a foot, said, Sancho, to the end thou mayest perceive the good included in wandring Knighthood, and also in what possibility they are, which exercise themselves in any ministery thereof, to arrive briefly to honour and reputation in the World. My will is that thou doest sit here by my side and in company with this good people, and that thou beest one and the very self­same thing with me, who am thy Master and naturall Lord, that thou eat in my dish, and drink in the same cup wherein I drink: for the same may be said of Chivalrie that is of Love, to wit, that it makes all things equall. I yeeld you great thanks, quoth Sancho, yet dare I avouch unto you, that so I had therewithall to eat well, I could eat it as well or better standing and alone, then if I sate by an Emperour. And besides, if I must say the truth, me thinks that which I eat in a corner without ceremonies, curiosity, or re­spect of any, though it were but bread and an Onion, smacks a great deal better then Turkey-Cocks at other Tables, where I must chew my meat leisurely, drink but little, wipe my hands often, must not neese nor cough though I have a desire, or be like to choake, nor doe other things that solitude and liberty bring with them. So that (good Sir) I would have you convert these honours that you would bestow upon me in re­spect that I am an adherent to Chivalry, as I am being your Squire, into things more essentiall & profitable for me then these; & though I remain as thankfull for them, as if they were received, yet doe I here renounce from this time untill the worlds end. For all that thou shalt sit, for the humble shall be exalted; and so taking him by the arm hee forced him to sit down neer himself.

The Goat-heards did not understand that Gibbrish of Squires and Knights Errant, and therefore did nothing else but eat and hold their peace, and look on their guests, that tossed in with their fists whole slices, with good grace and stomacks. The course of flesh being ended, they served in on the rugges a great quantity of sheld Akorns, and half a Cheese harder then if it were made of rough-casting, the horne stood not the while idle; for it went round about so often, now full, now empty, much like a Conduit of Noria, [Arcaduzed Noria. p. 76.) And in a trice it emptied one of the two wine­bags that ley there in the publique view. After that Don-Quixote had satisfied his ap­petite well, he took up a handfull of Akorns. and beholding them earnestly, he began to discourse in this manner. ‘Happy time, and fortunate ages were those, whereon our Ancestors bestowed the title of Golden, not because Gould (so much prized in this our iron age) was gotten in that happy time without any labours, but because those which lived in that time, knew not these two words Thine and Mine: in that holy Age all things were in common. No man needed for his ordinary sustenance to doe [Page] ought else then lift up his hand, and take it from the strong Oake, which did liberally invite them to gather his sweet and savory fruit. The cleer Fountains and running Rivers did offer them these savorie and transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In the clifts of Rocks and hollow Trees did the carefull and discreet Bees erect their Commonwealth, offering to every hand without interest, the fertile cropp of their sweetest travails. The loftie Cork-Trees did dismisse of themselves, without any art then that of their native liberality, their broad and light rindes. Wherewithall Horses were at first covered, being susteined by rusticall stakes, to none other end, but for to keep back the inclemencies of the Ayre. All then was peace, all Amitie, and all Concord: as yet the ploughshare presumed not with rude encounter to open and search the compassionate bowels of our first mother; for shee without compulsion offered up, through all the parts of her fertil and spacious bo­some, all that which might satisfie, sustein, and delight those children which it then had: Yea it was then that the simple and beautifull young Sheepheardesse went from Valley to Valley, and Hill to Hill, with their haires sometimes plaited, sometime di­shevel'd, without other apparell then that which was requisite to cover comelily that which modesty wills, and ever would have concealed. Then were of no request the Attires and Ornaments which are now used by those that esteem the purple of Tyre and the so-many-waies-marterized-Silk so much: but only certain green leaves of Burdocks and Ivie intertexed and woven together; wherewithall perhaps they went as gorgeously and comly deck'd, as now our Court-dames with all their rare and out­landish inventions that idlenesse and curiosity hath found out. Then were the amo­rous conceits of the minde, simply and sincerely delivered, and imbellished in the very form and manner that she had conceived them, without any artificiall contexture of words to indeer them: Fraud, Deceipt, or Mallice had not then medled themselves with Plainnesse and Truth: Justice was then in her proper terms, Favour daring not to trouble or confound her, or the respect of profit, which doe now Prosecute, Blem­ish, and disturb her so much. The Law of Corruption, or taking Bribes had not yet possest the understanding of the Judge; for then was neither Judge, nor person to be judged. Maidens and Honesty wandred then, I say, where they listed, alone signio­rizing secure, that no Stranger, Liberty, or Lascivious intent could prejudice it, or their own native desire or will any way indamage it. But now in these our detestable times no damzel is safe, although she be hid and shut up in another new Labyrinth, like that of Creet; for even there it self the amorous Plague would enter, either by some cranie, or by the aire, or by the continuall urgings of cursed Care, to infect her. For whose protection and security was last instituted, by successe of times, the order of Knigh-hood, to defend Damzels, protect Widows, and assist Orphans and di­stressed Wights. Of this Order am I, friends, Goatheards, whom I doe heartily thank for the good entertainment which you doe give unto me and my Squire: for although that every one living is oblieged by the Law of Nature, to favour Knights Errant; yet notwithstanding, knowing that you knew not this Obligation, and yet did receive and make much of me, it stands with all reason that I doe render you thanks with all my heart!’

Our Knight made this long Oration (which might have been well excused) because the Achorns that were given unto him, called to his minde the golden World: and therefore the humour took him to make the Goat-heards that unprofitable discourse, who heard him all amazed and suspended with very great attention all the while. San­cho likewise held his peace, eating Acorns, and in the mean while visited very often the second wine-bagg, which, because it might be fresh, was hanged upon a Cork-Tree. Don-Quixote had spent more time in his Speech then in his Supper; at the end whereof one of the Goat-heards said, To the end that you may more assuredly know, Sir Knight Errant, that we doe entertain you with prompt and ready will, wee will likewise make you some pastime, by hearing one of our companions sing, who is a Heard of good un­derstanding, and very amorous withall, and can besides read and write, and playes so well on a Rebeck, that there is nothing to be desired. Scarce had the Goat-Heard [Page 19] ended his Speech, when the sound of the Rebeck touched his ear, and within a while after he arrived that played on it, being a youth of some twenty years old, and one of a very good grace and countenance. His fellows demanded if he had supped, and answer­ing that he had; he which did offer the courtesie, said, then Anthony thou mayest doe us a pleasure by singing a little, that this Gentleman our Guest may see, that we enjoy amid'st these Groves and Woods, those that know what Musick is: we have told him already thy good qualities, and therefore we desire that thou shew them, to verifie our words. And therefore I desire thee by thy life, that thou wilt sit and sing the Ditty which thy Unkle the Prebendary made of thy Love, and was so well liked off in our Village. I am content, quoth the youth, and without further intreaty, sitting down on the trunk of a lopped Oak, he turned his Rebeck, and after a while began with a sin­gular good grace to sing in this manner.

Here the Goat-heard ended his Ditty, and although Don-Quixote intreated him to sing somwhat else. yet would not Sancho Panca consent to it; who was at that time better disposed to sleep then to heare Musick: and therefore said to his Master, you had better provide your self of a place wherein to sleep this night then to heare Music, for the labour that these good men indure all the day long, doth not permit that they likewise spend the night in singing. I understand thee well enough Sancho, answered Don-Quixote, nor did I thinke lesse, but that thy manifold visitations of the wine-bottle, would rather desire to bee recompenced with sleepe then with Music. The Wine liked us all well, quoth Sancho, I doe not denie it, replyed Don-Quixote, but goe thou and lay thee downe where thou pleasest, for it becomes much more men of my profession to watch then to sleepe. Yet notwithstanding it will not bee amisse to lay somwhat againe to mine eare, for it grieves mee very much. One of the Goat-heards beholding the hurt, bad him bee of good cheere, for hee would apply a remedy that should cure it easily. And taking some Rosemary leaves of many that grew thereabouts, hee hewed them, and after mixed a little salt among them, and applyed this Medecine to the eare, hee bound it up well with a cloth, assuring him that he nee­ded to use no other Medecine, as it proved after in effect.

CHAP. IV.
Of that which one of the Goat-heards recounted to those that were with Don-Quixote.

ABOUT this time arived another youth, one of those that brought them provision from the Village, who said, Companions doe not you know what passeth in the Village? How can wee know it bee­ing absent? saies another of them. Then wit, quoth the youth, that the famous Sheepheard, and Student Chrisostome died this morning, and they murmur that hee died for love of that divellish lasse Maree­la, William the rich his daughter, shee that goes up and down these Plaines and Hills among us in the habit of a Sheepheardesse; Dost thou mean Marcela, quoth one of them? Even her, I say, answered the other; and the jest is, that hee hath commanded in his Testament, that hee bee buried in the fields, as if he were a Moor; and that it be at the foot of the Rock, where the Fountain stands of the Cork-Tree. For that according to same, and as they say, he himself affirmed, was the place wherein he viewed her first. And he hath likewise commanded such other things to be done, as the ancienter sort of the Village doe not allow, nor think fit to be performed; for they seem to be ceremonies of the Gentils. To all which objections his great friend Ambrosio the Student, who likewise apparelled himself like a Sheepheard, at once with him answers, that all shall be accomplished, without omission of any thing, as Chrysostome hath ordeyned, and all the Village is in an uproar about this affair, and yet it is said that what Ambrosio and all the other Sheepheards his friends doe pretend shall in fine be done: and to morrow morning they will come to the place I have named to burie him with great pomp: and as I suppose it will be a thing worthy the seeing: at leastwise I will not omit to goe and behold it, although I were sure that I could not return the same day to the Village. We will all doe the same, quoth the Goat-heards, and will draw Lots who shall tarry here to keep all our Heards. Thou saist well Peter, quoth one of them, although that labour may be excused, for I mean to stay behinde for you all, which you must not attribute to any virtue, or little curio­sity in me; but rather to the fork that prickt my foot the other day, and makes me un­able to travell from hence. We doe thank thee notwithstanding, quoth Peter, for thy good will. And Don-Quixote, who heard all their discourse, intreated Peter to tell him who that dead man was, and what the Sheepheardesse of whom they spoak.

Peter made answer, that what he knew of the affair was, that the dead person was a rich Gentleman of a certain Village, seated among those mountains, who had studied many yeers in Salamanca, and after returned home to his house, with the opinion to be a very wise and learned man: But principally it was reported of him, that he was skill­full in Astronomie, and all that which passed above in heaven, in the Sunne and the Moon; for he would tell us most punctually the clips of the Sunne and the Moon. Friend, quoth Don-Quixote, the darkning of these two greater Luminaries is called an Eclipse, and not a Clipse. But Peter stopping not at those trifles, did prosecute his Hi­story, saying; he did also Prognosticate, when the yeer would be abundant or Estill. Thou wouldest say Sterril, quoth Don-Quixote. Sterril or Estil, said Peter, all is one for my purpose: And I say, that by his words, his father and his other friends, that gave credit to him, became very rich: For they did all that he counselled them, who would say unto them; sow Barley this yeer and no Wheat. In this you may sow Pease and no Barley. The next yeer will be good for Oyle. The three ensuing you shall not gather a drop. That Science is called Astrologie, quoth Don-Quixote. I know not how it is called, replied Peter, but I know well he knew all this and much more. Finally, a few moneths after he came from Salamanca, he appeared one day apparalled like a [Page] Sheepheard with his Flock, and leather Coat; having laid aside the long habits that he wore, being a Scholler, and joyntly with him came also a great friend of his, and fellow Student called Ambrosio, apparraled like a Sheepheard. I did almost forget to tell how Crisostome the dead man was a great maker of Verses; insomuch that he made the Carols of Christmas day at night, and the playes for Corpus Christi day, which the youths of our Village did represent, and all them affirmed, that they were most excel­lent. When those of the Village saw the two Schollers so suddainly clad like Sheep­heards, they were amazed, and could not guesse the cause that moved them to make so wonderfull a change. And about this time Chrisostome's father died, and he remained possessed of a great deal of goods, as well moveable as immoveable; and no little quan­tity of Cattell great and small, and also a great sum of money; of all which the young man remained a dissolute Lord. And truly he deserved it all; for he was a good fel­low, charitable, and a friend of good folk; and he had a face like a blessing. It came at last to be understood, that the cause of changing his habit was none other, then for to goe up and down through these Desarts after the Sheepherdesse Marcela, whom our Heard named before; of whom the poor dead Crisostome was become enamoured. And I will tell you now, because it is fit you should know it, what this wanton Lasse is, perhaps, and I think without perhaps, you have not heard the like thing in all the dayes of your life, although you had lived more yeers then Sarna. Say Sarra, quoth Don-Quixote, being not able any longer to hear him to change one word for ano­ther. The Sarna or Scabb, quoth Peter, lives long enough too. And if you goe thus Sir, interrupting my tale at every pace, we shall not be able to end it in a yeer. Par­don me friend, quoth Don-Quixote; for I speak to thee by reason there was such diffe­rence between Sarna and Sarra. But thou doest answer well; for the Sarna or Scab lives longer then Sarra: and therefore prosecute thy History; for I will not interrupt thee any more. I say then deer Sir of my Soul, quoth the Goat-heard, that there was in our Village a Farmer that was yet richer then Crisostomes father, who was called William, to whom fortune gave in the end of his great riches a daughter called Mar­cela, of whose birth her mother died, who was the best woman that dwelled in all this circuit. Me thinks I doe now see her quick before me, with that face which had on the one side the Sun, & on the other side the Moon; & above all, shee was a thriftie huswife, and a great friend to the poor: For which I believe that her soul is this very hour en­joying of the Gods in the other World. For grief of the losse of so good a wife, her husband William likewise dyed, leaving his daughter Marcela young and rich in the custody of his Uncle, who was a Priest, and Curate of our Village. The child grew with such beauty as it made us remember that of her mother, which was very great. And yet notwithstanding they judged that the daughters would surpasse hers, as indeed it did: for when she arrived to the age of fourteen or fifteen yeers old, no man be­held her, that did not blesse God for making her so fair: and most men remained ena­moured and cast away for her love. Her Unkle kept her with very great care and closenesse: And yet neverthelesse the fame of her great beauty did spread it self in such sort, that as well for it as for her great Riches, her Unkle was not only requested by those of our Village, but also was prayed, solicited, and importuned by all those that dwelled many leagues about, and that by the very best of them, to give her to them in marriage. But he (who is a good Christian every inch of him) although he desired to marry her presently as soon as she was of age, yet would he not doe it with­out her good will, without ever respecting the gain and profit he might make by the possession of her goods, whilest he desired her marriage. And in good sooth this was spoaken of, to the good Priest his commendation, in more then one meeting of the people of our Village. For I would have you to wit, Sir Errant, that in these little Villages they talk of all things, and make account, as I doe, that the Priest must have been too good who could obliege his Parishiones to speak so well of him, and especi­ally in the Villages. Thou hast reason, quoth Don-Quixote; and therefore follow on, for the History is very pleasant, and thou good Peter doest recount it with a very good grace. I pray God, said Peter, that I never want our Heards; for it is that which [Page 21] makes to the purpose. And in the rest you shall understand, that although her Unkle propounded and told to his Niese the quality of every woer of the many that desired her for wife, and intreated her to marry and chuse at her pleasure; yet would she never answer other, but that she would not marry as then, and that in respect of her over green years, she did not finde her self able enough yet to bear the burden of marriage. With these just excuses which shee seemed to give, her Unkle lest off importuning of her, and did expect untill she were farther entred into yeers; and that she might know how to choose one that might like her. For hee was wont to say, and that very well, That Parents were not to place or bestow their Children, where they bore no liking. But see here when we least imagined it, the coy Marcela appeared one morning to become a Sheep­heardesse; and neither her Uncle, nor all those of the Village which disswaded her from it, could work any effect, but she would needs goe to the Fields, and keep her own Sheep with the other young Lasses of the Town. And shee coming thus in publique, when her beauty was seen without hindrance, I cannot possibly tell unto you, how many rich youths, as well Gentlemen as Farmers, have taken on them the habit of Chri­sostome, and follow woing of her up and down those Fields. One of which, as is said already, was our dead man, of whom it is said, that leaving to love her, he had at last made her his Idol. Nor is it to be thought that because Marcela set her self in that liberty, and so loose a life, and of so little or no keeping, that therefore she hath given the least token or shadow of dishonesty or negligence: nay rather such is the watch­fullnesse wherewithall shee looks to her honour, that among so many as serve and sollicite her, not one hath praised or can justly vaunt himself to have received at her hands, the least hope that may be to obtain his desires. For although she did not flie or shun the company and conversation of Sheepheards, and doth use them courteously and friendly, whensoever any one of them begin to discover their intention, be it ever so just and holy, as that of Matrimony, shee casts them away from her, as with a sling.

And with this manner of proceeding shee does more harme in this Countrey, then if the Plague had entred into it by her meanes, for her affability and beauty doth draw to it the hearts of those which doe serve and love her: But her disdaine and resolution doe conduct them to termes of desparation: and so they know not what to say unto her, but to call her with a loud voyce cruell and ungratefull, with other titles like unto this, which doe cleerely manifest the nature of her condition; and Sir, if you staid here but a few daies, you should heare these Mountaines resound with the lamentations of those wretches that follow her. There is a certain place not far off, wherein are about two dozen of Beech-trees, and there is not any one of them in whose rinde is not ingra­ven Marcelas name, and over some names graven also a crowne in the same tree, as if her lover would plainly denote that Marcela beares it away, and deserves the Gar­land of all humane beauty. Here sighs one Sheepheard, there another complaines, in another place are heard amorous ditties, here in another dolefull and despayring la­ments: Some one there is that passeth over all the whol houres of the night at the foot of an Oake or Rock, and there without folding once his weeping eyes, swallowed and transported by his thoughts, the Sunne findes him there in the morning: and some o­ther there is, who without giving wade or truce to his sighes, doth amidst the fervor of the most fastidious heate of the Summer, stretcht upon the burning sand, breathe his pittifull complaints to Heaven: and of this, and of him, and of those, and these, the beautifull Marcela doth indifferently and quietly triumph: all we that know her, doe await to see wherein this her loftinesse will finish, or who shall be so happy as to gain dominion over so terrible a condition, and enjoy so peerlesse a beauty. And be­cause all that I have recounted is so notorious a truth, it make me more easily believe that our companion hath told, that is said of the occasion of Chrisostome's death: and therefore I doe counsell you Sir, that you doe not omit to be present to morrow at his buriall, which will be worthy the seeing; for Chrisostome hath many friends, and the place wherein he commanded himself to bee buried is not half a league from hence. I doe mean to be there, said Don-Quixote, and doe render thee many thanks for the [Page] delight thou hast given me, by the relation of so pleasant a History. O, quoth the Goat-Heard, I doe not yet know the half of the Adventures succeeded to Marcela's lovers; but peradventure wee may meet some Sheepheard on the way to morrow that will tell them unto us. And for the present you will doe well to goe take your rest under some roof, for the air might hurt your wound, although the Medicine be such that I have applied to it, that any contrary accidents needs not much to be feared. Sancho Panca being wholy out of patience with the Goat-Heards long discourse, did sollicite for his part his Master so effectually as he brought him at last into Peters Cabin, to take his rest for that night; whereinto after he had entred, he bestowed the remnant of the might in remembrances of his Lady Dulcinea in imitation of Marcelaes Lovers. Sancho Panca did lay himself down between Rozinante and his Asse, and slept it out, not like a disfavored Lover, but like a man stamped and bruised with tramplings.

CHAP. V.
Wherein is finished the History of the Sheepheardesse Marcela, with other accidents.

BUT scarce had the day begun to discover it self by the Orientall win­dows, when five of the six Goat-heards arising, went to awake Don-Quixote, and demanded of him whether he yet intended to goe to Chrisostome's Buriall, and that they would accompany him. Don-Quixote that desired nothing more, got up and commaunded Sancho to saddle and empannell in a trice; which he did with great expedi­tion, and with the like they all presently began their journey. And they had not yet gone a quarter of a league, when at the crossing of a path-way they saw six Sheepheards comming towards them, apparrelled with black skinns, and crowned with Garlands of Cypresse and bitter Enula Campana. Every one of them carried in his hand a thick truncheon of Elme. There came likewise with them two Gentlemen a horse-back, very well furnished for the way, with other three Lacquies that attended on them. And as soon as they encountred, they saluted one another courteously, and demanded whether they travelled; and knowing that they all went towards the place of the buriall, they began their journey together. One of the horse-men speaking to his companion, said, I think (Mr. Vivaldo) we shall account the time well imployed that we shall stay to see this so famous an entertainment; for it cannot chuse but be famous according to the wonderfull things these Sheepheards have recounted unto us, as well of the dead Sheepheard, as also of the murthering Sheepheardesse. It seems so to mee likewise, quoth Vivaldo. And I say, I would not only stay one day, but a whole week rather then misse to behold it. Don-Quixote demanded of them, what they had heard of Marcela and Chrysostome? The Traveller answered, That they had encountred that morning with those Sheepheards, and that by reason they had seen them apparrel­led in that mournfull attire, they demanded of them the occasion thereof, and one of them rehearsed it, recounting the strangenesse and beauty of a certain Sheepheardesse called Marcela; and the amorous pursuits of her by many, with the death of that Chrysostome, to whose buriall they rode. Finally, he told all that again to him, that Peter had told the night before.

This discourse thus ended, another began, and was, that he who was called Vivaldo, demanded of Don-Quixote the occasion that moved him to travell thus armed through so peaceable a countrey? To whom Don-Quixote answered, the profession of my ex­ercise doth not license or permit me to doe other: Good dayes, cockering and ease [Page 22] were invented for soft Courtiers; but Travell, Unrest, and Arms were only invented and made for those which the world terms Knights Errant, of which number I my self (although unworthy) am one, and the least of all. Scarce had they heard him say this, when they all held him to be wood. And to find out the truth better, Viualdo did ask him again, what meant the word Knights Errant? ‘Have you not read then, quoth Don-Quixote, the Histories and Annals of England, wherein are treated the famous acts of King Arthur, whom we continually call in our Castilian Romance, King Artus? of whom it is an ancient and common tradition in the Kingdome of Great Brittain, that he never dyed, but that he was turned by art of Inchantment into a Crow; and that in processe of time he shall return again to raign, and recover his Scepter and Kingdom. For which reason, it cannot be proved, that ever since that time untill this, any English man hath killed a Crow. In this good Kings time was first instituted the famous order of Knighthood, of the Knights of the Round Table, and the love that is there recounted, did in every respect passe as it is laid down between Sir Launce­lot du Lake, and Queen Genever the honourable Lady Quintaniona being a dealer, and privie thereto. Whence sprung that so famous a Dittie, and so celebrated here in Spain of, Never was Knight of Ladies so well served as Launcelot when that hee in Brittain arrived, &c. with that progresse so sweet and delightfull of his amorous and valiant Acts: And from that time forward, the Order of Knight went from hand to hand, dilating and spreading it self through many and sundry parts of the World. And in it were famous and renowned for their feats of Armes, the valiant Amadis of Gaule, with all his progenie untill the fifth generation: and the valourous Felixmarte of Hircania; and the never-duely-praised Tirante the White, together with Sir Bevis of Hampton, Sir Gay of Warwick, Sir Eglemore, with diverse others of that Nation and Age. And almost in our dayes we saw, and communed, and heard of the invincible and valiant Knight Don Belianis of Greece! This then good Sirs, is to be a Knight Errant; and that which I have said is the Order of Chivalry: wherein, as I have already said, I, although a sinner, have made profession, and the same doe I professe that those Knights professed, whom I have above mentioned; and therefore I travell through these Solitudes and Desarts, seeking Adventures, with full resolution to offer mine own Arm and Person to the most dangerous that for­tune shall present, in the aid of weak and needy persons.’

By these reasons of Don-Quixot's the travellers perfectly perceived that he was none of the wisest, and knew the kinde of folly wherewithall he was crossed, whereat those remained wonderfully admired: that by the relation of the others came to un­derstand it: and Vivaldo who was very discreete, and likewise of a pleasant disposition, to the end they might passe over the rest of the way without heavines unto the rock of the buriall, which the Sheepheards said was neere at hand, he resolved to give him further occasion to passe onward with his follies, and therefore said unto him. Me thinkes, Sir Knight, that you have profest one of the most austere professions in the world. And I doe constantly hold that even that of the Charterhouse Munkes is not neer so straight. ‘It may bee as straight as our profession, quoth Don-Quixote, but that it should be so necessary for the world, I am within the breadth of two fingers to call it in doubt. For if we would speak a truth, the Souldier that puts in execution his Captains command, doth no lesse then the very Captain that commands him. Hence I infer, That Religious men doe with all peace and quietnesse seek of Hea­ven the good of the Earth. But Souldiers and wee Knights doe put in execution that which they demand, defending it with the valour of our Armes, and files of our Swords: not under any roof; but under the wide Heavens, made as it were in Sum­mer a mark to the insupportable Sun beams, and in Winter to the rage of withering Frosts. So that wee are the Ministers of God on earth, and the Armes wherewith he executeh here his Justice. And as the Affairs of Warr, and things thereunto per­taining, cannot be put in execution without sweat, labour and travell; it follows that those which professe warfare take questionlesse greater pain then those which in quiet, peace, and rest doe pray unto God, that he will favour and assist those that need [Page] it. I mean not therefore to affirm, nor doth it once passe through my thought, that the state of a Knight Errant is as perfect as that of a retyred religious man, but only would infer through that which I my self suffer, that it is doubtlesly more laborious, more battered, hungry, thirsty, miserable, torn and lowsie. For the Knights Errant of times past, did without all doubt, suffer much woe and misery in the discourse of their life. And if some of them ascended at last to Empires, won by the force of their life. And if some of them ascended at last to Empires, won by the force of their Arms, in good faith it cost them a great part of their sweat and blood: And if those which mounted to so high a degree had wanted those inchanters and wise men that assisted them, they would have remained much defrauded of their desires, and greatly deceived of their hopes.’ I am of the same opinion, replyed the Traveller: but one thing among many others hath seemed to me very ill in Knights Errant, which is when they perceive themselves in any occasion to begin any great and dangerous Adventure, in which appears manifest perill of losing their lives, they never in the instant of attempting it remember to commend themselves to God, as every Christian is bound to doe in like dangers; but rather doe it to their Ladies with so great desire and devotion as if they were their Gods; a thing which in my opinion smells of gentillisme. ‘Sir, quoth Don-Quixote, they can doe no lesse in any wise, and the Knight Errant which did any other, would digresse much from his duty. For now it is a received use and custome of errant Chivalry, that the Knight adventurous, who attempting of any great feat of Arms shall have his Lady in place, do mildly and amo­rously turn his eyes towards her, as it were by them demanding that she doe favour and protect him in that ambiguous trance which he undertakes; and moreover if none doe hear him, he is bound to say certain words between his teeth, by which he shall with all his heart commend himself to her: and of this wee have innumerable examples in Histories. Nor is it therefore to be understood that they doe omit to commend themselves to God, for they have time and leisure enough to doe it, in the progresse of the work.’

For all that, replied the Traveller, there remains in me yet one scruple, which is, That often times, as I have read, some speech begins between two Knights Errant, and from one word to another their choler begins to be inflamed, and they to turn their horses, and to take up a good piece of the Field, and without any more adoe, to run as fast as ever they can drive to encounter again; and in the midest of their race, doe commend themselves to their dames, and that which commonly ensues of this encountring is, that one of them falls down, thrown over the crupper of his horse, past through and through by his enemies Launce; and it befalls the other, that if he had not caught fast, of his horse main, he had likewise faln. And I here cannot perceive how he that is slain had any leisure to commend himself unto God in the discourse of this so accelerate and hasty a work. Me thinks it were better that those words which he spent in his race on his Lady, were bestowed as they ought, and as every Christian is bound to bestow them. And the rather, because I conjecture, that all Knights Errant have not Ladies to whom they may commend themselves; for all of them are not amorous.

‘That cannot be, answered Don-Quixote, I say it cannot be that there's any Knight Errant without a Lady: For it is as proper and essentiall to such to be enamoured, as to Heaven to have starrs: And I dare warrant that no History hath yet been seen, wherein is found a Knight Errant without love: for by the very reason that he were found without them, he would be convinced to be no legitimate Knight, but a Ba­stard; and that he entred into the Fortresse of Chivalry, not by the Gate, but by leaping over the Staccado like a Robber and a Thiefe.’

Yet notwithstanding, replied the other, I have read (if I doe not forget my self) that Don Gataor, brother to the valourous Amadis du Gaule, had never any certain Mistris, to whom he might commend himself; and yet for all that he was nothing lesse accounted of, and was a most valiant and famous Knight. To that objection our Don-Quixote answered, One Swallow makes not a Summer. How much more that I know, that the Knight whom you alledge, was secretly very much enamoured? besides that that his inclination of loving all Ladies well, which he thought were fair, was a [Page 23] naturall inclination, which hee could not govern so well. But it is in conclusion suffi­ciently verified, that yet hee had one Lady whom hee crowned Queen of his Will, to whom hee did also commend himself very often and secretly, for he did not a little glo­ry to be so secret in his Loves.

Then Sir, if it bee of the essence of all Knights errant to bee in love, quoth the tra­veller, then may it likewise bee presumed that you are also enamoured, seeing that it is annext to the profession? And if you doe not prize your selfe to bee as secret as Don Gataor, I doe entreate you as earnestly as I may, in all this companies name and mine owne, that it will please you to tell us the name, countrey, quality and beauty of your Ladie, for I am sure shee would account her self happy to think that all the world doth know shee is beloved and served by so worthy a Knight as is your self.

Although my linage bee of the Cachopines of Laredo, replied the Traveller, yet dare I not to compare it with that of Toboso in the Mancha, although to speake sinceerely, I never heard any mention of that linage you say untill now, What quoth Don-Quixote, is it possible that you never heard of it till now?

All the company travelled, giving marveilous attention to the reasons of those two; and even the very Goatheards and Sheepheards began to perceive the great want of judgement that was in Don-Quixote, only Sancho Panca did verily beleeve, that all his Masters words were most true, as one that knew what hee was, from the very time of his byrth. But that wherein his belief staggered somwhat, was of the beautifull Dul­cinea of Toboso; for hee had never heard speake in his life before of such a name or Prin­cesse, although he had dwelled so many yeers hard by Toboso.

And as they travelled in these discourses, they beheld discending betwixt the clift of two loftie Mountaines to the number of twenty Sheepheards, all apparelled in skinnes of black wooll, and crowned with Garlands; which as they perceived afterward, were all of Ewe and Cypresse; sixe of them carried a Beere, covered with many sorts of flowres and boughs. Which one of the Goatheards espying, hee said, those that come there are they which bring Chrisostom's body, and the foote of that Mountain is [Page] the place where hee hath commanded them to bury him. These words were occasion to make them haste to arive in time; which they did just about the instant that the o­thers had said downe the Corps on the ground: and foure of them, with sharp pick­axes did dig the Grave at the side of a hard Rock. The one and the others saluted themselves very courteously, and then Don-Quixote, and such as came with him, be­gan to behold the Beere, wherein they saw laid a dead body, all covered with flowres, and apparelled like a Sheepheard of some thirty yeeres old; and his dead countenance shewed that he was very beautifull and an able bodied man. He had placed round a­bout him in the Beer, certain Books, and many Papers, some open and some shut, and altogether, as well those that beheld this, as they which made the grave; and all the o­thers that were present kept a marvellous silence, untill one of them which carried the dead man, said to another; See well Ambrosio, whether this be the place that Crisostome meant seeing that thou wouldest have all so punctually observed, which he command­ed in his Testament. This is it, answered Ambrosio; for many times my unfortunate friend recounted to me in it the History of his mishaps; even there he told me that he had seen that cruel enemy of mankinde first; and there it was, where he first broak his affection to as honest as they were amorous: and there was the last time wherein Mar­cela did end to resolve, and began to disdain him, in such sort that shee set end to the Tragedie of his miserable life. And here in memory of so many misfortunes he commanded himself to be committed to the bowels of eternall oblivion, and turning himself to Don-Quixote, and to the other Travellers, he said: This body Sirs which you doe now behold with pittifull eyes, was the depository of a soul wherein heaven had hourded up an infinite part of his Treasures. This is the body of Crisostome, who was peerlesse in wit, without fellow for courtesie, rare for comlinesse, a Phoenix for friendship, magnificent without measure, grave without presumption, pleasant without offence; and finally, the first in all that which is good, and second to none in all un­fortunate mischances. He loved well, and was hated; he adored, and was disdained; hee prayed to one no lesse savage then a Beast; he importuned a heart as hard a Marble; he pursued the Winde; he cryed to Desarts; he served Ingratitude; and he obteyned for reward, the spoyles of death in the mid'st of the carier of his life: to which a Sheep­heardesse hath given end whom he laboured to eternize, to the end she might ever live in the memories of men, as those papers which you see there might very well prove, had he not commanded me to sacrifice them to the fire, as soon as his body was rendred to the earth.

If you did so, quoth Vivaldo, you would use greater rigour and cruelty towards them then their very Lord, nor is it discreet or justly done, that his will be accomplished, who commands any thing repugnant to reason. Nor should Augustus Caesar himself have gained the reputation of wisedome, if he had permited that to be put in execution which the divine Mantuan had by his will ordeined. So that Seignior Ambrosio, now that you commit your friends body to the earth, doe not therefore commit his labour to oblivion: for though he ordeined it as one injured, yet are not you to accomplish it, as one void of discretion: but rather cause, by giving life to these papers, that the cruelty of Marcela may live eternally, that it may serve as a document to those that shall breath in insuing ages, how they may avoid and shun the like downfalls: For both my self and all those that come here in my companie, doe already know the Histo­rie of your enamoured and despairing friend; the occasion of his death; and what hee commanded e're he deceased: out of which lamentable relation may be collected, how great hath been the Crnelty of Marcela; the Love of Crisostome; the Faith of your Affection, and the Conclusion which those make, which doe rashly run through that way, which indiscreet Love doth present to their view. We understood yester night of Crisostomes death, and that he should be enterred in this place; and therefore we omitted our intended journies both for curiosity and pittie, and resolved to come and behold with our eyes that, the relation whereof did so much grieve us in the hear­ing: And therefore wee desire thee (discreet Ambrosio) both in reward of this our compassion, and also of the desire which springs in our breasts to remedie this disaster, [Page 24] if it were possible: but chiefly I for my part request thee, that omitting to burn these Papers, thou wilt license me to take away some of them. And saying so, without ex­pecting the Sheepheards answer, he stretched out his hand and took some of them that were next to him. Which Ambrosio perceiving, said, I will consent Sir for courtesies sake, that you remain Lord of those which you have seized upon; but to imagine that I would omit to burn these that rest, were a very vain thought. Vivaldo, who did long to see what the Papers contained which he had gotten, did unfold presently one of them which had this title, A Dittie of despair. Ambrosio overheard him, and said; That is the last paper which this unfortunate Sheepheard wrote; and because Sir, that you may see the terms to which his mishaps conducted him; I pray you to read it; but in such manner as you may be heard; for you shall have leisure enough to doe it whil'st the grave is a diging. I will doe it with all my heart, replyed Vivaldo; and all those that were present, having the like desire, they gathered about him; and he reading it with a cleer voyce pronounced it thus.

CHAP. VI.
Wherein are rehearsed the dispayring Verses of the dead Sheep­heard, with other unexpected accidents.

Chrisostomes Canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers, although the reader thereof affirmed that it was not conformable to the relation that he had received ef Marcelaes virtue and care of her self. For in it Crisostome did complain of jealousies, suspicions, [Page] and absence, being all of them things that did prejudice Marcelaes good fame. To this objection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very well the most hidden secrets of his friend) you must understand Sir, to the end you may better satisfie your own doubt, That when the unfortunate Sheepheard wrote that Canzone, he was absent from Mar­cela; from whose presence he had wittingly withdrawn himself, to see if he could de­face some part of his excessive passions, procured by absence. And as every thing doth vex an absent Lover, and every fear afflict him; so was Crisostome likewise tormented by imagined jealousies and feared suspicions, as much as if they were reall and true. And with this remains the truth in her perfection and poynt of Marcelaes virtue; who excepting that she is cruel, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainfull; very envy it self neither ought, nor can attaint her of the least defect. You have reason, quoth Vivaldo, and so desiring to read another paper, he was interrupted by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered it self to their view: Which was, That on the top of the Rock wherein they made the grave, appeared the Sheepheardesse Marcela, so fair, that her beauty surpassed far the fame that was spread thereof; such as had not beheld her before, did look on her then with admiration and silence; and those which were wont to view her remained no lesse suspended then the others, which never had seen her. But scarce had Ambrosio eyed her, when with an irefull & disdaining minde, he spake these words. Com'st thou by chance, O fierce Basilisk of these Mountains! to see whether the wounds of this wretch will yet bleed at thy presence? Or doest thou come to insult and vaunt in the Tragicall feats of thy stern nature? Or to behold from that height, like another mercilesse Nero, the Fire of inflamed Rome? Or arrogantly to trample this infortunate Carkasse, as the ingratefull daughter did her father Tar­quin's? Tell us quickly, why thou commest, or what thou doest most desire? For seeing I know that Crisostomes thoughts never disobeyed thee in life, I will likewise cause that all those his friends shall serve and reverence thee.

‘I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends thou sayest, quoth Marcela; but only to turn for mine honour, and give the world to understand, how little rea­son have all those which make me the Authour eyther of their own pains, or of Criso­stom's death; and therefore I desire all you that be here present, to lend attention unto me; for I mean not to spend much time [...] or words, to perswade to the disceet, so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made me beautifull, and that so much that my feature moves you to love, almost whether you will or no. And for the affection you shew unto me, you say I and you affirm, that I ought to love you again: I know by the naturall instinct that Iove hath bestowed on me, That each fair thing is amiable: but I cannot conceive, why, for the reason of being beloved, the partie that is so beloved for her beauty, should be bound to love her Lover, although he bee foul. And seeing that foul things are worthy of hate, It is a bad argument to say, I love thee because fair; and therefore thou must affect me although uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occur equall on both sides, it follows not therefore, that their desires should run one way: For all beauties doe not enamour; for some doe only delight the sight, and subject not the will: For if all beauties did enamour and subject together, mens wills would ever run confused and straying, without being able to make any election; for the beautifull subjects being infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite: And as I have heard, true Love brooks no division, and must needs be voluntary, and not inforced. Which being so, as I presume it is; why would you have me subject my will forcibly, without any other obligation then that, that you say you love me? If not, tell me: If heaven had made me foul, as it hath made me beautifull, Could I justly complain of you because you affected me not? How much more, seeing you ought to consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I have; for, such as it is, heaven bestow'd it gratis, without my demanding or electing it. And even as the Viper deserves no blame for the poyson she carries, although therewithall she kill, seeing it was bestowed on her by nature: So doe I as little merit to be re­prehended because beautifull; for beauty in an honest woman is like fire a far off, or a sharp edged Sword; for neither that burns nor this cuts any but such as come [Page 26] neer them. Honour and Virtues are the ornaments of the Soul, without which, the fairest body is not to be esteemed such. And if that honesty be one of the virtues that adorneth and beautifieth most the body and Soul; Why should shee that is beloved, because fair, adventure the losse thereof, to answer his intention, which only for his pleasures sake labours that she may lose it, with all his force and industry? I was born free, and because I might live freely, I made election of the solitude of the Fields: The Trees of these mountains are my companions; the cleer water of these streams my mirrours. With the Trees and Waters I communicate my thoughts and beauty: I am a parted Fire, and a Sword laid aloofe. Those whom I have enamoured with my sight, I have undeceived with my words. And if desires be susteined by hopes, I never having given any to Chrisostome or to any other, it may well be said, that he was rather slain by his own obstinacy, then by my cruelty. And if I be charged that his thoughts were honest; and that I was therefore oblieged to answer unto them: I say, that when in that very place where you make his Sepulchre, he first broak his minde unto mee: I told him that mine intention was to live in perpetuall soli­tude; and that only the earth should gather the fruits of my solitarinesse, and the spoyles of my beauty. And if he would after this my resolution persist obstinately without all hope, and against the winde; what wonder is it that he should be drown­ed in the mid'st of the Gulf of his rashnesse? If I had entertained him, then were I false: If I had pleased him, then should I doe against my better purposes and pro­jects. He strived being perswaded to the contrary: He dispaired e're he was hated. See then if it be reason that I bear the blame of his torment. Let him complain who hath been deceived: Let him dispair to whom his promised hopes have failed: Let him confesse it whom I shall ever call: Let him vaunt whom I shall admit. But let him not call me cruell or an homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called, or admitted. Heaven hath not yet ordeined that I should Love by destiny; and to think that I will doe it by election may be excused. And let this generall caveat serve every one of those which sollicite me for his particular benefit: And let it he known, that if any shall hereafter dye for my Love, that he dies not jealous or unfortunate: For whosoever loves not any, breeds not in reason jealousie in any; nor should any resolutions to any be accounted disdaynings. He that calls me a Savage and Basi­lisk, let him shun me as a hurtfull and prejudiciall thing. He that calls me ungratefull, let him not serve me. Hee that's strange, let him not know me. He that's cruell, let him not follow me: For this Savage, this Basilisk, this Ingrate, this Cruell and Strange one, will neither seek, serve, know, or pursue any of them. For if Cri­sostomes impatience and headlong desire slew him; why should mine honest proceed­ing and care be inculped therewithall? If I preserve mine integrity in the society of these Trees; why would any desire me to lose it, seeing every one covets to have the like himself, to converse the better among men? I have, as you all know, riches enough of mine own, and therefore doe not covet other mens. I have a free condition, and I doe not please to subject me: Neither doe I love or hate any. I doe not deceive this man, or sollicite that other; Nor doe I jest with one, & passe the time with another. The honest conversation of the Pastoraes of these Villages, and the care of my Goats doe entertain me. My desires are limited by these Moun­tains; and if they doe issue from hence, it is to contemplate the beauty of Heaven, steps wherewithall the Soul travells toward her first dwelling.’ And ending here, without desiring to hear any answer, she turned her back and entred into the thickest part of the wood, that was there at hand, leaving all those that were presently marvel­lously admired at her beauty & discretion.

Some of the Sheepheards present, that were wounded by the powerfull beams of her beautifull eyes, made profer to pursue her, without reaping any profit out of her mani­fest resolution made there in their hearing; which Don-Quixote noting, and thinking that the use of this Chivalry did jump fitly with that occasion, by succouring distressed Damzels, laying hand on the pommell of his sword, he said in loud and intelligible words: ‘Let no person of whatsoever state or condition he be, presume to follow [Page] the fair Marcela, under pain of falling into my furious indignation. Shee hath shewn by cleer and sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she had in Crisostomes death, and how far she lives from meaning to condescend to the desires of any of her Lovers; for which respect it is just, that instead of being pursued and persecuted, she be honoured and esteemed by all the good men of the world; for she shews in it, that it is only she alone that lives therein with honest intention.’ Now whether it was through Don-Quixotes menaces, or whether because Ambrosio requested them to con­clude with the obligation they ought to their good friend: none of the Sheepheards moved or departed from thence untill the grave being made, and Crisostomes Papers burned, they laid the body into it, with many tears of the beholders. They shut the Sepulchre with a great stone, untill a Monument were wrought, which Ambrosio said he went to have made, with an Epitaph to this sense.

They presently strewed on the grave many flowers and boughs, and every one con­doling a while with his friend Ambrosio, did afterward bid him farewell, and departed. The like did Vivaldo and his companion: And Don-Quixote, bidding his Hoste and the Travellers adieu, they requested him to come with them to Sivill, because it was a place so fit for the finding of Adventures, as in every street and corner thereof are offer­ed more then in any other place whatsoever. Don-Quixote rendred them thanks for their advice, and the good will they seemed to have to gratifie him, and said, he neither ought nor would goe to Sivill, untill he had freed all those Mountains of Theeves and Robbers, whereof, as fame ran, they were full. The Travellers perceiving his good intention, would not importune him more; but bidding him again farewell, they departed, and followed on their journey; in which they wanted not matter of dis­course, as well of the History of Marcela and Crisostome, as of the follies of Don-Quixote, who determined to goe in the search of the Sheepheardesse Marcela, and offer unto her, all that he was able to doe in her service: But it befell him not as he thought, as shall be rehearsed in the discourse of this true Historie. Giving end here to the second Part.

CHAP. I.
Wherein is rehearsed the unfortunate-Adventure hapned to Don-Quixote, by encountring with certaine Yanguesian Car­riers.

THE wise Cyd Hamete Venengeli recounteth, that as soone as Don-Quixote had taken leave of the Goatheards, his Hostes, the night before, and of all those that were present at the buri­all of the Sheep-heard Crysostome; hee and his Squire did pre­sently enter into the same Wood, into which they had seen the beautifull Sheepheardesse Marcela enter before; And having travelled in it about the space of two houres without finding of her, they arived in fine to a pleasant Meadow, inriched with a­bundance of flourishing grasse, neere unto which runnes a de­lightfull and refreshing streame, which did invite, yea constraine them thereby to passe over the heat of the day, which did then beginne to enter with great fervor and vehe­mency. Don-Quixote and Sancho alighted, and leaving the Asse and Rozinante to the spaciousnesse of these Plaines, to feede on the plenty of grasse that was there, they ran­sackt their Wallet, where without any ceremonie the master and man did eate with good accord and fellowship, what they found therein. Sancho had neglected to tie Ro­zinante sure, that hee knew him to bee so sober and little wanton, as all the Mares of the Pasture of Cordova could not make him to think the least sinister thought. But For­tune did ordain, or rather the Devill who sleeps not at all houres, that a Troope of Gali­cian Mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian Carriers, did feed up and down in the same Valley: which Carriers are wont, with their beasts, to passe over the heates in places situated neere unto grasse and water. And that wherein Don-Quixote hapned to bee, was very fit for their purpose. It therefore befell that Rozinante tooke a certain desire to sollace himself with the Lady Mares, and therefore as soone as hee had smelt them, abandoning his naturall pace and custome, without taking leave of his Master, hee be­gen a little swift trot, and went to communicate his necessities to them. But they, who as it seemed, had more desire to feede then to sollace them, entertained him with their heeles and teeth, in such sort, as they broke all his gyrts, and left him in his naked hayre, having overthrown the Saddle. But that which surely grieved him most was, that the Carriers perceiving the violence that was offered by him to their Mares, repai­red [Page] presently to their succours, with clubs and truncheons, and did so belabour him, as they farely laid him along. Now in this season Don-Quixote and Sancho (which be­held the bombasting of Rozinante) approached breathlesse, and Don-Quixote said to Sancho, for as much as I can perceive friend Sancho these men are no Knights, but base rascally people of vile quality: I say it, because thou mayst help mee to take due re­venge for the outrage which they have done before our face to Rozinante. What a divel quoth Sancho, what revenge should wee take, if these bee more then twenty, and wee but two, and peradventure but one and a half. I am worth a hundred, replied Don-Quixote, and without making any longer discourse, hee set hand to his sword, and flew upon the Yanguesians, and Sancho Panca moved by his Lords example did the like: when with the first blow Don-Quixote piercing a buffe coate that one of them wore, wounded him grievously in the shoulder. The Yanguesians seeing themselves so rudely handled by two men only, they being so many, ran to the stakes and truncheons of their Carriage, and hemming in their Adversaries in the midst of them. they laid on them with admirable speede and vehemency. True it is that at the second Peale they struck Sancho downe to the ground, and the like hapned to Don-Quixote, his dexterity and courage being nothing availeable in that traunce; and his fate so ordayning hee fell just at his Coursers feete, who had not yet gotten up; by which wee may ponder the fury wherewithall truncheons batter, being placed in wrathfull and rusticall fists. The Carriers perceiving the evill they had committed, trussing up their loading with all possible speede, followed on their way, leaving both the Adventurers in a bad fashion, and a worse talent. The first that came to himself was Sancho Panca, who seeing his Lord neere unto him, said with a weake and pittifull voice, Sir Don-Quixote! O Sir Don-Quixote! what wouldst thou have brother Sancho, replied the Knight, with the like efeminate and dolefull tune? I would, quoth Sancho have of your worship, a draught or two of the liquor of Feoblas, if you have any of it at hand, perhaps it is good to cure broken bones, as well as it helps wounds, What would wee want, unhappy that I am replied Don-Quixote, if I had it here, but I sweare unto these Sancho Panca, by the faith of a Knight errant, that before two daies passe (if fortune dispose not otherwise) I will have it in my power, or it shall hardly escape my hands. I pray you, quoth San­cho, within how many dayes think you shall wee bee able to stirre our feete? I can say of my selfe, quoth the crushed Knight, that I cannot set a certain term to the dayes of our recovery, but I am in the fault of all; for I should not have drawn my Sword a­gainst men that are not Knights, as well as I am, and therefore I beleeve that the God of Battels hath permitted that this punishment should bee given unto mee, in paine of transgressing the lawes of Knighthood. Wherefore brother Sancho, it is requisite that thou beest advertized of that which I shall say unto thee now, for it importeth both our goods very much, and is, that when thou beholdest that the like rascally Rabble doe us any wrong, doe not wait till I set hand to my Sword against them; for I will not doe it in any sort: But draw thou thine and chastise them at thy pleasure; and if any Knights shall come to their assistance and succour, I shall know then how to defend thee, and offend them with all my force, for thou hast by this perceived by a thousand signes and experiences, how far the valour of this mine invincible Arme extendeth it self (so arrogant remained the poore Knight, through the victory hee had gotten of the hardy Biscaine.) But this advice of his Lord seemed not so good to Sancho Panca, as that hee would omit to answere unto him, saying, Sir, I am a peaceable, quiet and so­ber man, and can dissemble any injury, for I have wife and children to maintaine and bring up; wherefore let this likewise bee an advice to you (seeing it cannot be a com­mandement) that I will not set hand to my Sword in any wise, bee it against Clowne or Knight; and that from this time forward, I doe pardon, before God, all the wrongs that they have done, or shall doe unto mee, whether they were, bee, or shall bee done by high or low person, rich or poore, Gentleman or Churle, without excep­ting any state or condition. Which being heard by his Lord, hee said; I could wish to have breath enough, that I might answere thee with a little more case, or that the griefe which I feele in this rib were asswaged ever so little, that I might Panca make thee un­derstand [Page 28] the errour wherein thou art. Come here poor fool, if the gale of fortune hi­therto so contrarie, doe turn in our favour swelling the sayles of our desire in such sort as we may securely and without any hindrance arrive at the Haven of any of those Islands, which I have promised unto thee; what would become of thee, if I conquering it, did make thee Lord thereof, seeing thou wouldest disable thy self in respect thou are not a Knight, nor desirest to be one, nor wouldest have valour or will to revenge thine injuries, or to defend thy Lordships? For thou must understand, that in the King­domes and Provinces newly conquered, the minds of the Inhabitants are never so throughly appeased or weded to the affection of their new Lord, that it is not to be feared, that they will worke some noveltie to alter things again, and turn, as men say, afresh to trie Fortune. And it is therefore requisite that the new possessor have under­standing to Govern, and valour to offend, and defend himself in any Adventure what­soever. In this last that hath befaln us, quoth Sancho, I would I had [...]ad that under­standing and valour of which you speak; but I vow unto you, by the faith of a poor man, that I am now fitter for plaisters then discourses. I pray you try whether you can arise, and we will help Rozinante, although he deserves it not; for he was the prin­cipall cause of all these troubles; I would never have believed the like before of Rozi­nante, whom, I ever held to be as chaste and peaceable a person as my self. In fine, they say well, that one must have a long time to come to the knowledge of bodies; and that there's nothing in this life secure.

Who durst affirm that after those mightie blows which you gave to that unfortunate Knight Errant, would succeede so in poste, and as it were in your pursuit this so furious a tempest of staves, that hath discharged it on our shoulders? Thine Sancho, replyed Don-Quixote, are perhaps accustomed to bear the like showers, but mine nursed be­tween [Sinabafa [...]] Cottens and Hollands; it is most evident that they must feel the grief of this disgrace. And were it not that I imagine, (but why doe I say imagine?) I know certainly that all these incommodities are annex'd to the exercise of Armes, I would here dye for very wrath and displeasure. To this the Squire answered, Sir, seeing these disgraces are of the [Cosecha] essence of Knighthood, I pray you whether they succeed very often, or whether they have certain times limited wherein they befall? For me thinks within two Adventures more, we shall wholly remain dis [...]abled for the third, if the Gods in mercy doe not succour us. Know friend Sancho, replyed Don-Quixote, That the life of Knights Errant is subject to a thousand dangers and misfortunes: And it is also as well in the next degree and power to make them Kings and Emperours, as experience hath shewn in sundry Knights, of whose Histories I have intire notice. And I could recount unto thee now (did the pain I suffer permit me) of some of them which have mounted to those high degrees which I have said, only by the valour of their Arm. And the very same men found them both before and after, in divers miseries and calamities. For the valorus Amadis of Gaule saw himself in the power of his mortall enemie Arcalaus the Inchanter, of whom the opinion runs infallible, that he gave unto him, being his prisoner, more then two hundred stripes with his horse bridle, after he had tyed him to a pillar in his base-Court. And there is moreover a secret Authour of no little credit, who sayes, That the Cavalier del Febo, being taken in a Gin, like unto a snatch, that slipt under his feet in a certain Castle, after the fall found himself in a deep Dungeon under the earth, bound hands and feet; and there they gave unto him a Glister of Snow-water and Sand, which brought him almost to the end of his life; And were it not that he was succoured in that great distresse, by a wise man his very great friend, it had gone ill with the poor Knight. So that I may very well passe among so many worthy persons; for the dangers and disgraces they suffered were greater then those which we doe now indure. For, Sancho, I would have thee to understand, That these wounds which are given to one, with those instruments that are in ones hand, by chance, doe not disgrace a man: And it is written in the Laws of single combat, in expresse terms, That if the Shoe-maker strike another with the Last which he hath in his hand, although it be certainly of wood; yet cannot it be said, That he who was stricken, had the Bastanado. I say this, to the end thou may'st not think, [Page] although we remain bruised in this last conflict, that therefore we be disgraced; for the armes which those men bore, and wherewithall they laboured us, were none other then their pack-staves, and as far as I can remember, never a one of them had a tuck, sword or dagger. They gave mee no leisure, answered Sancho, to looke to them so neerely, for scarce had I laid hand on my Trunchant, when they blist my shoulders with their Pines, in such sort as they wholly deprived mee of my sight and the force of my feet to­gether, striking mee down on the place where I yet lie straught, and where the pain of the disgrace received by our Cudgeling doth not so much pinch mee, as the grief of the blowes, which shall remaine as deeply imprinted in my memorie as they doe in my back. For all this thou shalt understand brother Panca, replied Don-Quixote, that there is no remembrance which time will not end, nor grief which death will not consume. What greater misfortune quoth Sancho can there bee then that which only expecteth time and death to end and consume it? If this our disgrace were of that kinde which might bee cured by a payre or two of Playsters, it would not bee so evill; but I begin to per­ceive that all the salves of an Hospitall will not suffice to bring them to any good terms. Leave off Sancho, and gather strength out of weakenesse, said Don-Quixote, for so will I likewise doe, and let us see how doth Rozinante; for mee thinks that the lest part of this mishap hath not faln to his lot: You ought not to marvell at that, quoth San­cho, seeing hee is likewise a Knight errant; that whereat I wonder is that mine Asse re­maines there without payment, where wee are come away without Ribs. Fortune leaves alwaies one dore open in disasters, quoth Don-Quixote, whereby to remedie them. I say it, because that little beast may supply Rozinanties want, by carrying of mee from hence unto some Castle, wherein I may bee cured of my wounds. Nor doe I hold this kinde of riding dishonourable; for I remember to have read that the good old Silenus tutor of the merry God of laughter, when hee entred into the Citie of the hundred gates, rode very fairly mounted on a goodly Asse. It is like, quoth Sancho, that hee rode as you say upon an Asse; but there is great difference betwixt riding and being cast athwart upon one like a Sack of rubbish. To this Don-Quixote answered, The wounds that are received in Battell, doe rather give honour then deprive men of it. Wherefore friend Panca doe not reply any more unto mee, but as I have said, arise as well as thou canst, and lay mee as thou pleasest upon thy beast, and let us depart from hence before the night overtake us in these Desarts. Yet I have heard you say, quoth Panca, that it was an ordinary custome of Knights errant to sleepe in Downes and De­sarts the most of the yeere, and that so to doe they hold for very good hap. That is, said Don-Quixote, when they have none other shift, or when they are in Love; and this is so true as that there hath been a Knight that hath dwelt on a Rock, exposed to the Sunne, and the Shadow, and other annoyances of Heaven, for the space of two yeeres, without his Ladies knowledge, and Amadis was one of that kind, when calling him­self Beltinebros hee dwelt in the Poore Rock [...] nor doe I know punctually eight yeeres or eight moneths, for I doe not remember the History well; let it suffice that there hee dwelt doing of penance, for some disgust which I know not, that his Lady Oriana did him. But leaving that apart Sancho, dispatch and away before some other disgrace happen, like that of Rozinante to the Asse. Even there lurks the Devill, quoth Sancho, and so breathing thirty sobs, and threescore sighes, and a hundred and twenty discon­tents and execrations against him that had brought him there, hee arose, remayning bended in the midst of the way, like unto a Turkish bow, without being able to ad­dresse himself; and notwithstanding all this difficulty, hee harnessed his Asse (who had been also somwhat distracted by the overmuch liberty of that day) and after he hoysted up Rozinante, who were he endowed with a tongue to complain, would certainly have borne his Lord and Sancho companie. In the end Sancho laid Don-Quixote on the Asse, and tied Rozinante unto him, and leading the Asse by the halter, travelled that way which hee deemed might conduct him soonest toward the high way. And fortune which guided his affaires from good to better, after hee had travelled a little league, discovered it unto him, neere unto which hee saw an Inne, which in despight of him, and for Don-Quixotes pleasure must needes bee a Castle, Sancho contended that it was [Page 29] an Inne, and his Lord that it was not; and their controversie indured so long, as they had leisure before they could decide it to arive at the lodging; into which Sancho with­out farther verifying of the dispute, entred with all his loading.

CHAP. II.
Of that which hapned unto the ingenuous Knight, within the Inn, which hee supposed to bee a Castle.

THe Inn-keeper seeing Don-Quixote laid overthwart upon the Asse, de­manded of Sancho what disease he had? Sancho answered, that it was nothing but a fall down from a Rock, and that his Ribs were thereby somewhat bruised. This Inn-keeper had a wife, not of the condi­tion that those of that trade are wont to be; for she was of a cha­ritable nature, and would grieve at the calamities of her neighbours, and did therefore presently occur to cure Don-Quixote, causing her daughter, a very comely young maiden, to assist her to cure her Guest. There like­wise served in the Inn an Asturian wench, who was broad-faced, flat-pated, sadle­nosed, blinde of one eye, and the other almost out, true it is, that the comelinesse of her body supplied all the other defects: She was not seven palmes long from her feet unto her head; and her shoulders, which did somewhat burden her, made her look oftner to the ground then she would willingly. This beautifull piece did assist the young maiden and both of them made a very bad bed for Don-Quixote in an old wide chamber, which gave manifest tokens of it self, that it had sometimes served many yeers only to keep chopt straw for horses: in which was also lodged a Carrier, whose bed was made a little way off from Don-Quixotes, which though it was made of Can­vasse, and coverings of his Mules, was much better then the Knights, that only con­tained four boards roughly plained, placed on two unequall tressels; A flock-Bed, which in the thinnest seemed rather a Quilt, full of pellets; and had not they shewn that they were wooll, through certain breaches made by antiquity on the Tick, a man would by the hardnesse rather take them to be stones; a pair of sheets made of the skins of Targets; a coverlet, whose threds if a man would number, he should not lose one only of the account.

In this ungracious bed did Don-Quixote lie, and presently the Hostesse and her daughter anoint him all over, and Maritornes (for so the Asturian wench was called) did hold the candle. The Hostesse at the plaistring of him, perceiving him to be so bruised in Sundry places, she said unto him, that those signes rather seemed to pro­ceed of blows then of a fall. They were not blows, replied Sancho, but the Rock had many sharp ends and knobs on it, whereof every one left behinde it a token; And I desire you good Mistrisse, quoth he, to leave some flax behinde, and there shall not want one that needeth the use of them; for I assure you my back doth likewise ake. If that be so, quoth the Hostesse, it is likely that thou didest also fall. I did not fall, quoth Sancho Panca, but with the suddain affright that I took at my Masters fall, my body doth so grieve me, as me thinks I have been handsomely belaboured. It may well happen as thou saiest, quoth the Hostesses daughter; for it hath befaln me sundry times to dream, that I fell down from some high Tower, and could never come to the ground; and when I awaked, I did finde my self so troubled and broken, as if I had verify faln. There is the point Masters, quoth Sancho Panca, that I without dreaming at all; but being more awake then I am at this hour, found my self to have very few lesse tokens and marks then my Lord Don-Quixote hath. How is this Gentleman [Page] called? quoth Maritornes the Asturian. Don-Quixote of the Mancha, replyed Sancho Panca, and he is a Knight Errant, and one of the best and strongest that have been seen in the world these many ages. What is that, a Knight Errant? quoth the wench. Art thou so young in the world, that thou knowest it not? answered Sancho Panca. Know then sister mine, that a Knight Errant is a thing, which in two words you see well cudgelled, and after becomes an Emperour. To day he is the most un­fortunate creature of the world, and the most needy; and to morrow he will have two or three Crowns of Kingdoms to bestow upon his Squire. If it be so, quoth the Hostesse; why then hast not thou gotten at least an Earldome, seeing thou art this good Knight his Squire? It is yet too soon, replyed Sancho; for it is but a moneth sithence we began first to seek Adventures; and we have not yet encountred any worthy of the name. And sometimes it befalls, that searching for one thing we encounter another. True it is, that if my Lord Don-Quixote recover of this wound or fall, and that I be not changed by it, I would not make an exchange of my hopes for the best title of Spain. Don-Quixote did very attentively listen unto all these discourses, and siting up in his Bed, as well as he could, taking his Hostesse by the hand; he said unto her: ‘Believe me, beautifull Lady, that you may count your self fortunate, for having harboured my person in this your Castle, which is such, that if I doe not praise it; it is because men say, that proper praise stinks; but my Squire will inform you what I am: only this I will say my self, That I will keep eternally written in my memory the service that you have done unto me, to be gratefull unto you for it whilest I live. And I would it might please the highest Heavens that Love held me not so enthral'd and sub­ject to his Laws as he doth, and to the eyes of that ingratefull fair, whose name I se­cretly mutter, then should those of this beautifull Damzell presently signiorize my Libertie.’ The Hostesse, her daughter, and the good Maritornes remained con­founded, hearing the Speech of our Knight Errant, which they understood as well as if he spoken Greek unto them; but yet they conceived that they were words of complements and Love, and as people unused to hear the like language, they beheld and admired him, and he seemed unto them a man of the other world; and so return­ing him thanks with Tavernly phrase for his large offers, they departed. And the Asturian Maritornes cured Sancho, who needed her help no lesse then his Ma­ster.

The Carrier and shee had agreed to passe the night together, and she had given unto him her word, that when the Guests were quiet and her Master sleeping, she would come unto him and satisfie his desire, as much as he pleased. And it is said of this good wench, that she never passed the like promise, but that she performed it, although it were given in the mid'st of a wood, and without any witnesse; for she presumed to be of gentle blood; and yet she held it no disgrace to serve in an Inn; for she was wont to affirm, that disgraces and misfortunes brought her to that state. The hard, narrow, niggard, and counterfeit Bed, whereon Don-Quixote lay, was the first of the four, and next unto it was his Squires, that only conteined a Mat and a Coverlet, and rather seemed to be of shorn Canvasse then Wooll: After these two Beds followed that of the Carrier, made, as we have said, of the Pannels and Furniture of two of his best Mules, although they were twelve all in number, fair, fat, and goodly beasts; for he was one of the richest Carriers of Arevalo, as the Authour of this History affirmeth, who maketh particular mention of him, because he knew him very well, [Here the Au­thour taxeth some one cunningly to be descended of a Moorish race] and besides some men say, that he was somewhat a kinn unto him. Omitting that Cid Mahamat Be­nengeli was a very exact Historiographer, and most curious in all things, as may be gathered very well, seeing that those which are related being so minute and triviall, he would not overslip them in silence.

By which those grave Historiographers may take example, which recount unto us matters so short and succinctly, as they doe scarce arrive to our knowledge, leaving the most substantiall part of the works drowned in the Inkhorne, either through neg­ligence, malice, or ignorance. Many good fortunes beside the Authour of Tablante de [Page 30] Ricam [...]nte, and him that wrote the booke wherein are rehearsed the Acts of the Count Tomillas, Lord with what precisenesse doe they describe every circumstance? to con­clude, I say, that after the Carrier had visited his Mules, and given unto them their se­cond refreshing, hee stretched himselfe in his Coverlets, and expected the coming of the most exquisite Maritornes. Sancho was also, by this, plaistred and laid downe in his bed, and though hee desired to sleepe, yet would not the grief of his ribs permit him. And Don-Quixote with the paine of his sides, lay with both his eyes open, like a Hare. All the Inne was drowned in silence, and there was no other light in it then that of a Lampe, which hung lighted in the midst of the entry. This marvailous quietnesse and the thoughts which alwaies represented to our Knight the memory of the successes which at every pace are recounted in books of Knighthood (the principall Authors of this mishap) called to his imagination one of the strangest follies that easily may bee conjectured; which was, hee imagined that hee arived to a famous Castle (for as wee have said, all the Innes wherein hee lodged seemed unto him to bee such) and that the Inkeepers daughter (daughter to the Lord of the Castle) who, overcome by his comli­nesse and valour, was enamoured of him, and had promised that shee would come to solace with him for a good space, after her Father and Mother had gone to bed. And holding all this chymera and fiction, which hee himself had built in his brain, for most firm and certain, he began to be vexed in minde, and to think on the dangerous trance, wherein his honesty was like to fall, and did firmly purpose in heart not to commit any disloyalty against his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, although very Queen Genever, with her Lady Queintanonina, should come to sollicite him. Whilst thus he lay thinking of these follies, the houre approached (that was unluckie for him) wherein the Austurian wench should come, who entred into the chamber in search of her Carrier, in her smock, bare­footed, & her hair trust up in a coif of sustain, with soft & wairy steps. But she was scarce come to the door, when Don-Quixote felt her, and arising and siting up in his bed, in de­spight of his plaisters, [Bismas] & with great grief of his ribs, he stretched forth his arms to receive his beautifull Damzell, the Austurian, who crouching, and silently went gro­ping with her hands to finde out her sweet heart, and incountred with Don-Quixote's armes, who presently seized very strongly upon one of her wrists, and drawing her to­wards him (shee daring not to speak a word) hee caused her to sit upon his beds side, and presently groped her smock, and although it was of [Harpiller] the strongest Can­vase, hee thought it was most subtle and fine Holland. Shee wore on her wrists certain bracelets of glasse, which hee esteemed to bee precious, orientall-pearles. Her haire which was almost as rough as a horse taile, hee held to bee wires of the glistringest gold of Arabia, whose brightnesse did obscure that of the Sunne. And her breath which certainly smelled like to stale salt fish, reserved from over night, seemed unto him to have a most redolent, aromaticall and sweet smell; and finally hee painted her in his phantasie of the same very form and manner as hee had read in his bookes of Knight­hood; of a certain Princesse which came to visit a Knight who was grievously wounded, being overcome by his love, embellished with all the ornaments that here wee have re­counted; and the blindnesse of this poore Gallant was such, as neither the touching, savour or other things that accompanied the good Damzell could undeceive him, being such as were able to make any other, save a Carrier, vomet up his bowels; but rather hee made full acount that hee held the Goddesse of Love between his armes, and hold­ing her still very fast, hee began to court her with a low and amorous voice in this man­ner. ‘I could wish to finde my self in termes, most high, and beautifull Lady, to be a­ble to recompence so great a favour, as that which with the presence of your match­lesse feature you have shewn unto mee: but fortune (who is never weary of perse­cuting the good) hath pleased to lay mee in this bed, wherein I lie so broken and brui­sed, that although I were desirous to satisfie your will, yet is it impossible; especial­ly seeing to that impossibility may bee added a greater, to wit, the promised Faith which I have given to the unmatchable Dulcinea of Toboso, the only Lady of my most hidden thoughts; for did not this let mee, doe not hold mee to bee so senslesse and madde a Knight as to overslip so fortunate an occasion as this, which your bounty [Page] hath offered to mee,’ Maritornes remained sweating through anxiety, to see her self held so fast by Don-Quixote, and without eyther understanding, or giving attention to his words, shee laboured all that shee could to free her self from him without speak­ing a word. The Carrier, whose bad intention kept him still waking, did feare his La­dy from the time that shee first entred into the roome, and did attentively give eare to all Don-Quixotes discourses, and jealous that the Asturian should break promise with him, for any other, hee drew neerer unto Don-Quixotes bed, and stood quiet to see whereunto those words which hee could not understand tended; But viewing that the wench strived to depart, and Don-Quixote laboured to with-hold her, the jest seeming evill unto him, hee up with his arme, and discharged so terrible a blow on the enamou­red Knights jawes, as hee bathed all his mouth in blood, and not content here withall, hee mounted upon the Knight, and did tread on his ribs, and passed them all over with more then a trot.

The Bed which was somwhat [Endeble] weake, and not very firme of foundation, being unable to suffer the addition of the Carrier, fell downe to the ground, with so great a noise, as it waked the Inkeeper; who presently suspecting that it was one of Maritornes conflicts, because shee answered him not, having called her lowdly, hee forthwith arose and, lighting of a Lamp, hee went towards the place where hee heard the noyse. The Wench, perceiving that her Master came, and that hee was extreme cholericke, did, all ashamed and troubled, run into Sancho Pancaes bed, who slept all this while very soundly, and there crouched, and made her selfe as little as an Eg.

Her Master entred, crying, Whore where art thou? I dare warrant that these are some of thy doings. By this Sancho awaked, and feeling that bulk lying almost wholly upon him, he thought it was the night Mare, and began to lay with his fists here and there about him very swiftly and among others wraught Maritornes I know not how many blows; who grieved for the pain she indured there, casting all honesty aside, gave Sancho the exchange of his blows so trimly, as she made him to awake in despight of his sluggishnesse. And finding himself to be so abused of an uncouth person, whom he could not behold, he arose and caught hold of Maritornes as well as he could, and they both began the best fight and pleasantest skirmish of the world.

The Carrier perceiving by the light which the Inn-keeper brought in with him, the lamentable state of his Mistrisse, abandoning Don-Quixote, he instantly repaired to give her the succour that was requisite, which likewise the Inn-keeper did, but with another meaning; for he approached with intention to punish the wench, beleeving that shee was infallibly the cause of all that harmony: And so as men say, the Cat to the Rat, the Rat to the Cord, the Cord to the Poste: So the Carrier struck Sancho, Sancho the wench, she returned him again his liberality with interest, and the In-keeper laid load upon his maid also: And all of them did mince it with such expedition, as there was no leisure at all allowed to any one of them for breathing. And the best of all was, that the Inn-keepers lamp went out, and then finding themselves in darknesse they belaboured one another so without compassion, and at once, as wheresoever the blow fell, it bruised the place pittifully.

There lodged by chance that night in the Inn one of the Squadron of these, which are called of the old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo [The Holy Brotherhood, or the Sancta Hermandad, are a certain number of men, whose chief office is to free the High-way from Robbers] he likewise hearing the wonderfull noyse of the fight, laid hand on his Rod of Office, and the tinn box of his Titles, and entred into the chamber without light, saying, Stand still to the Officer of Justice, and to the Holy Brotherhood. And saying so, the first whom he met, was the poor battered Don-Quixote, who lay over­thrown in his Bed, stretched, with his face upward without any felling, and taking hold of his beard, he cryed out incessantly, Help the Justice. But seeing that he whom he held fast, bowed neither hand or foot, he presently thought that he was dead, and that those battaillants that fought so eagerly in the Room, had slain him; wherefore he lifted his voyce and cryed out loudly, saying, Shut the Inn door, and see that none escape; for here they have kil'd a man. This word Astonished all the Combattants so [Page 31] much, as every one left the Battail in the very terms, wherein this voyce had overtaken them. The Inn-keeper retyred himself to his Chamber, the Carrier to his Coverlets, the Wench to her Couch, and only the unfortunate Don-Quixote and Sancho were not able to move themselves from the place wherein they lay. The Officer of the Ho­ly Brotherhood in this space letting slip poor Don-Quixotes beard, went out for light, to search and apprehend the Delinquents; but he could not finde any: For the Inn-keeper had purposely quenched the Lamp, as he retyred to his Bed, wherefore the Offi­cer was constrained to repair to the chimney, where with great difficulty, after he had spent a long while doing of it, he at last lighted a Candle.

CHAP. III.
Wherein are rehearsed the innumerable Misfortunes which Don-Quixote and his good Squire Sancho suffered in the Inn, which hee, to his harm, thought to be a Castle.

BY this time Don-Quixote was come to himself again, out of his Trance, and with the like lamentable note, as that wherewithall he had called his Squire the day before, when he was overthrown in the vale of the Pack-staves, he called to him, saying, Friend Sancho, art thou a sleep? sleepest thou friend Sancho? What, I a sleep? I renounce my self, quoth Sancho, full of grief and despight, if I think not all the Devills in Hell have been visiting of me here this night [...] Thou mayest certainly believe it, replyed Don-Quixote; for either I know very little, or else this Castle is Inchanted. For I let thee to wit; but thou must first swear to keep secret that which I mean to tell thee now, untill after my death. So I swear, quoth Sancho. I say it, quoth Don-Quixote, because I cannot abide to take away any bodies honour. Why, quoth Sancho again, I swear that I will conceale it untill after your Worships dayes; and I pray God that I may discover it to morrow. Have I wrought thee such harm Sancho, replyed the Knight, as thou wouldest desire to see me end so soon? It is not for that Sir, quoth Sancho; but because I cannot abide to keep things long, lest they should rott in my custody. ‘Let it be for what thou pleasest, said Don-Quixote; for I doe trust greater matters then that to thy love and courtesie. And that I may rehearse it unto thee briefly, know, that a little while since, the Lord of this Castles daughter came unto me, who is the most fair and beautifull Damzell that can be found in a great part of the earth; what could I say unto thee of the orna­ments of her person? what of her excellent wit? what of other secret things? which that I may preserve the faith due unto my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, I passe over in silence. I will only tell thee, that Heaven envious of the inestimable good that fortune had put in my hands: Or perhaps (and that is most probable) this Castle, as I have said, is Inchanted; just at the time when we were in most sweet and amorous speech, I being not able to see or know from whence it came, there arrived a hand joyned to the arm of some mighty Gyant, and gave me such a blow on the jawes, as they remain all bathed in blood; and did after so thump and bruise me, as I feel my self worse now, then yesterday, when the Carriers, through Rozinantes madnesse, did use us thou knowest how! By which I conjecture, that the treasure of this Damzels beauty is kept by some Inchanted Moor, and is not reserved for me.’ Nor for me, quoth Sancho; for I have been bumbasted by more then four hundred Moors, which have hammer need in such sort, as the bruising of the Pack-staves was gilded bread and spice cakes in comparison of it: But Sir, I pray you tell me; How can you call this [Page] a good and rare Adventure, seeing we remain so pittifully used after it? And yet your harms may be accounted lesse, in respect you have held, as you said, that incomparable beauty between your arms: But I, what have I had other then the greatest blows that I shall ever have in my life? Unfortunate that I am, and the Mother that bare me, that neither am a errant Knight, nor ever means to be any, and yet the greatest part of our mishaps still falls to my lot! It seems that thou wast likewise beaten, replyed Don-Quixote. Evill befall my linage, quoth Sancho; have not I told you I was? Be not grieved Friend, replyed the Knight; for I will now compound the precious Balsamum, which will cure us in the twinkling of an eye.

The Officer having by this time alighted his Lamp, entred into the Room to see him whom he accounted to be dead; and as soon as Sancho saw him, seeing him come in in his shirt, his head lapt up in a kerchiff, the lamp in his hand, having withall a very evill-favoured countenance, he demanded of his Lord: Sir, is this by chance the In­chanted Moor, that turns anew to torment us, for somewhat that is yet unpunished? He cannot be the Moor, answered Don-Quixote; for Nigromancers suffer not them­selves to be seen by any. If they suffer not themselves to be seen, quoth Sancho, they suffer themselves at least to be felt; if not, let my shoulders bear witnesse. So might mine also, said Don-Quixote; but notwithstanding this is no sufficient argument to prove him, whom wee see to be the inchanted Moor: As thus they discoursed the Officer arrived, and finding them to commune in so peaceable and quiet manner, he rested admired. Yet Don-Quixote lay with his face upward as he had left him, and was not able to stir himself, he was so beaten and beplaistered. The Officer approach­ing, demanded of him; Well how doest thou good fellow? I would speak more man­nerly, quoth Don-Quixote, if I were but such a one as thou art: Is it the custome of this Countrey, you Bottle-head, to talk after so rude a manner to Knights Errant? The other impatient to see one of so vile presence, use him with that bad language, could not indure it; but lifting up the Lamp, oyle and all, gave Don-Quixote such a blow on the pate with it, as he broak his head in one or two places, and leaving all in darknesse behinde him, departed presently out of the chamber. Without doubt (quoth Sancho, seeing this accident) Sir that was the inchanted Moor; and I think he keepeth the treasure for others, and reserveth only for us fists and Lamp-blows. It is as thou sayest, quoth Don-Quixote; and therefore we are not to make account of these in­chantments, or be worth and angry at them; for in respect they are invisible and fan­tasticall, wee shall not finde him on whom we may take revenge, though we labour ever so much to doe it. Arise therefore, Sancho, if thou beest able, and call to the Constable of this Fortresse, and procure me some Oyle, Wine, Salt, and Vinegar, that I make the wholsome Balsamum; for verily I believe that I doe need it very much at this time, the blood runneth so fast out of the wound which the Spirit gave me even now. Sancho then got up with grief enough of his bones, and went without light to­wards the Inn-keepers, and encountred on the way the Officer of the Holy Brother­hood who stood hearkning what did become of his enemy; to whom he said; Sir, whosoever thou beest, I desire thee, doe us the favour and benefit to give me a little Rosemary, Oyle, Wine, and Salt, to cure one of the best Knights Errant that is in the earth, who lyeth now in that Bed, sorely wounded by the hands of an inchanted Moor that is in this Inn. When the Officer heard him speak in that manner, he held him to be out of his wits; and because the dawning began, he opened the Inn door, and told unto the Host that which Sancho demanded. The Inn-keeper presently provided all that he wanted, and Sancho carried it to his Master, who h [...]ld his head between both his hands, and complained much of the grief that the blow of his head caused, which did him no other hurt then to raise up two blisters somewhat great, and that which he supposed to be blood, was only the humor which the anxiety and labour of minde he past in this last dark Adventure, had made him to sweat.

In resolution Don-Quixote took his Simples, of which he made a compound, mixing them all together, and then boyling of them a good while, untill they came (as he thought) to their perfection; he asked for a Violl wherein he might lay this precious [Page 32] liquor, but the Inn being unable to afford him any such, hee resolved at last to put it into [Hosa de lata] a tinne oyle-pot, which the Host did freely give him, and forth­with hee said over the pot eighty pater nosters, and as many Aves, Salves and Creeds, and accompanied every word with a Crosse, in forme of Benediction, at all which Ceremonies Sancho, the Inne-keeper, and the Officer of the holy-Brotherhood were present, for the Carrier went very soberly to dresse and make ready his Mules.

The liquor being made, hee himselfe would presently make experience of the virtue of that precious Balsamum, as hee did imagine it to bee, and so did drinke a good draught of the overplus that could not enter into his pot, being a quart or thereabouts; and scarce had hee done it when hee began to vomit so extremly, as hee left nothing un­cast up in his stomack, and through the paine and agitation caused by his vomits, he fell into a very abundant and great sweat, and therefore commanded himselfe to bee well covered, and left alone to take his case. Which was done forthwith, and hee slept three houres, and then awaking found himselfe so wonderfully eased, and free from all brui­sing and paine, as hee doubted not but that hee was throughtly whole; and therefore did verily perswade himself, that hee had hapned on the right manner of compounding the Balsamum of Fierabras: and that having that Medicine, hee might boldly from thenceforth, undertake any ruines, battailes, conflicts or adventures, how dangerous soever.

Sancho Panca, who likewise attributed the suddain cure of his Master to Miracle, re­quested that it would please him to give him leave to sup up the remainder of the Balsa­mum which rested in the kettle, and was no small quantity; which Don-Quixote grant­ed, and hee lifting it up between both hands, did with a good faith, and better talent, quaff it off all, being little lesse then his Master had dranke. The successe then of the History is, that poore Sanchoes stomack was not so delicate as his Lords, wherefore be­fore hee could cast hee was tormented with so many cruell pangs, loathings, sweats and dismayes, as hee did verily perswade himself that his last houre was come; and percei­ving himself to bee so afflicted and troubled, hee cursed the Balsamum, and the theefe which had given it to him. Don-Quixote seeing of him in that pittifull taking, said, I beleeve Sancho, all this evill befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed Knight; for I perswade my selfe, that this liquor cannot helpe any one that is not. If your worship knew that, quoth Sancho, (evill befall me and all my linage) why did you therfore consent that I should taste it?

In this time the drench had made his operation, and the poore Squire did so swift and vehemently discharge himself by both channels; as neither his ma [...], or canvase co­vering could serve after to any use. Hee sweat and sweat again, with such excessive swoonings, as not only himselfe, but likewise all the beholders did verily deeme that his life was ending. This storme and mishap endured about some two houres, after which hee remained not cured as his Master, but so weary and indisposed, as he was not able to stand.

But Don-Quixote, who as wee have said, felt himself eased and cured, would pre­sently depart to seek Adventures, it seeming unto him that all the time which he abode there was no other then a depriving both of the world and needfull People of his favour and assistance: and more through the security and confidence that hee had in his Bal­samum; and carried thus away by this desire, hee himselfe sadled his Horse Rozinante, and did empannell his Squires beast, whom hee likewise holpe to apparell himself, and to mount upon his Asse. And presently getting a horse-back, hee rode over to a cor­ner of the Inne, and laid hand on a Javelin that was there, to make it serve him instead of a Launce. All the People that were in the Inn stood beholding him, which were a­bout twenty in number.

The In-keepers daughter did also looke upon him, and hee did never withdraw his eye from her, and would ever and anon breathe forth so dolefull a sigh, as if hee had plucked it out of the bottom of his heart, which all the beholders tooke to proceede from the grief of his Ribs, but especially such as had seen him playstered the night be­fore. [Page] And being both mounted thus a Horse-back, he called the Inn keeper and said unto him with a grave and staid voyce. ‘Many and great are the favours, Sir Consta­ble which I have received in this your Castle, and doe remain most oblieged to gra­tifie you for them, all the dayes of my life. And if I may pay or recompence them by revenging of you upon any proud Miscreant that hath done you any wrongs; know that it is mine Office to help the weak, to revenge the wronged, and to chastise Traytors. Call therefore to memory, and if you finde any thing of this kinde to commend to my correction, you need not but once to say it; for I doe promise you by the order of Knighthood, which I have received to satisfie and appay you accor­ding to your own desire.’

The Inn-keeper answered him again with like gravity and staidnesse, saying; Sir Knight, I shall not need your assistance when any wrong is done to me; for I know very well my self, how to take the revenge that I shall think good, when the injury is offered. That only which I require is, That you defray the charges whereat you have been here in the Inn this night, as well for the straw and barley given to your two horses, as also for both your beds. This then is an Inn, quoth Don-Quixote. That it is, and an honourable one too, replyed the Inn-keeper. Then have I hitherto lived in an errour, quoth Don-Quixote; for in very good sooth I took it till now to be a Castle, and that no mean one neither. But since that it is no Castle, but an Inn, that which you may doe for the present time is, to forgive me those expences; for I cannot doe ought against the custome of Knights Errant; of all which I most certainly know (without ever having read untill this present any thing to the contrary) that they never payed for their lodging, or other thing, in any Inn wheresoever they lay. For, by all Law and right, any good entertainment that is given unto them, is their due, in recom­pence of the insupportable travells they indure, seeking of Adventures both day and night, in Summer and Winter, a foot & a horse-back, with thirst and hunger, in heat and cold, being subject to all the distemperatures of Heaven, and all the discommodities of the earth. All that concerns me nothing, replyed the Innkeeper; pay unto me my due, and leave these tales and Knighthoods apart; for I care for nothing else, but how I may come by mine own. Thou art a mad and a bad Host, quoth Don-Quixote: And saying so, he spur'd Rozinante, and flourishing with his Javelin, he issued out of the Inn in despight of them all, and without looking behinde him to see once whether his Squire followed, he road a good way off from it.

The Inn-keeper seeing he departed without satisfying him, came to Sancho Panca to get his mony of him, who answered; That since his Lord would not pay, he would likewise give nothing; forbeing, as he was, Squire to a Knight Errant, the very same rule and reason that exempted his Master from payments in Inns and Taverns ought also to serve and be understood as well of him. The Inn-keeper grew wroth at these words and threatned him, That if he did not pay him speedily, he would recover it in manner that would grieve him. Sancho replyed, swearing by the Order of Knighthood, which his Lord had received, that he would not pay one Denier, though it cost him his life; for the good and anncient Customes of Knights Errant should never through his default be infringed; nor should their Squires which are yet to come into the world ever complain on him, or upbraid him for transgressing or breaking so just a duety. But his bad fortune ordeined that there were at the very time in the same Inn four Clothiers of Segovia, and three Poynt-makers of the Stews of Cordova, and two neighbours of the Market of Sivill, all pleasant folk, well minded, malicious, and playsome; all which pricked, and in a manner moved all at one time, and by the very same spirit came neer to Sancho, and pulling him down off his Asse, one of them ran in for the Inn­keepers Coverlet, and casting him into it, they looked up, and seeing the house was somewhat too low for their intended businesse, they determined to goe into the base Court, which was over head, only limitted by Heaven; and then Sancho being laid in the midest of the Blanket, they began to tosse him aloft, and sport themselves with him, in the manner they were wont to use Dogs at Shrovetide.

The out-cries of the miserable betossed Squire, were so many and so lowd, as they [Page 33] arived at last to his Lords hearing, who standing a while to listen attentively what it was, beleved that some new Adventure did approach, untill hee perceived, at last, that hee which cried was his Squire, wherefore turning the Reignes, hee made towards the Inne with a loathsome gallop, and finding it shut, hee rode all about it to see whether hee might enter into it, But scarce was hee arived at the walles of the base Court. which were not very high, when hee perceived the foule play that was used toward his Squire, for hee saw him descend and ascend into the ayre againe with such grace and agilitie, that did his choller permit, I certainly perswade my selfe hee would have burst for laughter. Hee assayed [...] mount the wall from his Horse, but hee was so bruised and broken, as hee could not doe so much as alight from his back. Wherefore from his back hee used such reproachfull and vile language to those which tossed Sancho, as it is impossible to lay them downe in writing. And notwithstanding all his scorne­full speech, yet did not they cease from their laughter and labour; nor the flying Sancho from his complaints, now and then medled with threats, now and then with intreaties, but availed very little, nor could prevaile, untill they were constrained by wearinesse to give him over. Then did they bring him his Asse againe, and helping him up upon it, they lapt him in his [Gavay] mantle; and the compassionate Maritornes beholding him so afflicted and orelaboured, thought it needfull to helpe him to a draught of wa­ter, and so brought it him from the well, because the water thereof was coolest. San­cho tooke the pot, and laying it to his lips, hee abstained from drinking by his Lords perswasion, who cryed to him alowd, saying, Sonne Sancho drinke not water, drinke it not Sonne, for it will kill thee. Behold I have here with mee the most holy Balsa­mum (and shewed him the oyle-pot of the drenches hee had compounded) for with only two drops that thou drinkest, thou shalt without all doubt remaine whole and sound. At those words Sancho looking behinde him, answered his Master with a low­der voice, have you forgotten so soone how that I am so Knight, or doe you desire that I vomit the remnant of the poore bowels that remaine in mee since yester night, keepe your liquor for your selfe in the Devills name, and permit mee to live in Peace; and the conclusion of this speech and his beginning to drinke, was done all in one in­stant, but finding at the first draught that it was water, hee would not taste it any more but requested Maritornes that shee would give him some Wine, which shee did streight with a very good will, and likewise paid for it out of her owne purse; for in effect it is written of her, that though shee followed that trade, yet had shee some shadowes and lineaments in her of Christianity. As soone as Sancho had drunken hee visited his As [...]e­ribs with his heeles twice or thrice; and the Inne being opened hee issued out of it, ve­ry glad that hee had paid nothing, and gotten his desire, although it were to the cost of his ordinary sureties, to wit, his shoulders. Yet did the Inne-keeper remaine pos­sessed of his Wallets, as a payment for that hee ought him [...] but Sancho was so distracted when hee departed as hee never missed them. After hee departed, the Inne-keeper thought to have shut up the Inne doore againe, but the Gentlemen-tossers would not permit, being such folke that if Don-Quixote were verily one of the Knights of the round Table, yet would not they esteem him two chips.

CHAP. IV.
Wherein are rehearsed the Discourses passed betweene Sancho Panca, and his Lord Don-Quixote, with other Adven­tures worthy the recitall.

SANCHO arived to his Master all wanne and dismayed, in so much as hee was scarce able to spur on his beast. When Don-Quixote beheld him in that case, hee said to him, now doe I wholly perswade my selfe friend Sancho, that that Castle or Inne, is doubtlesse inchanted. For those which made pastime with thee in so cruell manner, what else could they bee but Spirits, or Peo­ple of another world: which I doe the rather beleeve, because I saw, that whilst I stood at the Barrier of the yeard, beholding the acts of thy sad Tragedy; I was not in any waies able either to mount it, or alight from Rozinante, for as I say, I thinke they held mee then inchanted. For I vow to thee by mine honour, that if I could have either mounted or alighted, I would have taken such vengeance on those lewd and treacherous Caitiffs, as they should remember the jest for ever, though I had therefore adventured to transgresse the lawes of Knighthood. Which as I have oft times said unto thee, permitteth not any Knight to lay hands on one that is not Knighted, if it bee not in defence of his proper life and person, and that in case of great and urgent necessitie. So would I also have revenged my selfe, quoth Sancho, if I might, were they Knights or no Knights, but I could not; and yet I doe infallibly beleeve, that those which tooke their pleasure with mee, were neither ghosts nor inchanted men as you say, but men of flesh and bones as wee are, and all of them, as I heard them called whilest they tossed mee, had proper names, for one was termed P [...]t [...]r Martinez, and another Tenorio Herriander, and I heard also the In-keeper cal­led Iohn Palameque the deafe, so that for your inabilitie of not leaping over the barri­ers of the yeard, or alighting off your Horse was only inchantments in you. Whereby I doe cleerely collect thus much; That these Adventures which wee goe in search of, will bring us at last to so many disventures, as wee shall not bee able to know which is our right foote. And that which wee might doe best, according to my little under­standing, were to returne us againe to our Village, now that it is reaping time, and looke to our goods, omitting to leape thus, as they say, out of the frying-pan into the fire.

How little dost thou know Sancho, replied Don-Quixote, what appertaineth to Chi­valry? Peace, and have patience, for a day will come wherein thou shalt see with thine owne eyes, how honourable it is to follow this exercise. If not, tell mee what greater content may there bee in this world, or what pleasure can equall that of winning a bat­tell, and of triumphing over ones enemy? None without doubt. I think it bee so, quoth Sancho, although I doe not know it; only this I know, that since wee became Knights errant, or that you are one (for there is no reason why I should count my selfe in so honourable a number) wee never overcame any Battaile, if it was not that of the Bi [...]caine, and you came even out of the very same with half your care and Beaver lesse. And ever after that time wee have had nothing but cudgels, and more cudgels, blowes and more blowes. I carrying with mee besides of overplus, the t [...]ssing in the blanket, and that, by reason it was done to mee by inchanted Persons, I cannot bee re­venged, and by consequence shall not know that true gust and delight that is taken by vanquishing mine Enemie, whereof you spake even now. That is it which grieves mee, as it should thee also Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote: But I will procure hereafter to get a Sword made with such art, that whosoever shall weare it, no kinde of inchantment [Page 34] shall hurt him. And perhaps fortune will present me the very same which belonged to Amadis, when he called himself, The Knight of the burning Sword, which was one of the best that ever Knight had in this world; for besides the virtue that I told, it did also cut like a Razor; and no Armour, were it ever so strong or inchanted, could stand before it. I am so fortunate, quoth Sancho, that when this befell, and that you found such a sword, it would only serve and be beneficial, and stand instead such as are dubed Knights, as doth your Balsamum, whilest the poor Squires are cram'd full with sorrows. Fear not that Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote; for fortune will deal with thee more liberally then so.

In these discourses Don-Quixote and his Squire road, when Don-Quixote perceiving a great and thick dust to arise in the way, wherein he travelled, turning to Sancho said, this is (Sancho) the day, wherein shall be manifest the good which Fortune hath reser­ved for me. This is the day, wherein the force of mine arme must be shewn as much as in any other whatsoever; and in it I will doe such fears, as shall for ever remain recorded in the books of fame: Doest thou see, Sancho, the dust which ariseth there? know that it is caused by a mighty Army, and sundry and innumerable Nations, which come martching there. If that be so, quoth Sancho, then must there be two Ar­mies; for on this other side is raised as great a dust. Don-Quixote turned back to behold it, and seeing it was so indeed, he was marvellous glad, thinking that they were doubtlesly two Armies, which came to fight one with another, in the midest of that spacious Plain: For he had his fantasie ever replenished with these battails, inchant­ments, successes, ravings, loves, and challenges, which are reheased in books of Knight­hood: And all that ever he spoak, thought, or did, was addrest and applyed to the like things: And the dust which he had seen, was raised by two great Flocks of Sheep, that came through the same Field by two different wayes, and could not be discerned by reason of the dust, untill they were very neer. Don-Quixote did affirm that they were two Armies, with so very good earnest as Sancho believed it, and demanded of him, Sir what then shall we two doe? What shall we doe (quoth Don-Quixote) but assist the needfull and weeker side: For thou shalt know Sancho, that [...] who comes to­wards us is the great Emperor Alifamfaron, Lord of the great Island of Trapobana. The other who martcheth at our back, is his enemy, the King of the Garamantes, Pan­topoline of the naked Arme, so called, because he still entereth in battail with his right Arme naked. I pray you good Sir, quoth Sancho, to tell me why these two Princes hate one another so much? They are enemies, replyed Don-Quixote, because that this Alifamfaron is a furious Pagan, and is enamoured of Pent [...]polin's Daughter, who is a very beautifull and gracious Princesse, and moreover a Christian; and her Father refuseth to give her to the Pagan King, untill first he abandon Mahomet's false Sect, and become one of his Religion. By my beard, quoth Sancho, Pentapolin hath reason, and I will help him all that I may. By doing so, quoth Don-Quixote, thou performe [...] thy Duty; for it is not requisite that one be a Knight, to the end he may enter into such battails. I doe apprehend that my self, quoth Sancho, very well; But whe [...]e shall we leave this Asle in the mean time, that we may be [...] to finde him again after the Conflict? for I think it is not the custome to enter into battail mounted on such a Beast. ‘It is true, quoth Don-Quixote, that which thou mayest doe is, to leave him to his Adventures, and care not whether he be lost or found; for we shall have so many horses, after coming out of this Battail Victors, that very Rozinante himself is in danger to be changed for another. But be attentive; for I mean to describe unto thee the principall Knights of both the Armies. And to the end thou mayest the better see and note all things, let us retire our selves there to that little hillock, from whence both Armies may easily be discryed.’

They did so; and standing on the top of a hill, from whence they might have seen both the Flocks, which Don-Quixote called an Army, very well, if the clouds of dust had not hindred it and blinded their sight; yet notwithstanding our Knight seeing in conceit, that which really he did not see at all, began to say with a loud voyce:

[Page] ‘That Knight which thou [...]eest there with the yellow Armour, who bears in his Shield a Lyon crownd, crouching at a Damzells feet, is the valorous Laurcalio, Lord of the Silver Bridge: The other, whose Armes are powdred with flowers of gold, and beares in an Azure Field three Crowns of silver, is the dreaded Micocolembo, great Duke of Quirocia: The other limbed like a Gyant, that standeth at his right hand, is the undaunted Brandabarbaray of Boliche, Lord of the three Arabias; and comes Armed with a Serpents skin, bearing for his Shield, as is reported, one of the Gates of the Temple which Sampson at his death overthrew, to be revenged of his enemies. But turn thine eyes to this other side, and thou shalt see first of all, and in the Front of this other Army, the ever Victor and never Vanquished Timone [...] of Carcaiona, Prince of new Biskaye, who comes Armed with Armes parted into blew, green, white, and yellow quarters, and bears in his Shield in a Field of tawney, a Cat of gold, with a letter that sayes Miau, [Cat] which is the beginning of his Ladies name, which is as the report runs, the pee [...]esse Miaulina, Daughter to Duke. Alfe­niquen of Algarue. The other that burdens and oppresseth the back of that mighty [Alfana] Courser, whose Armour is as white as Snow, and also his Shield without any devise, is a new Knight of France, called Pierres Papin, Lord of the Barony of V [...]ique. The other that beats his hors [...] sides with his Armed heels, and bears the the Armes of pure Az [...]e, is the mighty Duke of Ner [...]ia Espar [...]asilard [...] of the Wood, who bears for his devise a [Esparraguera] Harrow, with a Motto that sayes, So trail [...] my Fortune.’

And thus he proceeded forward, naming may Knights of the one and the other Squadron, even as he had imagined them, and attributed to each one his Arms, his Colours, Impre [...]e, and Mottoes, suddainly [...] away by the imagination of his won­derfull distraction; and without stammering he proceeded saying:

‘This first Squadron conte [...]eth folk of many Nations, [...] are those which taste the sweet waters of famous [...]; the Mountainous men that tread the Mafilical fields; those that doe sift the most pure and rare gold [...]. Those that possessed the famous and delightfull banks of cleer [...] blood many and sundry waies the golden [...]; The Numides unsteadfast [...]n their pro­mise; The Persian [...] famous for Archers; The [...]arthes and Medes tha [...] fight flying [...] The Arabs inconstant in their dwellings; The [...] as cruell as white. The Aethiops of boared lips, and other infinite Na [...]ions whose faces I know and behold, although I have forgotten their denominations. In that other Army come those that taste the Christalins streams of the Olive-braring [...]; Those that dip and polish their faces with the liquor of the ever-rich and [...] Tag [...]. Those that possesse the profitable fluent of divine Genile: Those that trample the [...] fields so abundant in pasture: Those that recreate themselves in the [...] fields, of [...]: The rich Manch [...]gans crowned with ruddy [...] of corne. Those ap­parrelled with iron, the ancient reliques of the [...]spans [...]: Those th [...] bathe them­selves in Pesverga, renowned for the smoothnesse of his current: Those that feed their Flocks in the vast Fields of the wr [...]athing [...] so celebrated for his hidden course. Those that tremble through the [...]ld of the bushy Pirens, and the lofty [or white crested] Apenine [...]. Finally, all those that Europe in it self contrinet [...].’

Good God I how many Provinces repeated he, at that time? and how many Na­tions did he name? giving to every one of them, with [...] and brief­nesse, their proper attributes, being swallo [...]d up and ingu [...]ed in those things which he had read in his lying books! Sancho Pancia [...] suspended at his speech, and spoak not a word, but only would now and then turn his head to see whether he could mark those Knights and Gyants which his Lord had named; and by reason he could not dis­cover any, he said: Sir I give to the Devill any Man; Giant, or Knight, of all those you said, that appeareth; at least I cannot discern them: Perhaps all [...] but inchant­ment like that of the Ghosts of yester night. How? sayest thou so, quoth Don-Quixote? Doest not thou hear the Horses neigh, the Trumpets sound, and the noyse of the Drumms? I hear nothing else, said Sancho, but the great bleating of many Sheep. [Page 35] And so it was indeed; for by this time the two Flocks did approach them very neer. The fear that thou conceivest Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, maketh thee that thou canst neither hear nor see aright; for one of the effects of fear, is to trouble the Senses, and make things appear otherwise then they are; and seeing thou fearest so much, retire thy self out of the way; for I alone am sufficient to give the Victory to that Part which I shall assist. And having ended his Speech, he se [...] spurs to Rozinante, and setting his Launce in the rest he flung down from the hillock like a thunder-bolt. Sancho cryed to him as lowd as he could, saying, Return good Sir [...] Don-Quixote; for I vow unto God, that all those which you goe to charge, are but Sheep and Muttons. Return I say; alas that ever: I was born! what madnesse is this? Look; for there is neither Giant, nor Knight, nor Cats, nor Armes, nor Shields parted, nor whole, nor pure Azures, nor Divellis [...] What is it you doe, Wretch that I am? For all this Don-Quixote did not return, but rather road, saying with a loud voyce; On on Knights, all you that serve and martch under the Banners of the valorous Emperour Pentapolin of the naked Arme; follow me all of you, and you shall see how easily I will revenge him on his enemie Alifamfaron of Trapobana: And saying so, he entred into the midest of the Flock of Sheep, and began to Launce them with such courage and fury, as if he did in good earnest encounter his mortall enemies.

The Sheep-heards that came with the flock, cryed to him to leave off, but seeing their words took no effect, they unlosed their slings and began to salute his pate with stones as great as ones fist. But Don-Quixote made no account of their stones, and did [...]ling up and down among the Sheep, saying, where art thou proud Alifamfaron, where art thou? come to mee, for I am but one Knight alone, who desire to prove my force with thee man to man, and deprive thee of thy life, in paine of the wrong thou doest to the valiant Pentapolin the Garamiante. At that instant a stone gave him such a blow on one of his sides, as did bury two of his [...] in his body. Hee beholding himself so ill dight, did presently beleeve that hee was either sl [...]ine or sorely wounded; and remembring himself of his liquor, hee tooke out his oyle-pot, and set it to his mouth to drink, but ere he could take as much as hee thought was requisite to cure his hurts, there cometh another Almond which stroke him so full upon the hand and oyle-pot, as it broke it into peeces, and carried away with it besides, three or foure of his cheeke teeth, and did moreover bruise very sorely two of his fingers. Such was the first and the second blow, as the poore Knight was constrained to fall down off his horse. And the Sheepheards ariving did verily beleeve they had slaine him [...] and therefore ga­thering their flock together with all speede, and carrying away their dead Mu [...] ­tons, which were more then seven, they went away without verifying the matter any further.

Sancho remained all this while on the height, beholding his Masters follies, pulling the haires off his beard for very despaire, and cursed the houre and moment wherein hee first knew him; but seeing him overthrown to the earth, and the Sheepheards [...] away, hee came downe to him, and found him in very bad taking, yet had [...]ee not quite lost the use of his senses, to whom hee said. Did not I [...] you Sir Knight return, and told you that you went not to invade an Army of men, bu [...] [...] flock of Sheep. That theese the wise man who is mine. Adversary, quoth Don-Quixote, can counterfeit, and [...] men to seem such, or vanish away as [...]ee pleaseth, for Sancho thou oughtest to know, that in is a very easie thing for those kinde of men, to make us seeme what they please, and this M [...]ligne that persecuteth mee, envying the glory which bee saw I was like to acquire in this Battail, hath converted the Enemies [...] into Sheepe: and if thou wilt not beleeve me Sancho, yet doe one thing for my [...], that thou mayest remove thine errour, and perceive the truth which I affirme, get up on thine As [...]e and follow them [...] and softly aloo [...], and thou shalt see that as soon as they are parted any distance from [...]ence, they will turn to their first form, and leaving to be sheep, will become men, as right and straight as I painted them to the at the first, but goe not now for I have need of thy help and assistance, draw neerer to me and see, how many cheek teeth and others I want; for mee thinks there is not one left in my mouth. With that [Page] Sancho approached so neer, that he laid almost his eyes on his Masters mouth, and it was just at the time that the Balsamum had now wrought his effect in Don-Quixote his stomack, and at the very season that Sancho went about to look into his mouth, he disgorged all that he had in his stomack, with as great violence as it had been shot out of a Musket, just in his compassive Squires beard. O holy Mother Mary, quoth Sancho! what is this that hath befaln me? the poor man is mortally wounded with­out doubt; for he vomiteth up blood at his mouth. But looking a little neerer to it, he perceived in the colour and smell that it was not blood, but the Balsamum of his Masters oyl-bottle, whereat he instantly took such a loathing, that his stomack like­wise turned, and he vomited out his very bowels almost, all in his Masters face: and so they both remained like Pearles. Soone after Sancho ranne to his Asse to take somewhat to clear himself, and to cure his Lord out of his wallet, which when he found wanting [Having left it behind him in the Inn when he rann away and paid nothing for his lodging.] he was ready to runn out of his wits: there he begann a new to curse himself, and made a firme resolution in minde, that he would leave his Master and turn to his Countrey again, although he were sure both to lose his wages, and the hope of Go­vernment of the promised Island.

By this Don-Quixote arose, and setting his left hand to his mouth, that the rest of his teeth might not fall out, he caught hold on the Raines of Rozinantes bridle with the other, who had never stir'd from his Master (such was his loyalty and good nature) he went towards his Squire, that leaned upon his Asse, with his hand under his cheek, like one pensative and malecontent. And Don-Quixote seeing of him in that guise, with such signes of sadnesse, said unto him: Know Sancho, that one man is not more then another, if he doe not more then another. All these storms that fall on us are arguments that the time will waxe calm very soon, and that things will have better successe hereafter; for it is not possible that either good or ill be dureable. And hence we may collect that our misfortunes having lasted so long, our fortune and weale must be likewise neer: And therefore thou oughtest not thus to afflict thy self for the disgraces that befall me, seeing no part of them fall to thy lot. How not, quoth Sancho? Was he whom they tossed yester day in the Coverlet by fortune, any other mans sonne then my Fathers? and the Wallet that I want to day, with all my Pro­vision, was it any others then mine own? What doest thou want thy Wallet Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote? I that I doe, quoth hee. In that manner replyed Don-Quixote, We have nothing left us to eat to day. That would be so, quoth Sancho, if we could not finde among these Fields the hearbs which I have heard you say you know, wherewithall such unluckie Knights Errant as you are wont to supply like needs. For all that, quoth Don-Quixote, I would rather have now a quarter of a loaf, or a cake and two Pilchers heads, then all the hearbs that Diascoridles describeth, although they came glosed by Doctor Laguna himself: But yet for all that, get upon thy beast, Sancho the good, and follow me; for God, who is the provider for all Creatures, will not fail us; and principally seeing we doe a work so greatly to his service as we doe, seeing he doth not abandon the little Flies of the Air, nor the Wormlings of the Earth, nor the Spawnlings of the Water: And he is so mercifull that he maketh his Sunne shine on the good and the evill, and Rains on sinners and just men. You were much fitter, quoth Sancho, to be a Preacher, then a Knight Errant. Knights Errant knew, and ought to know somewhat of all things, quoth Don-Quixote: For there hath been a Knight Errant, in times past, who would make a Sermon or discourse in the midest of a Camp royall, with as good grace as if he were graduated in the University of Paris: by which we may gather, that the Launce never dulled the Pen; nor the Pen the Launce. Well then, quoth Sancho, let it be as you have said, and let us depart hence, and procure to finde a lodging for this night, where, I pray God, may be no Coverlets, and Tossors, nor Spirits, nor inchanted Moors; for if there be, I'le bestow the Flock and the Book on the Devill. Demand that of God Sonne Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, and lead me where thou pleasest; for I will leave the election of our lodging to thy choyse for this time: yet I pray thee give me thy hand, and feel how many cheek teeth [Page 36] or others, I want in this right side of the upper jaw; for there I feel most pain. Sancho put in his finger, and whilest he felt him, demanded; how many cheek teeth were you accustomed to have on this side? Four, quoth he, besides the hindermost; all of them very whole and sound. See well what you say Sir, quoth Sancho. I say four, quoth Don-Quixote, if they were not five; for I never in my life drew, or lost any tooth; nor hath any faln or been worm-eaten, or mard by any rhume. Well then, quoth Sancho, you have in this nether part but two cheek teeth and a half; and in the upper neither a half, nor any; for all there is as plain as the palm of my hand. Unfortunate I (quoth Don-Quixote, hearing the sorrowfull news that his Squire told unto him) for I had rather lose one of my armes, so it were not that of my Sword: For Sancho, thou must wit, that a mouth without cheek-teeth, is like a Mill without a Mill-stone; and a tooth is much more to be esteemed then a Diamond.

But wee which professe the rigorous Lawes of Armes, are subject to all these disa­sters, wherefore mount gentle friend and give the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou pleasest, Sancho obeyed, and rode the way where hee thought hee might find lodging, without leaving the high way, which was there very much beaten. And going thus by little and little (for Don-Quixote his paine of his jawes did not suffer him rest, or make overmuch haste) Sancho to entertain him and divert his thought by saying some things, began to aboord him in the forme wee meane to rehearse in the Chapter ensuing.

CHAP. V.
Of the discreet discourses passed betweene Sancho and his Lord: With the Adventure succeeding of a dead Body: And other notable Occurrences.

MEE thinks, good Sir, that all the mishaps that befell us these dayes past, are without any doubt, in punishment of the sinne you committed a­gainst the order of Knighthood, by not performing the Oath you swore, not to eate bread on table clothes, nor to sport with the Queen with all the rest which ensueth, and you vowed to accomplish untill you had wonne the Helmet of Malandrino, or I know not how the Moore is called, for I have forgotten his name. Thou sayst right Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, but to tell the truth indeede, I did wholly forget it; and thou maist likwise thinke certainly, that because thou didst not remember it to mee in time, that of the Coverlet was inflicted as a punishment on thee. But I will make amends, for we have also manners of reconciliation for all things in the Order of Knighthood. Why did I by chance sweare any thing, quoth Sancho? it little imports, quoth Don-Quixote, that thou hast not sworne, let it suffice that I know thou art not very cleere from the fault of an accessary. And therefore at all Adventures it will not bee ill to provide a remedy. If it bee so quoth Sancho beware you doe not forget this againe, as you did that of the Oath, for if you should, perhaps those spirits will take againe a fancie to solace themselves with mee, and peradventure with you your selfe, if they see you ob­stinate.

Being in these and other such discourses, the night overtook them in the way, be­fore they could discover any lodging, and that which was worst of all, they were almost famisht with hunger, for by the losse of their wallets, they lost at once both their provision and warder-house. And to accomplish wholly this disgrace, there succeeded a certain Adventure, which certainly hapned as we lay it down, without [Page] any addition in the world, and was this; The night did shut up with some darknesse, yet notwithstanding they travelled on still, Sancho believing, that since that was the high­way, there must be within a league or two in all reason some Inn. Travailing there­fore, as I have said, in a dark night, the Squire being hungry, and the Master having a good stomack, they saw coming towards them in the very way they travailed, a great multitude of lights, resembling nothing so well as wandring stars. Sancho beholding them, was struck into a wonderfull amazement, and his Lord was not much better: The one drew his Asse halter, the other held his horse; and both of them stood still, beholding attentively what that might be; and they perceived that the lights drew still neerer unto them; and the more they approached, they appeared the greater; at the sight Sancho did tremble, like one infected by the favour of Quick-silver; and Don-Quixotes hair stood up like bristles, who animating himself a little, said; Sancho, this must be questionlesse a great and most dangerous Adventure, wherein it is requisite that I shew all my valour and strength. Unfortunate I, quoth Sancho, if by chance this Adventure were of Ghosts! as it seemeth to me that it is; where will there be ribs to suffer it? Be they never so great Ghosts, said Don-Quixote, I will not consent that they touch one hair of thy Garmens: For if they jested with thee the other time, it was because I could not leap over the walls of the yard; but now we are in plain Field, where I may brandish my Sword as I please. And if they inchant and benum you, as they did the other time, quoth Sancho; what will it then avail us to be in open Field or no? For all that, replyed Don-Quixote, I pray thee Sancho be of good courage; for experience shall shew thee how great my valour is. I will and please God, quoth Sancho: And so departing somewhat out of the way, they began again to view earnest­ly what that of the travailling lights might be; and after a very little space they espied many white things, whose dreadfull visions did in that very instant abate Sancho Panca his courage, and now began to chatter with his teeth like one that had the cold of a Quartan; & when they did distinctly perceive what it was, then did his beating and chat­tering of teeth increase; for they discovered about some twenty, all covered with white a horse-back, with Tapers lighted in their hands; after which followed a Litter covered over with black, and then ensued other six a horse-back attired in mourning, and like­wise their Mules, even to the very ground; for they perceived that they were not horses by the quietnesse of their pace. The white folk road murmuring somewhat a­mong themselves with a low and compassive voyce: Which strange vision, at such an hour, and in places not inhabited, was very sufficient to strike fear into Sancho's heart, and even in his Masters. If it had been any other then Don-Quixote; but Sancho tumbled here and there, being quite overthrown with terrour. The contrary hapned to his Lord, to whom in that same hour his imagination represented [...] him most lively, the Adventure wherein he was to be such a one, as he oft times had read in his books of Chivalry. For it is figured unto him, that the litter was a Beer, wherein was carried some grievously wounded or dead Knight, whose revenge was only reserved for him. And without making any other discourse he set his Launce in the rest, seated himself surely in his Saddle, and put himself in the midst of the way by which the white folk must forcibly passe, with great spirit & courage. And when he saw them draw neer, he said with a lowd voyce; Stand Sir Knight, whosoever you be, and render me ac­count what you are? from whence you come? where you goe? and what that is which you carry in that Beer? For according as you shew either you have done to others, or others to you some injury: And it is convenient and needfull that I know it, either to chastise you, for the ill you have committed; or else to revenge you of the wrong which you have suffered. Wee are in haste, quoth one of the white men, and the Inn is far off; and therefore cannot expect to give so full a relation as you request; and with that spurring his Mule, passed forward. Don-Quixote highly disdaining at the answer, took by the bridle and held him, saying, Stay proud Knight, and be better mannered another time, and give me account of that which I demanded; if not, I desie you all to mortall battail. The Mule whereon the white man road, was some­what fearfull and skittish; and being taken thus rudely by the bridle, shee took such a [Page 37] fright, that rising up on her hinder legs, she unhorsed her Rider; one of the Lacquies that came with them, seeing him fallen, began to revile Don-Quixote, who being by this throughly inraged, without any more adoe, putting his Launce in the rest, rann upon one of the Mourners, and threw him to the ground very [...]ore wounded: And turning upon the rest (it was a thing worthy the noting) with what dexterity, he did assault, break upon them, and put them all to flight; and it seemed none other, but that Rozinante had gotten then wings, hee bestirred himself so nimbly and coura­giously.

All those white men were fearfull people, and unarmed; and therefore fled away from the Skirmish in a trice, and began to traverse that field with their Tapers burning, that they seemed to be Maskers that use to runn up and down in nights of jove and re­creation. The Mourners likewise were so laped up and muffled, by their mourning weeds as they could scarce stir them; so that Don-Quixote did, without any danger of his person, give them all the Bastanado; and caused them to forsake their rooms whether they would or no: For all of them did verily think that he was [...]o man, but a Devill of Hell, that met them to take away the dead body, which they carried in the Litter. All this did Sancho behold, marveilously admiring at his Master bold­nesse, which made him say to himself, my Master is infallibly as strong and valiant as he said!

There lay on the ground by him whom his Mule had overthrown, a wax Taper still burning, by whose light Don-Quixote perceived him, and comming over to him, he laid the poynt of his Launce upon his face, saying, that he should render himself, or else he would slay him. To which the other answered; I am already rendred more then enough, seeing I cannot stir me out of the place, for one of my legs is broken. And if you be a Christian I desire you not to kill me; for therein you would commit a great sacriledge, I being a Licenciate, and have received the first Orders. Well then, quoth Don-Quixote; what Divill brought thee hither being a Church-man? Who Sir, replyed the overthrown, but my misfortune? Yet doth a greater threaten thee, said Don-Quixote, if thou doest not satisfie me in all that which I first demanded of thee. You shall easily be satisfied, quoth the Licenciate; and therefore you shall wit, that although first of all I said I was a Licentiate, I am none, but a Batcheler, and am called Alonso Lopez, born at Alcovendas, and I came from the City of Baeca, with eleven other Priests, which are those that fled away with the Tapers; wee travailed towards Segovia, accompanying the dead body, that lies in that Litter, of a certain Gentleman who dyed in Baeca, and was there deposited for a while, and now as I say, we carty his bones to his place of buriall, which is in Segovia, the place of his birth. And who killed him, quoth Don-Quixote? God, quoth the Batcheler, with certain pestilentiall feavers that he took. In that manner, quoth Don-Quixote, our Lord hath delivered me from the paines I would have taken to revenge his death, if any other had slain him; Hee having killed him that did, there is no other remedy but silence, and to lift up the shoulders; for the same I must my self have done, if he were likewise pleased to slay me. And I would have your reverence to understand, that I am a Knight of the Mancha, called Don-Quixote; and mine Office and Exercise is, to goe through­out the World righting of wrongs, and undoing of injuries. I cannot understand how that can be of righting wrongs, quoth the Batcheler, seeing you have made mee who was right before, now very crooked by breaking of my leg, which can never bee righted again, as long as I live; and the injury which you have undone in me, is none other but to leave me so injured, as I shall remain injured for ever. And it was very great disventure to have encountred with you that goe about to seek Adventures. All things, quoth Don-Quixote, succeed not of one fashion: The hurt was Master Batche­ler Alonso Lopez, that you travelled thus by night covered with those Surplices, with burning Tapers, and covered with weeds of dole, so that you appeared most properly some bad thing, and of the other world; and so I could not omit to fulfill my duty, by assaulting you, which I would have done, although I verily knew you to be the Sathans themselves of Hell. For, for such I judged and accounted you ever till now.

[Page]Then since my bad fortune hath so disposed it, quoth the Batcheler, I desire you good Sir Knight errant (who hath given mee so evill an errant) that you will help mee to get up from under this Mule, who holds still my leg betwixt the stirrop and saddle. I would have staid talking untill to morrow morning, quoth Don-Quixote, and why did you expect so long to declare your griefe to mee? hee presently called for Sanch [...] Panca to come over, but hee had little minde to doe; for hee was otherwise imployed, ransacking of a sumpter-Mule which those good folke brought with them, well furni­shed with belly-ware. Sancho made a bag of his Casack, and catching all that he might or could contain, hee laid it on his beast, and then presently after repayred to his Ma­ster, and holpe to deliver the good Batcheler from the oppression of his Mule. And mounting him again on it, hee gave him his Taper, and Don-Quixote bad him to follow his fellowes, of whom hee should desire Pardon in his name for the wrong he had done them. For it lay not in his hands to have done the contrary. Sancho said to him also, if those Gentlemen would by chance know, who the valorous Knight is that hath used them th [...]s, you may say unto them that he is the famous Don-Quixote of Mancha, o­therwise called the Knight of the Illfavored face.

With this the Batcheler departed, and Don-Quixote demanded of Sancho, what had moved him to call him the Knight of the illfavored face, more at that time then at any o­ther? I will tell you that quoth Sancho; I stood beholding of you a pretty while by the Taper light which that unluckie man carrieth, and truly you have one of the evill-favoredst countenances, of late, that ever I saw; Which either proceedeth of your being tyred after this Battaile, or else through the losse of your teeth. That is not the reason, said Don-Quixote: But rather, it hath seemed fit to the wise man, to whose charge is left the writing of my History that I take some appellative name, as all the o­ther Knights of yore have done: for one called himselfe, The Knight of the burning Sword; another that of the Vnicorne; this, him of the Phoenix; the other, that of the Damzells; another the Knight of the Griphen; and some other the Knight of Death; and by these names and devices they were known throughout the compasse of the earth. And so I say, that the wise man whom I mentioned set in thy minde and tongue the thought to call mee the Knight of the illfavored face, as I meane to call my selfe from henceforth, and that the name may become mee better, I will upon the first occasion cause to bee painted in my shield, a most illfavoured countenance. You neede not quoth Sancho, spend so much time and money in having the like countenance painted; but that which you may more easily doe is, to discover your owne, and looke directly on those that behold you, and I will warrant you, that without any more adoe, or new painting in your Shield, they will call you him of the illfavored face; And let this bee said in jest, that hunger and the want of your teeth, have given you, as I have said, so evillfavoured a face, as you may well excuse all other heavy portraitures. Don-Qui­xote laught at his Squires conceit, and yet neverthelesse hee purposed to call himselfe by that name, as soone as ever hee should have commodity to paint his Shield or Buckler.

And after a pause he said to Sancho; I beleeve I am Excommunicated, for having laid violent hands upon a consecrated thing. [Canon. 72. Distinct. 134.] Iuxta illud: si quis suadente diabolo, &c. Although I am certain I laid not my hands upon him, but only this Javelin; and besides, I did not any way suspect that I offended Priests or Church-men, which I doe respect and honour as a Catholick and faithfull Christian; but rather that they were shadowes and spirits of the other world. And if the worst hap­ned, I remember well that which befell the Cid Ruy Diaz, when hee broke that other Kings Embassadors chair before the Popes holinesse, for which hee excommunicated him, and yet for all that the good Roderick Vivar behaved himself that day like an hono­rable and valiant Knight.

About this time the Batcheler departed, as is said, without speaking a word, and Don-Quixote would faine have seene whether the corps that came in the Litter was bones or no, but Sancho would not permit him, saying, Sir you have finished this peri­lous Adventure, most with your safety of any one of those I have seene. This People, [Page 38] although overcome and scattered, might perhaps fall in the consideration that hee who hath overcome them is but one person alone, and growing ashamed thereof, would perhaps joyne and unite themselves and turne upon us and give us enough businesse to doe. The Asse is in good plight according to my desire, and the mountaine at hand, and hunger oppresseth us, therefore wee have nothing else to doe at this time but retire our selves with a good pace, and as it is said, to the grave with the Dead, and let them live to the Bread. And pricking on his Asse, hee requested his Master to follow him, who seeing that Sancho spoke not without reason, hee spur'd after him without reply­ing; and having travailed a little way, between two small Mountaines they found a large and hidden Valley, where they alighted; and Sancho lightning his beast, and lying both along upon the greene grasse, holpen by the sauce of hunger, they broke their fasts, dined, eate their Beaver and Supper all at one time; satisfying their apetites with more then one dish of cold meate, which the dead Gentlemans Chaplaines (which knew how to make much of themselves) had brought for their provision: But here succeeded another discommodity which Sancho accounted not as the least, and was, that they had no wine to drink; no, nor as much as a dropp of water to rinse their mouthes, and being scorched with drought, Sancho perceiving the field where they were full of thick and green grasse, said that which shall ensue in the Chapter fol­lowing.

CHAP. VI.
Of a wonderfull Adventure, atchieved with lesse hazard then e­ver any other Knight did any, by the valorous Don-Qui­xote of the Mancha.

IT is not possible my Lord, but that these green hearbs doe argue, that neer unto this place must bee some Fountain or stream that watereth them, and therefore I pray you let us goe a little farther, and wee shall meete that which may mitigate the terrible thirst that afflicts us, which sets us questionless in more paine then did our hun­ger. This counsell was allowed by Don-Quixote, and therefore leading Rozinante by the Bridle, and Sancho his Asse by the halter, after laying up the reversion of their Supper, they set on through the plaine, only guided by their guesse, for the night was so darke as they could not see a jot. And scarce had they travailed two hundred paces when they heard a great noise of water, as if it fell headlong from some great and steep Rock. The noise did cheere them very much, and standing to heare from whence it sounded, they heard unawares another noyse, which watered all the continent; they conceived before, specially in Sancho, who as I have noted was naturally very fearfull and of little spirit. They heard I say certain blowes strucken with proportion, with a kinde of ratling of irons and chaines, which accompanied by the furious sound of the water, might strike terror into any other heart but Don-Quixotes.

The night, as wee said, was darke, and they hapned to enter in among certaine tall and loftie trees, whose leaves moved by a soft gale of winde, made a fearfull and still noyse; so that the solitude, situation, darknesse and the noyse of the water, and trem­bling of the leaves concurring, did breed horror and affright. But specially seeing that the blowes never ceased, the winde slept not, nor the morning approached, whereunto may bee added that they knew not the place where they were. But Don-Quixote ac­companied [Page] with his valiant heart, leaped on Rozinante, and embracing his Buckler, brandished his Launce, and said: ‘Friend Sancho, I would have thee know, that I was born by the disposition of Heaven, in this our Age of iron, to resuscitate in it that of Gold, or the Golden world as it is called. I am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and volorus feats. I say again, that I am he which shall set up again those of the Round Table, the twelve Peers of France, and the nine Worthies. I am he who shall cause the Acts to be forgotten of those Platires, Tablantes, Oli­vantes, and Tirantes. The Phebuse [...], Bel [...]amses, with all the crew of the famous Knights Errant of times past, doing in this wherein I live such great and wonderfull fea [...]s of Armes, as shall obscure the bravest that ever they atchieved. Thou notest well faithfull and loyall Squire, the darkenesse of this night, the strange silence, the deaf and confused trembling of these Trees, the dreadfull noyse of that water in whose search we come, which seems to throw it self headlong down from the steep Mountains of the Moon, the inceslable blows which doth still wound our ears; all which together, and every one apart, are able to strike terrour, fear, and amazement into the very minde of Mars; how much more in his that is not accus [...]omed to the like chances and Adventures? Yet all this which I have depainted to thee, are inciters and [...]owsers of my minde, which now causeth my heart almost to burst in my breast, with the desire it hath to trye this Adventure, how difficult soever it shews it self: Wherefore [...]ye my horse gyrts a little straighter, and farewell. Here in this place thou mayest expect me three dayes and no more. And if I shall [...] return in that space; thou mayest goe back to our Village, and from thence (for my sake) to Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea, that her captive Knight dyed, by attempting things that might make him worthy to bee called hers.’

When Sancho heard his Lord speak these words, he began to weep with the greatest compassion of the World, and say unto him; Sir, I see no reason why you should under­take this fearfull Adventure: it is now night, and no body can perceive us; we may very well crosse the way, and apart our selves from danger, although we should therefore want drink these three dayes. And seeing none behold us, there will be much lesse any one to take notice of our cowardize; the rather because I heard oft times the Curate of our Village, whom you know very well, preach, That he which seeks the [...]ger perisheth therein; so that it is not good to [...]empt God, undertaking such a huge Affair, out of which you cannot escape, but by miracle; and let those which Hea­ven hath already wrought for you suffice, in delivering you from being costed in a Co­verlet, as I was, and bringing you away a Victor, free, and safe, from among so many enemies as accompanied the dead man. And when all this shall not move or soften your hard heart, let this move it, to think and certainly believe, that scarce shall you depart from this place, when through very fear I shall give up my Soul to him that pleaseth to take it. I left my Countrey, Wife, and Children to come and serve you, hoping thereby to be worth more, and not lesse: But as cove [...]nesse breaks the Sack, so hath it also torne my Hopes, seeing when they were most pregnant and lively to obt [...]in that unluckle and accursed Island, which you promised me so often: I see that in exchange & pay thereof, you mean to forsake me here in a Desart, out of all frequen­tation. For Gods sake doe not me such a wrong my Lord; and if you will not wholy desist from your purpose, yet de [...]er it at least till the morning; for as my little skill that I learned when I was a Sheepheard, telleth me, the dawning is not three hours off, [Porque la bocade la bozinaist alucina de l [...] cabeo [...]. p. 168.] for the mouth of the Fish is over the head, and maketh mid-night in the line of the left arme. How canst thou Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, see where is the line, or that mouth, or that talle of which thou speakest, seeing the night is so darke that one star alone appeareth not? That is true, quoth Sancho, but fear hath eyes which can see things under the ground, and much more in the skies. And besides, we may gather by good discourse, that the day is not far off. Let it be as little off as it lists, quoth Don-Quixote; it shall never be recorded of me, that either tears, or prayers could ever disswade me from performing the duty [Page 39] of a Knight; and therefore good Sancho hold thy peace, for God who hath inspired me to attempt this unseen and fearfull Adventure, will have an eye to my weale, and also to comfort thy sorrow. And that thou hast therefore to doe, is to make straigh my gyrts, and remain here; for I will return shortly either alive or dead.

Sancho perceiving his Lords last resolution, and how little his teares, counsailes or prayers could availe, resolved to profit himselfe a little of his wit, and make him if hee could to expect untill day, and so when hee did fasten the gyrts, hee softly, without be­ing felt, tyed his Asses halter to both Rozinantes legs so falt, that when Don-Quixote thought to depart hee could not, for that his Horse could not goe a step, but [...]aping. Sancho seeing the good successe of his guile, said, behold Sir how Heaven, moved by my teares and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante should not goe a step; and if you will bee still contending and spurring, and striking him, you will doe nothing but in­rage fortune, and as the Proverb saies, But spurne against the pri [...]k. Don-Quixote grew wood at this, and yet the more hee spurred him, hee was the lesse able to goe; wherefore without perceiving the cause of his Horses stay, hee resolved at last to bee quiet, and expect either till the morning, or else till Rozinante would please to depart, believing verily that the impediment came of some other cause, and not from Sancho; and therefore said unto him: Since it is so Sancho, that Rozinante cannot stir him, I am content to tarry till the dawning, although her tardines [...]e cost me some tears. You shall have no cause to weep, replyed Sancho; for I will entertain you telling of Histories untill it be day if you will not alight and take a nap upon these green hearbs, as Knights Errant are wont, that you may be the fresher, and better able to morrow, to attempt that monstrous Adventure which you expect. What doest thou call alight­ing, or sleeping, quoth Don-Quixote? Am I peradventure one of those Knights that repose in time of danger? Sleep thou who wast borne to sleep, or doe what thou please; for I will doe that which I shall see fittest for my pretence. Good Sir be not angry, quoth Sancho, for I did not speak with that intention: And so drawing neer unto him, he set one of his hands on the pomell of the saddle, and the other hinder in such sort, that he rested imbracing his Lords left thigh, not daring to depart from thence the bredth of a finger, such was the fear he had of those blows, which all the while did sound without ceasing.

Then Don Quixote commanded him to tell some tale to passe away the time, as hee had promised, and Sancho said hee would, if the feare of that which hee heard would suffer him. Yet, quoth hee, for all this I will encourage my selfe to tell you one, whereon if I can hit aright, and that I bee not interrupted, is the best History that ever you heard, and bee you attentive for now I begin. It was, that it was, the good that shall befall, bee for us all, and the [...]arme for him that searches it. And you must be ad­vertised good Sir, that the beginning that ancient men gave to their tales, was not of ordinary things, and it was a sentence of Cato the Roman [...]: Which saies, and the harme bee for him that searches it: Which is as fit for this place as a ring for a finger, to the end that you may bee quiet, and not to goe seeke your owne harme to any place, but that wee turne us another way, for no body compelleth us to follow this, where so many feares doe surprize us. Prosecute this tale Sancho, said Don-Quixote, and leave the charge of the way wee must goe to mee. I say then quoth Sancho, that in a vil­lage of Estremadura, there was a Sheepheard, I would say a Goateheard. And as I say of my tale, this Goatheard was called Lope R [...]yz, and this Lope R [...]yz was enamou­red on a Sheepheardesse who was called Torralua, the which Sheepheardesse called Tor­ralua was daughter to a rich Heard-man, and this rich heard-man. If thou tellest thy tale Sancho after that manner, quoth Don-Quixote, repeating every thing twice that thou sayest, thou wilt not end it these two dayes; tell it succin [...]tly, and like one of judgement, or else say nothing. Of the very same fashion that I tell, are all tales told in my Countrey and I know not how to tell it any other way, nor is it reason that you should aske of mee to make new customes. Tell it as thou pleasest, quoth Don-Quixote for since fortune will not otherwise, but that I must heare thee, goe forward. So that my deere Sir of my Soule, quoth Sancho, that as I have said already, this Sheep heard [Page] was in love with Torralua the Sheepheard esse, who was a round wench, scornefull, and drew somwhat neere to a man, for shee had Mochachoes, for mee thinks I see her now before my face. Belike then, quoth Don Quixote thou knewest her? I did not know her quoth Sancho, but hee that told mee the tale, said it was so certaine and true, that I might when I told it to any other, very well sweare and affirme that I had seene it all my selfe. So that dayes passing and dayes coming, the Devill who sleepes not, and that troubles all [Yque tod [...]lo annasca. pag. 172,] wrought in such sort, as the love that the Sheepheard bore to the Sheepheardesse turned into man-slaughter and ill will, and the cause was according to bad tongues; a certaine quantity of little jealousies that shee gave him, such as they past the line, and came to the forbidden [A Spanish Proverb touching their jealousie.] And the Sheepheard did hate her so much afterward that hee was content to leave all that Countrey because hee would not see her, and goe where his eyes should never looke upon her. Torralua that saw her selfe disdayned by Lope, did presently love him better then ever shee did before; that is a naturall conditi­on of women, quoth Don-Quixote, to disdaine those that love them, and to affect those which hate them. Passe forward Sancho. It hapned quoth Sancho, that the Sheepheard set his purpose in execution, and gathering up his Goates, hee travelled through the fields of Estremadura, to passe into the Kingdom of Portugall. Torralua, which knew it well, followed him a foote and bare legged, a farre off, with a Pilgrims staffe in her hand, and a Wallet hanging at her neck, where they say that shee carried a peece of a looking-glasse, and another of a combe, and I know not what little bottle of changes for her face. But let her carry what shee carries, for I will not put my selfe now to verifie that: Only I'le say that they say, that the Sheepheard arived with his Goates to passe over the River Guadiana, which in that season was swoln very much, and overflowed the banks, and at the side where hee came there was neither boate nor barke, nor any to passe himself or his Goats over the River, for which hee was very much grieved, because hee saw that Torralua came very neere, and shee would trouble him very much with her prayers and teares. But hee went so long looking up and downe, that hee spyed a fisher, who had so little a boate, as it could only hold one man and a Goate at once, and for all that hee spake and agreed with him to passe him­self and three hundred Goates that hee had over the River. The fisher-man entred in­to the boate, and caried over one Goate, hee returned and past over another, and tur­ned back again and past over another. Keep you Sir good account of the Goates, that the fisherman ferries over, for if one only bee forgotten, the tale will end, and it will not be possible to tell one word more of it. Follow on then, and I say, that the land­ing place on the other side was very dirty and slippery, which made the fisherman spend much time coming too and fro. Yet for all that he turned for another Goate, and ano­ther, and another.

Make account quoth Don-Quixote, that thou hast past them all over, for otherwise thou wilt not make an end of passing them in a whol yeeres space. How many said Sancho are already past over? What a Devill know I, said Don-Quixote? See there that which I said quoth Sancho, that you should keepe good account. By Iove the tale is ended therefore, for there is no passing forward. How can that bee, said Don-Qui­xote, is it so greatly of the essence of this History to know the Goates that are past so exactly and distinctly, that if one of the number bee missed thou canst not follow on with thy tale? No Sir, in no sort, said Sancho, for as soone as I demanded of you to tell mee how many Goates past over, and that you answered mee you knew not, in that very instant it went from me out of my memorie all that was to bee told, and yfaith it was of great virtue and content. So then quoth Don-Quixote, the tale is ended; it is as certainly ended as is my Mother quoth Sancho. Surely, replyed Don-Quixote, thou hast recounted one of the rarest tales or Histories that any one of the world could thinke upon, and that such a manner of telling or finishing a tale, was never yet seene, or shall bee seene againe, although I never expected any other thing from thy good dis­course. But I doe not greatly marvaile, for perhaps those senselesse strokes, have trou­bled thine understanding. All that may bee said Sancho, but I know in the discourse [Page 40] of my tale there is no more to be said, but that there is ends, where the errour of count­ing the Goats that were wafted over the River begins. Let it end in a good hour where it lists, answered Don-Quixote, and let us trie whether Rozinante can yet stir himself; then did he turn again to give him the spurs, and he to leap as he did at the first and rest anew, being unable to doe other, he was so well shackled.

It hapned about this time, that either through the cold of the morning, or that Sancho had eaten at supper some lenative meats, or that it was a thing naturall (and that is most credible) he had a desire to doe that which others could not doe for him; but such was the fear that entred into his heart, as he dared not depart from his Lord the bredth of a straw; and to think to leave that which he had desired undone, was also impossible; therefore his resolution in that perplexed exigent (be it spoken with pardon) was this; he loosed his right hand, wherewithall he held fast the hinder part of the saddle, and therewithall very softly, and without any noyse, he untied the Cod­piece poynt wherewithall his breeches were only supported, which, that being let slip, did presently fall down about his legs like a pair of bolts: After this lifting up his shirt the best he could, he exposed his buttocks to the aire, which were not the least: This be­ing done, which as he thought was the chiefest thing requisite to issue out of that terrible anguish and plunge; he was suddainly troubled with a greater, to wit, That he knew not how to disburden himself without making a noyse: which to avoyd first he shut his teeth close, lifted up his shoulders, and gathered up his breath as much as he might: yet notwithstanding all these diligences, he was so unfortunate, that he made a little noyse at the end, much different from that which made him so fearefull. Don-Quixote heard it, and said, What noyse is that Sancho? I know it not Sir, quoth he; I think it be some new thing for Adventures, or rather disventures never begin with a little. Then turned' he once again to trie his hap, and it succeeded so well, that without making any rumour or noyse, but that which he did at the first, he found himself free of the loading the troubled him so much.

But Don-Quixote having the sense of smelling, as perfect as that of his hearing; and Sancho stood so neer, or rather joyned to him, as the vapours did ascend upward, al­most by a direct line, he could not excuse himself but that some of them must needs touch his nose. And scarce had they arrived, but that he occurd to the usuall remedy, and stopped it very well between his fingers, and then said with a snaffling voyce: Me thinks Sancho that thou art much afraid. I am indeed, replyed Sancho; but wherein I pray you, doe you perceive it now more then ever? In that thou smellest now more then ever, quoth Don-Quixote, and that not of Amber. It may be so, quoth Sancho; yet the fault is not mine, but yours, which bring me at such unseasonable hours, through so desolate and fearfull places. I pray thee friend retire thy self two or three steps back, quoth Don-Quixote, holding his fingers still upon his nose; and from henceforth have more care of thy person, and of the respect thou owest to mine; for I see the overmuch familiarity that I use with thee, hath ingendred this contempt. I dare wa­ger, quoth Sancho, that you think I have done somewhat with my person that I ought not. Friend Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, it is the worse to stir it thus. And thus in these and such like conversation the Master and the Man passed over the night. And Sancho seeing that the morning approached, he loosed Rozinante very warily, and tyed up his hose, Rozinante feelling himself (although hee was not naturally very coura­gious) hee seemed to rejoyce, and began to beat the ground with his hoofs; for by his leave he could never yet curvet. Don-Quixote seeing that Rozinante could now stir, accounted it to be a good signe, and an incouragement of him to attempt that timorous Adventure.

By this Aurora did display her purple mantle over the face of Heaven, and every thing appeared distinctly, which made Don-Quixote perceive that he was among a number of tall Chesnut-trees, which commonly make a great shadow: He heard like­wise those incessable stroaks, but could not espie the cause of them; wherefore giving Rozinante presently the spur, and turning back again to Sancho, to bid him farewell, he commanded him to stay for him there three dayes at the longest, and that if he re­turned [Page] not after that space, he should make full account that Iove was pleased hee should end his dayes in that dangerous Adventure.

After this charge given by Don-Quixote to Sancho, hee repeated to him againe the embassage and errant hee should cary in his behalfe to his Lady Dulcinea, and that tou­ching the reward of his services hee should not feare any thing, for hee had left his Te­stament, made before hee departed from his Village, where hee should finde himselfe gratif [...]ed touching all that which pertained to his hyre, according to the rate of the time hee had served. But if God would bring him off from that Adventure safe and sound, and without danger, hee might fully account to receive the promised Island. Here Sancho began anew to weepe, hearing againe the pittifull discourses of his good Lord, and determined not to abandon him untill the last trance and end of that affaire, and out of these teares and honourable resolution of Sancho, the author of this History col­lects, that it is like hee was well borne, or at the very least an old Christian, whose grief did move his Master a little, but not so much as he should shew the least argument of weakness, but rather dissembling it the best he could, he followed on his way towards the way of the water, and that where the stroakes were heard. Sancho followed him a foote, leading as he was wont his Asse by the halter, who was the inseparable fellow of his prosperous or adverse fortunes.

And having travelled a good space among these Chesnut and shady trees, they came out into a little plaine that stood at the foote of certaine steepe Rocks, from whose tops did precipitate it self a great fall of water. There were at the foot of those rockes certaine houses, so ill made, as they rather seemed ruines of buildings then houses; from whence as they perceived, did issue the fearfull rumour and noyse of the stroaks, which yet continued. Rozinante at this dreadfull noyse did start, and being made quiet by his Lord Don-Quixote, did by little and little draw neer to the houses, recommending himself on the way most devoutly to his Ladie Dulcinea, and al­so to Iove, desiring him that hee would not forget him. Sancho never departed from his Lords side, and stretched out his neck and eyes as farr as he might through Rozinan­te his legg [...], to see if he could perceive that which held him so fearfull and suspen­ded. And after they had travelled about a hundred paces, more at the dubling of a point of a Mountaine they saw the very cause patent and open (for there could bee none other) of that so hideous and fearefull a noyse that had kept them all the night so doubtfull and affrighted, and was (O Reader if thou wilt not take it in bad part) six iron Maces that fulled cloath, which with their interchangeable blowes, did forme that marvelous noyse.

When Don-Quixote saw what it was, hee waxed mute and all ashamed. Sancho beheld him, and saw that hee hanged his head on his breast with tokens that hee was somewhat ashamed. Don-Quixote looked also on his Squire, and saw his cheeks swolne with laughter, giving withall evident signes that hee was in danger to burst, if he vent­ed not that passion, whereat all Don-Quixotes melancholy little prevayling, he could not, beholding Sancho, but laugh also himselfe. And when Sancho saw his Master begin the play, hee let slip the prisoner, in such violent manner pressing his sides with both his hands, to save himselfe from bursting. Foure times hee ended, and other foure he renewed his laughter, with as great impulse and force as at the first, whereat Don-Qui­xote was wonderfully enraged, but chiefly hearing him say, in jibing manner; I would have thee know friend Sancho, that I was borne by the disposition of Heaven in this our age of Iron, to renewe in it that of gold, or the golden world. I am hee for whom are reserved all dangerous, great and valorous feats. And in this sort hee went repeating all or the greatest part of the words Don-Quixote had said the first time that they heard the timerous blowes, Don-Quixote perceiving that Sancho mock't him, grew so ashamed and angry withall, that lifting up the end of his lance, hee gave him two such blowes on the back, as if hee had received them on his pate, would have freed his Ma­ster from paying him any wages, if it were not to his Heires. Sancho, seeing that hee gayned so ill earnest by his jests, fearing that his Master should goe onward with it, he said unto him with very great submission; Pacifie your selfe good Sir, for by Iove I [Page 41] did but jest. But why doest thou jest? I tell thee I doe not jest, quoth Don-Quixote. Come here Master Merriman, thinkest thou that as those are iron Maces to full Cloth, if they were some other dangerous Adventure, that I have not shewn resolution enough to undertake and finish it? Am I by chance oblieged, being, as I am, a Knight, to know and distinguish noyses, and perceive which are of a Fulling-Mill, or no? And more it might (as it is true) that I never saw any before as thou hast done, base Villain that thou art, born and braught up among the like: if not, make thou that these six Maces be converted into Giants, and cast them in my beard one by one, or all together; and when I doe not turn all their heels up, then mock me as much as thou pleasest.

No more good Sir, quoth Sancho, for I confesse I have been somewhat too laugh­some; but tell me I pray you, now that we are in peace, as God shall deliver you out of all Adventures that may befall you as whole and sound, as he hath done out of this: Hath not the great fear we were in, been a good subject of laughter, and a thing worthy the telling? At least I, for of you, I am certain that you doe not yet know what fear or terrour is. I doe not denye, quoth Don-Quixote, but that which befell us is worthy of laughter; yet ought it not to be recounted, for as much as all persons are not so discreet, as to know how to discerne one thing from another, and set every thing in his right poynt. You know at least wise, quoth Sancho, how to set your Javelin in his poynt, when poynting at my pate you hit me on the shoulders, thanks be to God, and to the diligence I put in going aside. But farewell it, for all will away in the bucking; and I have heard old folk say, That man loves thee well who makes thee to weep: And besides great Lords are wont after a bad word which they say to one of their Servingmen, to bestow on him presently a pair of hose. But I know not yet what they are wont to give them after blows, if it be not that Knights Errant give after the Bastanado Islands, or Kingdoms on the continent. The Die might run so favourably; quoth Don-Quixote, as all thou hast said might come to passe; and therefore pardon what is done since thou art discreet, and knowest that a mans first motions are not in his hand. And be advertised of one thing from hence forward to the end to abstain, and carry thy self more respectively in thy over-much liberty of speech with me) that in as many books of Chivalry as I have read, which are infi­nite, I never found that any Squire spoak so much with his Lord, as thou doest with thine: which in good sooth I doe attribute to thy great indiscretion and mine; thine in respecting me so little; mine in not making my self to be more regarded. Was not Gandalin, Amadis du Gaules Squire Earl of the firm Island? and yet it is read of him, that hee spoak to his Lord with his Cap in his hand, his head bowed, and his body bended (more Turcesco.) What then shall we say of Gasabel, Don Gataors Squire, who was so silent, as to declare us the excellencie thereof, his name is but once repeated in all that so great and authenticall a History? Of all which my words Sancho, thou must infer, that thou must make difference between the Master and the man; the Lord and his Serving-man; the Knight and his Squire. So that from this day forward we must proceed with more respect, not letting the clew run so much; for after what way soever I grow angry with thee, it will be bad for the Pitcher. The rewards and benefits that I have promised thee will come in their time; and if they doe not, thy wages cannot be lost (as I have already said to thee).

You say very well, quoth Sancho, but fain would I learn (in case that the time of rewards came not, and that I must of necessity trust to my wages) how much a Knight Errants Squire did gain in times past? Or if they did agree for moneths, or by dayes as Masons men. I doe not think, quoth Don-Quixote, that they went by the hire, but only trusted to their Lords courtesie. And if I have assigned wages to thee in my sealed Testament, which I left at home, it was to prevent the worst; because I know not yet what successe Chivalry may have in these our so miserable times; and I would not have my Soul suffer in the other world for such a minuity as is thy wages. For thou must understand, that in this world there is no state so dangerous as that of Knights Errant. That is most true, replyed Sancho, seeing the only sound of the Maces of a [Page] Fulling-Mill could trouble and disquiet the heart of so valiant a Knight as you are. But you may be sure, that I will not hereafter once unfold my lips to jest at your doings, but only to honour you as my Master and naturall Lord. By doing so, replyed Don-Quixote, thou shalt live on the face of the earth; for next to our parents, we are bound to respect our Masters, as if they were our Fathers.

CHAP. VII.
Of the high Adventure and rich winning of the Helmet of Mambrino, with other Successes which befell the invincible Knight.

IT began about this time to rain and, Sancho, would fain have entred into the fulling-Mills, but Don-Quixote had conceived such hate against them for the jest recounted, as he would in no wise come neer them; but turning his way on she right hand, he fell into a high [...] way, as much [...] as that wherein they rode the day before: within a while after Don-Quixote espied one a horse-back, that bore on his head somewhat that glistered like gold; and scarce had he seen him, when he turned to Sancho, and said, Me thinks Sancho that there's no proveb that is not true; for they are all sentences taken out of experience it self, which is the universall mother of Sciences; and specially that proverb that sayes, Where one door is shut another is opened. I say this, because if fortune did shut yester night the door that we searched deceiving us in the Adventure of the iron Maces, it layes us how wide open the door that may addresse us to a better and more certain Adventure, whereon if I cannot make a good entrie, the fall shall be mine, without being able to attribute it to the little knowledge of the Fulling Maces, or the darkenesse of the night; which I affirm, because, if I be not deceived, there comes one towards us, that wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, for which I made the Oath. See well what you say Sir, and better what you doe quoth Sancho; for I would not with that this were new Maces to batter us and our understanding. The Divell take thee for a man, replyed Don-Quixote; what difference is there be­twixt a Helmet and fulling Maces? I know not, quoth Sancho; but if I could speak as much now as I was wont, perhaps I would give you such reasons, as you your self should see how much you are deceived in that you speak. How may I be deceived in that I say, scrupulous traytor, quoth Don-Quixote? Tell me; seest thou not that Knight which comes riding towards us on a dapple gray horse, with a Helmet of gold on his head? That which I see and finde out to be so, answered Sancho, is none other then a man on a gray Asse like mine own, and brings on his head somewhat that shines. Why that is Mambrino's Helmet, quoth Don-Quixote: stand aside and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how without speech, to cut off delayes, I will conclude this Adventure, and remain with the Helmet as mine own, which I have so much de­sired: I will have care to stand off: but I turn again to say, that I pray God, that it be a purchase of gold, and not Fulling-Mills: I have already said unto thee, that thou doe not make any more mention, no not in thought of those Maces: For if thou doest, said Don-Quixote, I vow, I say no more, that I will batter thy soul. Here Sancho fearing lest his Master would accomplish the vow which he had thrown out as round as a bowle, held his peace.

This therefore is the truth of the History of the Helmet [...] Horse and Knight, which Don-Quixote saw: There was in that Commarke two villages, the one so little as it [Page 42] had neither shop nor Barber, but the greater that was neere unto it, was furnished of one; and hee therefore did serve the little village when they had any occasion, as now it befell that therein lay one sick and must bee let blood, and another that desired to trimme his Beard; for which purpose the Barber came, bringing with him a brazen Bason: and as hee travelled, it [...]y chance began to rayne, and therefore clapt his Ba­son on his head to save his hat from stayning, because it belike was a new one. And the Bason being cleane scowred, glistered halfe a league off. Hee rode on a gray Asse, as Sancho said; and that was the reason why Don-Quixote tooke him to bee a dapple gray Steed: Hee likewise took the Barber for a Knight, and his glistering Bason for a Helmet of gold; for hee did with all facilitie apply every thing which hee saw to his raving Chivalrie and ill-errant thoughts. And when hee saw that the poor Knight drew neere, without setling himselfe to commune with him, hee inrested his [Sancon] Javelin low on the thigh, and ran with all the force Rozinante might, think­ing to strike him thorow and thorow; and drawing neere unto him, without stoping his Horse, hee cryed defend thy selfe Caytif, or else render unto mee willingly that which is my due by all reason.

The Barber who so without fearing or surmising any such thing, saw that Fantasie and Spirit came upon him, had no other remedy to avoid the blow of the Launce but to fall off of his Asse to the ground: and scarce had hee touched the earth, when ris­sing up againe as light as a Deer, he runn away so swiftly through the plane, as the winde could scarce overtake him; leaving behind him on the ground his Bason, where­withall Don-Quixote rested content, and said, that Pagan which lost it was discreet, and did imitate the Castor, who seeing himself hotly pursued by the hunters, which tears & cuts away that with his teeth, for which hee knows by naturall instinct he was follow­ed. Then hee commanded Sancho to take up the Helmet, who lifting it said, the Bason is a good one by God, and is as well worth a Riall of eight as a marmedie; and giving it to his Lord, hee presently set it on his head, turning about every way, to see whe­ther hee could get the Beaver, and seeing hee could not finde it, hee said. The Pa­gan for whome this famous Helmet was first forged, had doubtlesly a very great Head; and that which grieves mee principally is, that this Helmet wants the one halfe.

When Sancho haard him call the Bason a Helmet, hee could not contain his laughter, but presently remembering of his Masters choler, hee chek't it in the midst. Why dost thou laugh Sancho, quoth Don-Quixotes.? I laugh said hee, to thinke on the great head the Pagan, owner of this Helmet, had; for it is for all the world like a Barbers Bason. Know Sancho that I imagine, quoth Don Quixote, that this famous peece of this inchanted Helmet did fall by some strange accident into some ones hands that knew not the worth thereof, and seeing it was of pure gold, without knowing what hee did, I thinke hee hath molten the halfe, to profit himselfe therewithall, and made of the o­so ther halfe this, which seemes a Barbers Bason, as thou sayest: But bee what it list, to mee who knows well what it is, his transmutation makes no matter; for I will dresse it in the first towne where I shall finde a Smith, as that which the God of forges made for the God of Warre shall not surpasse, no nor come neere it; and in the meane while I will weare it as I may; for somthing is better then nothing: and more, seeing it may very well defend mee from the blow of a stone. That's true, quoth Sancho, if it bee not throwne out of a sling, such as that of the battle of the two Armies, when they blessed your Worships cheeke teeth, and broke the bottle wherein you carried the most blessed drench which made mee vomit up my guts. I doe not much care for the losse of it Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, for as thou knowest I have the receite in memory; so have I likewise quoth Sancho, but if ever I make it or taste it again in my life, I pray God that here may bee mine end. How much more I never meane to thrust my selfe, into a­ny occasion wherein I should have neede of it; for I meane with all my five sences to keepe my selfe from hurting any, or being hurt. Of being once againe tost in a Coverlet I say nothing, for such disgraces can hardly bee prevented, and if they befall, there is no other remedie but patience, and to lift up the shoulders, keepe in the breath, shut [Page] the eyes, and suffer our selves to be borne where Fortune and the Coverlet pleaseth.

Thou art a bad Christian Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, hearing him say so; for thou never forgetest the injuries that are once done to thee: know that it is the duty of noble and generous mindes, not to make any account of toyes. What leg hast thou brought away lame? what rib broken? or what head hurt, that thou canst not yet forget that jest? for the thing being well examined, it was none other then a jest or pastime; for if I did not take it to be such, I had returned by this to that place, and done more harme in thy revenge, then that which the Greeks did for the rape of Helen: who if she were in these times, or my Dulcinea in hers, she might be sure she should never have gained so much fame for beauty as she did: And saying so, he pierced the skie with a sigh. Then said Sancho, let it passe for a jest, since the revenge cannot passe in earnest. But I know well the quality both of the jest and earnest, and also that they shall never fall out of my memory, as they will never out of my shoulders. But leaving this apart, what shall we doe with this dapple gray stead, that looks so like a gray Asse, which that Martin left behinde, whom you overthrew, who according as he laid feet on the dust and made haste, he mindes not to come back for him again; and by my beard the gray beast is a good one. I am not accustomed, quoth Don-Quixote, to ransack and spoyl those whom I overcome; nor is it the practise of Chi­valry to take their horses and let them goe a foot: if that it befall the Victor to lose in the conflict his own; for in such a case it is lawfull to take that of the Vanquished as won in fair warre. So that Sancho leave that Horse, or Asse, or what else thou pleasest to call it; for when his owner sees us departed, he will return again for it. God knows, quoth Sancho, whether it will be good or no for me to take him, or at least change for mine own, which me thinks is not so good. Truely the Laws of Knighthood are straight, since they extend not themselves to licence the exchange of one Asse for another: And I would know whether they permit at least to exchange the one harnesse for another. In that I am not very sure, quoth Don-Quixote; and as a case of doubt (untill I be better informed) I say that thou exchange them, if by chance thy need bee extream. So extream, quoth Sancho, that If they were for mine own very person, I could not neede them more. And presently, enabled by the Licence, he made mutatio Caparum, and set forth his beast like a hundred holy­dayes.

This being done they broak their fast with the reliques of the spoyles they had made in the Camp of Sumpter horse, and drunk of the Mills streams, without once turning to look on them (so much they abhor'd them for the marveilous terrour they had strucken them in) and having by their repast cut away all cholerick and melancholick humours, they followed on the way which Rozinante pleased to lead them (who was the depository of his Masters will, and also of the Asses; who followed him al­waies wheresoever he went, in good amity and company. For all this they returned to the high-way, wherein they travelled at randome, without any certain deliberation which way to goe. And as they thus travailed, Sancho said to his Lord, Sir, will you give me leave to commune a little with you; for since you have imposed upon me that sharp commandement of silence, more then four things have rotted in my sto­mack; and one thing that I have now upon the tip of my tongue, I would not wish for any thing that it should miscarrie. Say it, quoth Don-Quixote, and be brief in thy reasons; for none is delightfull if it bee prolix. I say then, quoth Sancho, that I have beene these later daies, considering how little is gained by following these Adventures, that you doe through these Desarts and crosse waies, where though you overcome and finish the most dangerous; yet no man sees or knowes them, and so they shall remaine in perpetuall silence, both to your prejudice, and that of the fame which they deserve. And therefore mee thinks it were better (still excepting your better judgement herein) that wee went to serve some Emperour, or other great Prince that maketh warre, in whose service you might shew the valour of your Person, your marvelous force, and wonderfull Judgement: which being perceived by the Lord whom wee shall serve, hee must perforce reward us, every one according to his deserts; and in such a place will [Page 43] not want one to record your noble acts for a perpetuall memory: of mine I say no­thing, seeing they must not transgresse the Squire-like limits; although I dare avouch that if any notice bee taken in Chivalry of the feats of Squires, mine shall not fall away betwixt the lines.

‘Sancho thou sayest not ill, quoth Don-Quixote; but before such a thing come to passe, it is requisite to spend some time up and down the World, as in pro­bation, seeking of Adventures; to the end, that by atchieving some, a man may ac­quire such fame and renown, as when hee goes to the Court of any great Monarch, hee bee there already known by his works, and that hee shall scarcely bee perceived to enter at the gates by the boyes of that Citie, when they all will follow and inviron him, crying out aloud, That is the Knight of the Sunne, or the Serpent, or of some other device, under which hee hath atchieved strange Adventures. This is hee (will they say) who overcame in single sight the huge Giant Brocabruno of the invincible strength. Hee that disinchanted the great Sophie of Persia, of the large inchantment wherein hee had lien almost nine hundred years. So that they will thus goe pro­claiming his acts from hand to hand; and presently the King of that Kingdome, moved by the great bruit of the boyes and other people, will stand at the Windows of his Pallace, to see what it is; And as soon as hee shall eye the Knight, knowing him by his Armes, or by the Impresa of his Shield, he must necessarily say, Up, goe all of you my Knights, as many of you as are in Court, forth, to receive the flower of Chivalry, which comes there. At whose commandement they all will salley, and hee himself will come down to the midest of the stairs, and will imbrace him most straightly, & will give him the peace, kissing him on the cheek; and presently will carrie him by the hand to the Queens Chamber, where the Knight shall finde her accom­panied by the Princesse her daughter, which must bee one of the fairest and debonair Damzels that can be found throughout the vast compasse of the earth: After this will presently and in a trice succeed, that shee will cast her eye on the Knight, and hee on her, and each of them shall seem to the other no humane creature, but an Angell; and then without knowing how, or how not, they shall remain captive and intangled in the intricable amorous Net, and with great care in their mindes, because they know not how they shall speak to discover their anguish and feeling. From thence the King will carrie him without doubt, to some quarter of his Pallace richly hanged; where, having taken off his Armes, they will bring him a rich Mantle of Scarlet, furred with Ermines, to wear; and if hee seemed well before, being Armed; hee shall now look as well, or better, out of them. The night being come, hee shall Sup with the King, Queen, and Princesse, where he shall never take his eye off her, beholding unawares of those that stand present, and shee will doe the like with as much discretion: for, as I have said, shee is a very discreet Damzell. The Tables shall bee taken up; there shall enter unexpectedly in at the hall, an ill-favoured little Dwarff, with a fair Lady that comes behinde the Dwarff between two Giants, with a certain Adventure wrought by a most ancient wise man; and that hee who shall end it, shall be held for the best Knight of the World. Presently the King will command all those that are present to prove it, which they doe, but none of them can finish it, but only the new come Knight to the great proof of his fame. Whereat the Princesse will remain very glad, and will be very joyfull and well apaid, because shee hath setled her thoughts in so high a place. And the best of it is. That this King, or Prince [...] or what else hee is, hath a very great Warre with another as mightie as he; and the Knight his guest doth ask him (after hee hath been in the Court a few dayes) licence to goe and serve him in that Warre. The King will give it with a very good will, and the Knight will kisse his hands courteously for the favour hee doth him therein: And that night he will take leave of his Ladie the Princesse by some win­dow of a Garden that looks into her Bed-chamber, by the which he hath spoaken to her oft times before, being a great means and help thereto, a certain Damzell which the Princesse trusts very much. He sighs, and she will fall in a swond, and the Damzell will bring water, to bring her to her self again. Shee will bee also full of care because [Page] the morning draws neer, and she would not have them discovered for any her Ladies honour. Finally, the Princesse will return to her self, and will give out her beautifull hands at the window to the Knight, who will kisse them a thousand and a thousand times, and will bathe them all in tears. There it will remain agreed be­tween them two, the means that they will use to acquaint one another with their good or bad successes; and the Princesse will pray him to stay away as little time as he may, which hee shall promise unto her, with many Oaths and Protestations. Then will he turn again to kisse her hands, and take his leave of her with such feeling, that there will want but little to end his life in the place: hee goes from thence to his Chamber, and casts himself upon his Bed; but he shall not be able to sleep a nap for sorrow of his departure: Hee will after get up very early, and will goe to take leave of the King, the Queene and Princesse. They tell him (having taken leave of the first two) that the Princesse is ill at ease and that shee cannot bee visited: the Knight thinks that it is for griefe of his departure, and the which ti [...]ngs launceth him a new to the bottom of his heart. whereby hee will bee almost constrained to give manifest tokens of his griefe: the damzel that is privie to their loves will be pre­sent, and must note all that passeth, and goe after to tell it to her Mistrisse, who re­ceives her with teares, and sayes, unto her that one of the greatest afflictions shee hath is, that shee doth not know who is her Knight, or whether hee bee of blood royall or no: Her Damzell will assure her againe, that so great bountie, beauty and valour as is in her Knight, could not finde place but in a great and royall subject. The carefull Princesse will comfort her selfe with this hope, and labor to bee cheerefull left shee should give occasion to her Parents to suspect any sinister thing of her; and within two dayes agayne shee will come out in publique. By this the Knight is de­parted, hee fights in the war, and overcomes the Kings enemie, hee winnes many Cities, and triumphs for many Battles, hee returnes to the Court, hee visits his La­dy, and speaks to her at the accustomed place, hee agreeth with her to demand her of the King for his wife, in reward of his services, whereunto the King will not consent, because hee knowes not what hee is: but for all this, eyther by carying her away, or by some other manner, the Princesse becomes his wife, and hee accounts himselfe therefore very fortunate, because it was after known that the same Knight is sonne to a very valorous King, of I know not what Countrey; for I beleeve it is not in all the Mappe. The Father dies, and the Princesse doth inherit the Kingdome, and thus in two words our Knight is become a King, Here in this place enters pre­sently the commoditie to reward his Squire, and all those that holpe him to ascend to so high an estate. Hee marries his Squire with one of the Princesses Damzels, which shall doubtlesly be the very same that was acquainted with his love, who is some principall Dukes daughter.’

That's it I seek for, quoth Sancho, and all will goe right; therefore I will leave to that; for every whit of it which you said will happen to your self, without missing a jot, calling your self, The Knight of the ill-favoured [...]ace. Never doubt it Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote; for even in the very same manner, and by the same steps that I have recounted here, Knights Errant doe ascend, and have ascended to be Kings and Empe­rours. This only is expedient, That we enquire what King among the Christians or Heathens makes warr and hath a fair daughter: but we shall have time enough to bethink that, since as I have said we must first acquire fame in other places, before we goe to the Court. Also I want another thing, that put case that we find a Christian or Pagan King, that hath warrs and a fair daughter, and that I have gained incre­dible fame throughout the wide-world, yet cannot I tell how I might finde that I am descended from Kings, or that I am at the least Cousen Germain removed of an Emperour? for the King will not give mee his daughter untill this bee first very well proved, though my works deserve it never so much; so that I feare to lose through this defect, that which mine owne hath merited so well. True it is that I am a Gentleman of a known house of propriety and possession; and perhaps the wise man that shall write my History will so beautifie my kindred and discent, that hee will finde [Page 44] mee to bee the fift or sixe discent from a King; for thou must understand Sancho, that there are two manners of lineages in the world. Some that derive their Pedegree from Princes and Monarchs, whom time hath by little and little diminished and consumed, and ended in a point like Pyramydes. Others that tooke their beginning from base people, and ascend from degree unto degree, untill they become at last great Lords. So that all the difference is, That some were that which they are not now; and others are that which they were not; and it might bee that I am of those, and after good exa­mination my beginning might bee found to have beene famous and glorious, where­withall the King, my father in lawe ought to bee content, whosoever hee were: and when hee were not, yet shall the Princesse love mee in such sort, that shee shall in de­spight of her Fathers teeth admitt mee for her Lord and Spouse, although shee knew mee to bee the son of a water-bearer. And if not, here in this place may quader well the carying of her away perforce, and carying of her where best I liked; for either time or death must needs end her fathers displeasure.

Here comes well to passe that, Sancho, which some damned fellowes are wont to say; Seeke not to get that with a good will, which thou maist take perforce, although it were better said, The leaps of a shrub is more worth then good mens intreaties. I say it to this purpose, that if the King your father in law will not condiscend to give unto you the Princesse my Mistresse, then there's no more to be done, but as you say to her, steal away and carry her to another place: but all the harme is, that in the mean while that composition is unmade, and you possesse not quietly your Kingdome, the poor Squire may whistle for any benefit or pleasure you are able to doe him, if it bee not that the damzel of whom you spoke even now, run away with her Lady, and that hee passe away his misfortunes now and then with her, untill heaven ordaine some other thing: for I doe think that his Lord may give her unto him presently, if shee please to be his lawfull Spouse. There's none that can deprive thee of that, quoth Don-Quixote. Why, so that this may befall, quoth Sancho, there's no more but to commend our selves to God and let Fortune runne where it may best addresse us. God bring it so to passe, quoth Don-Quixote, as I desire, and thou hast need of Sancho; and let him be a wretch that accouts himself one. Let him be so, quoth Sancho, for I am an old Christian; and to be an Earl, there is no more requisite. I, and 'tis more then enough, quoth Don-Quixote, for that purpose; and though thou werest not, it made not much matter; for I being a King, may give thee nobility, without eyther buying of it, or serving me with nothing: For in creating thee an Earle, loe thereby thou art a Gentleman. And let men say what they please; they must in good faith, call thee Right Honourable, although it grieve them never so much. And think you, quoth Sancho, that I would not authorize my Litado. Thou must say Dictado or dignity, quoth Don-Quixote, and not Litado, for that's barbarous word. Let it be so, quoth Sancho Panca; I say that I would accommodate all very well; for I was once the Warner of a Confratriety, and the Warners gown became me so well, that every one said I had a presence sit for the Provest of the same. Then how much more when I shall set on my shoulders the Royall Robe of a Duke, or bee apparrelled with gold and pearls after the custome of strange Earls? I doe verify believe that men will come a hundred leagues to see me. Thou wilt seem very well, quoth Don-Quixote; but thou must shave that beard very often; for as thou hast it now so bushie, knit, and unhand­some: if thou shavest it not with a Razor at the least every other day, men will know that thou art as farre from Gentilitie as a Musquet can carrie. What more is there to be done, quoth Sancho, then to take a Barber and keep him hired in my house? yea, and if it be necessary, hee shall ride after me, as if hee were a Master of Horse to some Noble man. How knowest thou, quoth Don-Quixote, that Noble men have their Masters of Horses riding after them? Some few years agoe I was a moneth in the Court, and there I saw that a young little Lord rode by for his pleasure, they said hee was a great Grandee: there followed him still a horse-back a certain man turning every way that he went, so as he verily seemed to bee his horse taile. I then de­manded the cause, why that man did not ride by the others side, but still did follow [Page] him so? They answered me that he was Master of his horses, and that the Grandees were accustomed to carrie such men after them. Thou sayest true, quoth Don-Quixote, and thou mayest carrie thy Barber in that manner after thee; for customes came not all together, nor were not invented at once: And thou mayest bee the first Earl that car­ried his Barber after him. And I doe assure thee that it is an Office of more trust to trim a mans beard then to saddle a horse. Let that of the Barber rest to my charge, quoth Sancho; and that of procuring to be a King, and of creating me an Earl, to yours. It shall bee so, quoth Don-Quixote: And thus lifting up his eyes, hee saw that which shall bee recounted in the chapter following.

CHAP. VIII.
Of the Liberty Don-Quixote gave to many Wretches, who were a carrying perforce to a place they desired not.

CIde Hamete Benengeli, an Arabicall and Machegan Authour re­counts in this most grave, lofty, divine, sweet, conceited History, That after these discourses past between Don-Quixote and his Squire Sancho Panca, which we have laid down in the last Chapter, Don-Quixote lifting up his eyes, saw that there came in the very same way wherein they rode, about some twelve men in a company on foot, inserted like Bead-stones in a great chain of iron, that was tyed about their necks, and every one of them had manacles besides on their hands. There came to conduct them two on horse-back and two others a foot: The horse­men had fire-lock pieces; Those that came a foot, darts and swords. And as soon as Sancho saw them, hee said; This is a chain of Gally-slaves, people forced by the King to goe to the Gallies. How? people forced, demanded Don-Quixote: is it possible that the King will force any body? I say not so, answered Sancho, but that it is peo­ple which are condemned for their offences to serve the King in the Gallies perforce. In resolution, replyed Don-Quixote, (howsoever it bee) this folk, although they bee conducted, goe perforce, and not willingly. That's so, quoth Sancho. Then if that bee so, here falls in justly the execution of my Function, to wit, the dissolving of violences and outrages, and the succouring of the afflicted and needfull. I pray you Sir, quoth Sancho, to consider that the Justice, who represents the King himself, doth wrong or violence to nobody; but only doth chastise them for their committed crimes.

By this the chaine of slaves arrived, and Don-Quixote with very courteous termes requested those that went in their guard, that they would please to informe him of the cause wherefore they carried that people away in that manner? One of the guardi­ans a Horse-back answered, that they were slaves condemned by his Majesty to the Gallies, and there was no more to be said, neither ought he to desire any farther know­ledge. For all that, replied Don-Quixote, I would faine learne of every one of them in particular the cause of his disgrace: and to this did add other such and so cour­teous words, to move them to tell him what he desired, as the other guardian a Horse-back said. Although we carry here the Register and testimony of the condemna­tions of every one of these wretches, yet this is no time to hold them here long, or take out the Processes to reade; draw you neerer and demaund it of themselves, for they may tell it and they please, and I know they will; for they are men that take de­light both in acting and relating knaveries.

With this licence, which Don-Quixote himself would have taken, although they had not given it him, he came to the chaine, and demanded of the first for what offence he went in so ill a guise? Hee answered that his offence was no other then for being [Page 45] in love; for which cause only hee went in that manner. For that and no more, reply­ed Don-Quixote? Well, if enamoured folk be cast into the Gallies, I might have been rowing there a good many dayes agoe. My love was not such as you conjecture, quoth the slaue, for mine was that I loved so much a basket well heaped with fine lin­nen, as I did embrace it so straightly, that if the Justice had not taken it away from me by force, I would not have forsaken it to this hour by my good will. All was done in Flagrante, there was no leisure to give me torment, the cause was concluded, my shoulders accommodated with a hundred, and for a supplement three prices of Gar­rupes, and the worke was ended. What are Garrupes, quoth Don-Quixote? Garrupes are Gallies, replyed the slave, who was a young man of some four and twenty years old, and said he was borne in Piedrahita.

Don-Quixote demaunded of the second his cause of offence, who would answer nothing he went so sad and melancholy. But the first answered for him, and said, Sir this man goes for a Canary-bird, I meane for a Musitian and Singer. Is it possible, quoth Don-Quixote, that Musitians and Singers are likewise sent to the Gallies? Yes Sir, quoth the slave, for there's nothing worse then to sing in anguish. Rather, quoth Don-Quixote, I have heard say that he which sings doth affright and chase away his harms. Here it is quite contrary, quoth the slave, for He that sings once, weeps all his life after. I doe not understand it, said Don-Quixote: But one of the Gardians said to him, Sir Knight, to sing in anguish, is said among this people non Sancta, to confesse upon the rack. They gave this poor wretch the torture, and hee confessed his delight, that hee was a Quartrezo, that is a stealer of Beasts: And because hee hath confessed, hee is likewise condemned to the Gallies for six yeers, with an Amen of two hundred blows, which hee bears already with him on his shoulders: And he goes alwaies thus sad and pensative, because the other theeves that remain behinde, and also those which goe here doe abuse, despise, and scorn him for confessing, and not having a courage to say Non: For they say a N [...] hath as many letters as a Yea; and that a Delin­quent is very fortunate, when his life or his death only depends of his own tongue, and not of witnesses or proofs: And in mine opinion they have very great reason. I like­wise think the same, quoth Don-Quixote.

And passing to the third, hee demanded that which hee had done of the rest, who an­swered him out of hand, and that pleasantly: I goe to the Lady Garrupes for five yeers, because I wantted ten Duccats. I will give twenty with all my heart to free thee from that misfortune, quoth Don-Quixote. That, quoth the Slave, would be like one that hath money in the midest of the Gulf, and yet dies for hunger, because hee can get no meat to buy for it. I say this because if I had those twenty Duccats which your Wor­ships liberality offers me, in due season, I would have so annointed with them the Nota­ries pen, and whetted my Lawyers wit so well, that I might to day see my self in the midest of the Market of Cocodover of Toledo, and not in this way trayled thus like a Gray-hound: but God is great. Patience, and this is enough.

Don-Quixote went after to the fourth, who was a man of a venerable presence, with a long white beard which reached to his bosome. Who hearing himself demanded the cause why he came there, began to weep, and answered not a word. But the fift Slave lent him a tongue, and said, This honest man goes to the Gallies for four yeers, after he had walked the Ordinary apparrelled in pompe, and a horse-back. That is, quoth Sancho Panca, as I take, after hee was carried about to the shame and publique view of the People. You are in the right, quoth the Slave; and the crime for which hee is condemned to this pain, was, for being a Broker of the ear, I, and of all the body too; for in effect I mean that this Gentleman goeth for a Baud, and likewise for having a little smack and entrance in witch-craft. If that smack and insight in witch-craft were not added, quoth Don-Quixote, hee merrited not to goe and row in the Gallies for being a pure Baud, but rather deserved to govern and be their Generall. For the Office of a Baud [...] is not like every other ordinary Office, but rather of great discretion and most necessary in any Common-wealth well governed, and should not be practised but by people well borne; and ought besides to have a Veedor, [Veedor [Page] is an Office in Spain of great trust, set by the King to examine and search the dealing of other under-Officers; an Overseer or Controuler.] and Examinator of them, as are of all other trades, and a certain appointed number of men known, as are of the other Brokers of the Exchange. And in this manner many harms that are done might bee excused, because this Trade and Office is practised by indiscreet people of little under­standing; such as are women of little more or lesse; young Pages and Jesters of few yeers standing, and of lesse experience; which in the most urgent occasions, and when they should contrive a thing artificially, the crumms freeze in their mouthes and fists; and they know not which is their right hand. Fain would I passe forward, and give reasons why it is convenient to make choyse of those which ought in the Common­wealth to practise this so necessary an Office: but the place and season is not sit for it. One day I will say it to those which may provide and remedy it: only I say now, that the assumpt or addition of a Witch, hath deprived me of the compassion I should otherwise have, to see those gray hairs and venerable face in such distresse for being a Baud. Although I know very well that no Sorcery in the world can move or force the will as some ignorant persons think (for our will is a free power, and there's no Hearb nor Charm can constrain it.) That which certain simple women, or cousening companions make, are some mixtures and poysons, wherewithall they cause men runne madd, and in the mean while perswade us that they have force to make one love well, being (as I have said) a thing most impossible to constrain the Will. That is true, quoth the old man, and I protest Sir, that I am wholly innocent of the imputation of Witch-craft. As for being a Baud I could not denie it: but yet I never thought that I did ill therein; for all mine intention was, that all the world should disport them, and live together in concord and quietnesse without griefs or quarrels: but this my good desire availed me but little to hinder my going there; from whence I have no hope ever to return, my yeers doe so burden me, and also the stone, which lets me not rest an inst [...]nt. And saying this, hee turned again to his lamentations as at the first; and Sancho took such compassion on him, as setting his hand into his bosome, hee drew out a couple of shillings and gave it him as an almes.

From him Don-Quixote past to another, and demanded his fault, who answered with no lesse, but with much more pleasantnesse then the former: I goe here because I have jested somewhat too much with two Cousen Germains of mine own, and with two other sisters which were none of mine own: Finally, I jested so much with them all that thence resulted the increase of my Kindred so intricately, as there is no Casuist that can well resolve it. All was proved by me, I wanted favour, I had no money, and was in danger to lose my head: Finally, I was condemned for six yeers to the Gallies. I consented it, as a punishment of my fault; I am young, and let my life but hold out a while longer and all will goe well. And if you Sir Knight, carry any thing to succour us poor folk, God will reward you it in heaven, and wee will have care here on earth to desire God in our dayly prayers for your life and health, that it bee as long and as good as your good countenance deserves. Hee that said this went in the habit of a Student, and one of the Guard told him that hee was a great talker, and a very good Latinist.

After all these came a man of some thirty yeers old, of very comely personage, save only that when hee looked, hee seemed to thrust the one eye into the other: Hee was differently tyed from the rest; for hee carried about his legg so long a chain, that it tyred all the rest of his body: And hee had besides two iron rings about his neck, the one of the chain, and the other of that kinde which are called A keep friend, or the foot of a friend; from whence descended two irons unto his middle, out of which did stick two manacles, wherein his hand [...] were locke up with a great hanging lock; so as hee could neither set his hands to his mouth, nor bend down his head towards his hands. Don-Quixote demanded why hee was so loaden with iron more then the rest? The guard answered, because hee alone hath committed more [...] then all together, and was a more desperate knave; and that although they carried him tyed in that sort, yet went they not sure of him, but feared hee would make an escape. What falts can he have [Page 46] so grievous, quoth Don-Quixote, since hee hath only deserved to bee sent to the Gal­lies? hee goeth, replyed the guard to them for ten yeers, which is equivalent to a civill death; never strive to know more but that this man is the notorious Gines of Passamonte, who is otherwise called Ginesilio of Parapilla. Master Commissary, quoth the slave, hear­ing him say so, goe faire and softly, and runne not thus dilating of names and sirnames, I am called Gines, and not Ginesilio; and Passamonte is my sirname, and not Parapilla as you say, and let every one turne about him, and hee shall not doe little. Speak with lesse swelling, quoth the Commissary, Sir Theefe of more then the Marke [Marke is a certaine length appointed in Spaine for Swords, which if any transgresse hee is punished, and the Sword Forfeited.] If you will not have mee to make you hold your peace mau­gre your teeth. It seemes well (quoth the slave) that a man is carried as pleaseth God; but one day sombodie shall know whether I bee called Ginesilio of Parapilla. Why doe not they call thee so couzener; quoth the Guard? They doe said Gines, but I will make that they shall not call mee so, or I will fleece them, there where I mutter under my teeth. Sir Knight, if you have any thing to bestow on us, give it us now, and be gone in the name of God; for you doe tyre us with your too curious search of knowing o­ther mens lives; and if you would know mine, you shall understand that I am Gines of Passamonte, whose life is written (shewing his hand) by these two fingers. Hee says true, quoth the Commiss [...]ry, for hee himselfe hath penned his owne History so well as there is nothing more to bee desired: and leaves the booke pawned in the Prison for two hundred Rials: and likewise meane to redeeme it, quoth Gines, though it were in for as many Duckets.

Is it so good a worke, said Don-Quixote? It is so good replyed Gines, that it quite puts down Lazarillo de Tormes, and as many others as are written or shall bee written of that kinde: for that which I dare affirme to you is, that it treats of true ac­cidents, and those so delightfull that no like invention can bee compared to them. And how is the booke intituled, quoth Don-Quixote? It is called, said he, The life of Gines of Passamonte. And is it yet ended said the Knight? How can it be finished replyed he, my life being not yet ended? Since all that is written is from the hour of my byrth untill that instant that I was sent this last time to the Gallies. Why then belike you were there once before (quoth Don-Quixote) to serve God and the King, I have been in there ano­ther time four yeers, and I know already how the bisket and provant agree with my sto­mack (quoth Gines) nor doth it grieve mee very much to returne unto them; for there I shall have leisure to finish my Booke, and I have many things yet to say: and in the Gallies of Spaine, there is more resting time then is requisite for that businesse, although I shall not neede much time to pen what is yet unwritten; for I can, if neede were, say it all by roate. Thou seemest to bee ingenuous, quoth Don-Quixote, and unfortu­nate withall, quoth Gines; for mishaps doe still persecute the best w [...]ts. They perse­cute knaves, quoth the Commissary. I have already spoken to Master Commissary, quoth Passamonte, to goe faire aod softly; for the Lords did not give you that rod, to the end you should abuse us wretches that goe here, but rather to guide and carry us where his Majesty hath commanded, if not, by the life of—'tis enough that perhaps one day may come to light, the spottes that were made in the Inne. And let all the world peace and live well, and speake better, for this is now too great a digression. The Com­missary held up his rod to strike Passamonte in answere of his Threats, but Don-Quixote put himselfe betweene them, and intreated him not to use him hardly, seeing it was not much that one who caried his hands so tyed, should have his tongue somwhat free, and then turning himself toward the slaves he said:

I have gathered out of all that which you have said, deere brethren, that although they punish you for your faults, yet that the paines you goe to suffer doe not very well please you, and that you march toward them with a very ill will, and wholy constrained, and that perhaps the little courage this fellow had on the Rack, the want of money that the other had, the small favour that a third enjoyed, and finally the wrested Sentence of the Judge, and the not executing that Justice that was on your sides, have beene cause of your miserie. All which doth present it selfe to my memory in such sort, as it [Page] perswadeth, yea and inforceth me to effect that for you, for which heaven sent me into the world, and made me professe that Order of Knighthood which I follow, and that vow which I made therein to favour and assist the needfull, and those that are op­pressed by others more potent. But for as much as I know that it is one of the parts of prudence, not to doe that by foul means which may be accomplished by fair; I will intreat those Gentlemen your Guardians and Commissary they will please to loose and let you depart peaceably; for there will not want others to serve the King in better occasions; for it seems to me a rigorous manner of proceeding, to make Slaves of them whom God and nature created free. How much more good Sits of the guard (added Don-Quixote) seeing these poor men have never committed any offence against you? let them answer for their sinns in the other world: there is a God in heaven, who is not negligent in punishing the evill, nor rewarding the good: And it is no wise decent, that honourable men should bee the executioners of other men, seeing they cannot gain or lose much thereby. I demand this of you in this peaceable quiet manner, to the end that if you accomplish my request, I may have occasion to yeeld you thanks; and if you will not doe it willingly, then shall this Launce and this Sword, guided by the invincible valour of mine arme force you to it.

This is a pleasant doting, answered the Commissary, and an excellent jest where­withall you have finished your large reasoning. Would you (good Sir Knight) have us leave unto you those the King forceth, as if wee had authority to let them goe, or you to command us to doe it. Goe on your way in a good hour gentle Sir, and settle the Bason you bear on your head somewhat righter, and search not thus whether the Cat hath three feet. Thou art a Cat, and a Rat, and a Knave, quoth Don-Quixote: And so with word and deed at once, hee assaulted him so suddainly, as without giving him leisure to defend himself, hee struck him down to the earth very sore wounded with a blow of his Launce; and as fortune would, this was hee that had the fire-lock piece: the rest of the guard remained astonished at the unexpected accident: but at last returning to themselves, the horse-men set hand to their swords, and the foot-men to their darts, and all of them set upon Don-Quixote, who expected them very quietly: And doubtlesly hee would have been in great danger, if the Slaves perceiving the occasion offered to bee so fit to recover liberty, had not procured it by breaking the chain wherein they were linked. The Hurliburly was such as the guards now began to runne to hinder the Slaves from untying themselves, now to offend Don-Quixote who assaulted them; so that they could doe nothing available to keep their Prisoners. Sancho for his part holp to lose Gines of Passamonte, who was the first that leaped free into the field without clog, and setting upon the overthrown Com­missary, he disarmed him of his sword and piece, and now ayming at the one and then at the other with it, without discharging, made all the guards to abandon the field, as well for feare of Passamontes piece, as also to shun the marvellous showre of stones that the Slaves, now delivered, poured on them. Sancho grew marveilous sad at this suc­cesse; for hee suspected that those which fled away, would goe and give notice of the violence committed to the Holy Brotherhood, which would presently issue in troops to search the Delinquents: And said as much to his Lord, requesting him to depart presently from thence, and imbosk himself in the Mountain, which was very neer. All is well, quoth Don-Quixote, I know now what is fit to bee done: And so calling together all the Slaves that were in a tumult, and had stript the Commissary naked, they came all about him, to hear what he commanded, to whom he said:

It is the part of people well borne to gratifie and acknowledge the benefits they re­ceive, ingratitude being one of the sins that most offendeth the highest. I say it Sirs, to this end, because you have by manifest tryall seen that which you have received at my hand, in reward whereof I desire, and it is my will, that all of you loaden with that chain from which I even now freed your necks, goe presently to the Citie of Toboso, and there present your selves before the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, and recount unto her, that her Knight of the ill-favoured face sends you there to remem­ber his service to her; and relate unto her at large the manner of your freedome, all [Page 47] you that have had such noble fortune, and this being done you may after goe where you please.

Gines de Passamonte answered for all the rest, saying; that which you demand, good Sir (our Releaser) is most impossible to bee performrd, by reason that wee cannot goe altogether through these wayes, but alone and divided, procuring each of us to hid himselfe in the bowels of the earth, to the end wee may not bee found by the Holy-bro­therhood, which will doubtlesly set out to search for us: that therefore which you may and ought to doe in this exigent is, to change this service and homage of the Lady Dul­nea of Toboso, into a certaine number of Ave Maries and Creedes, which wee will say for you [...] [...]tention, and this is a thing that may bee accomplished by night or by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to thinke that wee will returne againe to take up our chaynes, or set our selves in the way of Toboso, is as hard as to make us be­leeve, that it is now night, it being yet scarce ten of the clock in the morning, and to demand such a thing of us, is as likely as to seeke for Peares of the Elme-tree. I sweare by such a one (quoth Don-Quixote throughly enraged) Sir sonne of a whore, Don Ginesilio of Paropilli [...], or howsoever you are called, that thou shalt goe thy selfe alone with thy tayle betweene thy legs, and beare all the chaine in thy neck. Passamonte who was by nature very chollerick, knowing assuredly that Don-Quixote was not very wise (seeing hee had attempted such a desperate Act, as to seeke to give them liberty) seeing himselfe thus abused, winked on his Companions, and going a little aside, they sent such a showre of stones on Don-Quixote, as hee had no leisure to cover himselfe with his Buckler, and poore Rozinante made no more account of the spurre, then if his sides were made of Brasse. Sancho, ranne behinde his Asse, and by his meanes sheltred him­selfe from the clowd and showre of stones, that rained upon both. And Don-Quixote could not cover himselfe so well, but that a number of stones struck him in the body with so great force, as they overthrew him at last to the ground, and scarce was hee fallen when the Student leapt upon him and tooke the Bason off his head, and gave him three or foure blowes with it on the shoulders, and after struck it so oft about the ground as hee almost broke it in peeces. They tooke from him likewise a Cassock which hee wore upon his Armour, and thought also to take away his stockins but that they were hindred by his Greaves. From Sancho they tooke away his Cassocke, and left him in his hayre, and dividing all the spoyles of the Battaile among themselves, they departed every one by the way hee pleased, troubled with greater care how to escape from the Holy brotherhood which they feared, then to lade themselves with the iron chayne, and goe and present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. The Asse and Rozinante; Sancho and Don-Quixote remayned alone. The Asse stood pensative, with his head hanging downewards, shaking now and then his eares, thinking that the storme of stones was not yet past, but that they still buzzed by his head, Rozinante lay overthrowne by his Master, who was likewise struck downe by another blowe of a stone; Sancho in feare of the bullets of the Holy Brotherhood, and Don-Quixote most discontent to see himselfe so misused by those very same to whom hee had done so much good.

CHAP. IX.
Of that which befell the famous Don-Quixote in Siera Mo­nare, which was one of the most rare Adventures that in this or any other so authenticall a History is recounted.

Don-Quixote seeing himself in so ill plight, said to his Squire Sancho, I have heard say oft-times, that to doe good to men unthankfull, is to cast water into the Sea. If I had believed what thou said'st to me, I might well have prevented all this grief: but now that is past, patience, and be wiser another time. You will take warning as much by this, quoth Sancho, as I am a Turk. But since you say, that if you had believed me, you had avoided this grief, believe me now and you shall eschue a greater: for you must wit, that no Knighthood nor Chival [...]y is of any authority with the Holy Brotherhood; for it cares not two farthings for all the Knights Errant in the world; and know, that me thinks I hear their arrows buz about mine ears already. Sancho, thou art a naturall coward, quoth Don-Quixote; but be­cause thou may'st not say that I am obstinate, and that I never follow thine advice, I will take thy counsell this time, and convey my self from that furie which now thou fearest so much: but it shall bee on a condition, that thou never tell alive nor dying to any mortall Creature, that I retired or withdrew my self out of this danger for fear; but only to satisfie thy requests: For if thou sayest any other thing, thou shalt belie me most falsly: and even from this very time till that, and from thence untill now I give thee the lie herein; and I say thou lyest, and shalt lie as oft times as thou sayest or doest think the contrary; and doe not reply to me: For in onely thinking that I withdraw my self out of, any perill, but principally this, which seems to carry with it some shadow of fear: I am about to remain and expect here alone, not only for the Holy Brotherhood, which thou namest and fearest; but also for the Bretheren of the twelve Tribes, for the seven Macchabees, for Castor and Pollux, and for all the other Brothers and Brotherhoods in the world. Sir, answered Sancho, to retire is not to flie; and to expect is wisdome, when the danger exceepeth all hope: and it is the part of a wise men to keep himself safe to day for to morrow; and not to adventure himself wholy in one day. And know, that although I be but a rude Clown, yet doe I for all that understand somewhat of that which men call good government: and therefore doe not repent your self for following mine advice, but mount on Rozinante if you be able; if not, I will help you, and come after me; for my minde gives me that wee shall now have more use of leggs then hands.

Don-Quixote leaped on his horse, without replying a word, and Sancho guiding him on his Asse, they both entred into that part of Sierra Morena [A great and large Moun­tain of Spain] that was neer unto them: Sancho had a secret designe to cross over it all, and issue at Viso or Amadovar of Campo, and in the mean time to hide themselves for some dayes among those craggie and intricate Rocks, to the end they might not bee found by the Holy Bortherhood, if it did make after them. And hee was the more incouraged to doe this, because hee saw their Provision which hee carried on his Asse had escaped safely out of the skirmish of the Gally-slaves; a thing which hee accounted to bee a miracle, considering the diligence that the Slaves had used to search and carrie away all things with them. They arrived that night into the very mid'st and bowels of the Mountain, and there Sancho thought it fittest to spend that night, yea and some other few dayes also, at least as long as their Victuales indured, and with this resolution they took up their lodging among a number of Cork-Trees that grew between two Rocks. But fatall chance, which according to the opinion of those that have not the [Page 48] light of faith, guideth, directeth, and compounde [...]h all as it liketh, ordained, that that famous Cousener and Thief Gines de Passamonte, who was before delivered out of chains by Don-Quixotes force and folly, perswaded through fear he conceived of the Holy Brotherhood (whom hee had just cause to fear) resolved to hide himself likewise in that Mountain, and his fortune and fears led him just to the place where it had first addrest Don-Quixote and his Squire, just at such time as hee might perceive them, and they both at that instant fallen asleep: And as evill-men are evermore ingratefull, and that necessity forceth a man to attempt that which it urgeth, and likewise that the pre­sent redresse prevents the expectation of a future, Gines, who was neither gratefull nor gratious, resolved to steal away Sancho his Asse, making no account of Rozinante, as a thing neither saleable nor pawnable: Sancho slept soundly, and so hee stole his beast, and was before morning so farre off from thence, as hee feared not to bee found.

Aurora sallied forth at last to refresh the earth, and affright Sancho with a most sorrowfull accident, for he presently missed his Asse; and so seeing himself deprived of him, hee began the most sad and do [...]efull lamentation of the world; in such sort as hee awaked Don-Quixote with his out-cries, who heard that he said thus. O child of my howels; borne in mine own house; the sport of my children; the comfort of my wife; and the envie of my neighbours; the ease of my burdens; and finally, the susteiner of half of my person: for with six and twenty Marvidiis, that I gained dayly by thee, I did defray half of mine expences! Don-Quixote who heard the plaint, and knew also the cause, did comfort Sancho with the best words hee could devise, and desired him to have patience, promising to give a letter of exchange, to the end that they of his house might deliver him three Asses of five, which hee had left at home.

Sancho comforted himself again with this promise, and dryed up his tears, moderated his sighs, and gave his Lord thanks for so great a favour: And as they entred in farther among those Mountains wee cannot recount the joy of our Knight, to whom those places seemed most accommodate to atchieve the Adventures hee searched for. They reduced to his memory the marvellous accidents that had befaln Knights Errant in like Solitudes and Desarts: And hee rode so over-whelmed and transported by these thoughts, as hee remembred nothing else; nor Sancho had any other care (after hee was out of fear to bee taken) but how to fill his belly with some of the r [...]licks which yet remained of the Clericall spoyles; and so hee followed his Lord, taking now and then out of a basket (which Rozinante carried for want of the Asse) some meat, lining there-withall his paunch: and whilest hee went thus imployed, hee would not have given a [...] to encounter any other Adventure, how honourable soever.

But whilst he was thus busied, he espyed his Master labouring to take up with the point of his Javeline, some bulk or other that lay on the ground, and went towards him to see whether hee needed his help just at the season that he lifted up a saddle Cushion and a Portmantue fast to it, which were half [...] or rather wholly roited by the weather, yet they weighed so much that Sanchoes assistance was requisite to take them up: and straight his Lord commanded him to see what was in the Wallet. Sancho obeyed with expedition. And although it was shut with a chaine and hanging lock, yet by the parts which were torn he saw what was within, to wit four fine Holland shirts, and other [...] both curious and clean: and moreover a handkercher, wherein was a good quantity of Gold: which he perceiving said, Blessed bee Heaven which hath once presented to us a beneficiall Adventure: And searching for more, he found a Tablet very costly bound. This Don-Quixote took of him, com­manding him to keep the gold with himself; for which rich favour Sancho did presently kisse his handes: and after taking all the linnen, hee clapt it up in the bag of their Virtuals. Don-Quixote having stored all these things, said; Me thinks Sancho (and it cannot bee possible any other) that some trav [...]ler having left his way, past through this Mountain, and being encountred by thieves, they slew him, and buried him in this secret place. It cannot bee so, answered Sancho; for if they were Theeves, they [Page] would not have left this money behind them. Thou sayest true, quoth Don-Quixote, and therefore I cannot conjecture what it might be: but stay a while, we will see whether there be any thing written in these Tablets, by which we may vent and finde out that which I desire. Then he opened it, and the first thing that he found written in it, as it were a first draught, but done with a very faire Character, was a Sonnet which he read aloud, that Sancho might also hear it, and was this which ensues.

Nothing can bee learned by that Verse, quoth Sancho, if by that Hilo or thread [An allusion to the Spanish word Hilo, signifying a thread.] which is said there, you gather not where lies the rest of the clue. What Hilo is here, quoth Don-Quixote? Me thought, quoth Sancho, that you read Hilo there. I did not, but Fili, said Don-Quixote, which is without doubt the name of the Lady, on whom the Authour of this Sonnet complains, who in good truth seems to bee a reasonable good Poet, or else I know but little of that Art.

Why then, quoth Sancho, belike you doe also understand Poetry. That I doe, and more then thou thinkest, quoth Don-Quixote, as thou shalt see when thou shalt carry a Letter from me to my Lady Dulcinea de [...] Toboso, written in verse from the one end to the other: For I would thou shouldest know, Sancho, that all or the greater num­ber of Knights Errant, in times past, were great Versifiers and Musitians: For these two qualities, or graces as I may better terme them, are annext to amorous Knights Adventures. True it is, that the Verses of the ancient Knights are not so adorned with words as they are rich in conceits.

I pray you read more, quoth Sancho; for perhaps you may finde somewhat that may satisfie. Then Don-Quixote turned the leaf, and said, This is prose and seems to bee a Letter. What Sir, a missive Letter, quoth Sancho? No, but rather of Love, ac­cording to the beginning, quoth Don-Quixote. I pray you therefore, quoth Sancho, read it loud enough; for I take great delight in these things of Love. I am content, quoth Don-Quixote: And reading it loudly, as Sancho had requested, it said as ensueth.

Thy false promise and my certain misfortune, doe carry me to such a place, as from thence thou shalt sooner receive news of my death, then reasons of my just complaints. Thou hast disdained me (O ingrate) for one that hath more, but not for one that is worth more then I am: But if virtue were a treasure of estimation, I would not Emu­late other mens fortunes, nor weep thus for mine own misfortunes. That which thy beauty erected thy works have overthrown: by it I deemed thee to bee an Angell, and by these I certainly know thee to bee but a woman. Rest in peace (O causer of my War) and let Heaven work so, that thy Spouses deceits remain still concealed, to the end thou maiest not repent what thou did'st, and I bee constrained to take revenge of that I de­sire not.

[Page 49]Having read the Letter, Don-Quixote said, Wee can collect lesse by this then by the Verses, what the Authour is, other then that hee is some disdained Lover. And so passing over all the book, hee found other Verses and Letters, of which he could read some, others not at all. But the summe of them all were, Accusations, Plaints, and Mistrusts, Pleasures, Griefs, Favours, and Disdains, some Solemnized, others De­plored. And whilest Don-Quixote past over the Book, Sancho past over the Malet, without leaving a corner of it or the Cushion unsearched, or a seam unript, nor a lock of wooll uncarded, to the end that nothing might remain behinde for want of dilli­gence or carelessenesse. The found gold which past a hundred crowns, had stir'd in him such a greedinesse to have more. And though hee got no more then that which hee found at the first, yet did hee account his flights in the Coverlet, his vomitting of the Drench, the benedictions of the Pack-staves, the blows of the Carrier, the losse of his Wallet, the robbing of his Cas [...]ock, and all the hunger thirst and wearinesse that hee had past in the service of his good Lord and Master, for well imployed; account­ing himself to be more then well payed by the gifts received of the money they found. The Knight of the Ill-favoured face was the while possessed with a marvellous desire to know who was the owner of the malet, conjecturing by the Sonnet and Letter, the gold and Linnen, that the enamoured was some man of worth, whom the disdain and rigour of his Lady had conducted to some desperate termes. But by reason that no body appeared, through that inhabitable and Desart place, by whom hee might bee informed, hee thought on it no more, but only rode on, without choosing any other way then that which pleased Rozinante to travail, who took the plainest and easiest to passe thorow having still an imagination that there could not want some strange Ad­venture amid'st that Forrest.

And as he rode on with this conceit, hee saw a man on the top of a little Mountain that stood just before his face, leap from Rock to Rock, and Tuff to Tuff, with won­de [...]full dexterity. And as hee thought was naked, had a black and thick beard; the hairs many and confusedly mingled; his feet and leggs bare; his thighs were covered with a pair of hose, which seemed to bee of murry Velvet, but were so torn, that they discovered his flesh in many places: His head was likewise bare; and although hee past by with the haste wee have recounted, yet did The Knight of the ill-favoured face note all these particulars; and although hee endeavoured, yet could not hee follow him; for it was not in Rozinantes power, in that weake state wherein hee was, to travail so swiftly among those Rocks chiefly being naturally very slow and fleg­matick.

Don-Quixote after espying him, did instantly imagine him to bee the owner of the Cushion and Malet; and therefore resolved to goe on in his search, although hee should spend a whole yeer therein among those Mountains; and commanded Sancho to goe about the one side of the Mountain, and hee would goe the other, and, quoth hee, it may befall, that by using this dilligence, wee may incounter with that man which vanished so suddainly out of our sight.

I cannot doe so, quoth Sancho; for that in parting one step from you, fear presently so assalts me with a thousand visions and affrightments. And let this serve you here­after for a warning to the end you may not henceforth part me the black of a nail from your presence. It shall be so, answered The Knight of the ill-favoured face: and I am very glad that thou doest thus build upon my valour, the which shall never fail thee, al­though thou didest want thy very [...]oul; and therefore follow me by little and little or as thou mayest, and make of thine eyes two Lant-hornes; for wee will give a turne about this little Rock, and perhaps wee may meet with this man whom we saw even now, who doublesly can bee none other then the owner of our booty.

To which Sancho, replyed, It were much better not to finde him: for if wee should meet him, and were by chance the owner of this money, it is most evident that I must restore it to him; and therefore it is better without using this unprofitable dilligence, to let me possesse it bona fide, untill the true Lord shall appear by some way lesse cu­rious [Page] and dilligent: which perhaps may fall at such a time as it shall bee all spent; and in that case I am free from all Processes by priviledge of the King.

Thou deceivest thy self, Sancho, therein, quoth Don-Quixote: for seeing wee are fallen already into suspition of the owner, wee are bound to search and restore it to him: and when wee would not seek him out, yet the vehement presumption that wee have of it, hath made us possessors mala-fide, and renders us as culpable as if hee whom we surmise were verily the true Lord. So that, friend Sancho, be not grieved to seek him, in respect of the grief whereof thou shalt free me if he be found. And saying so spur'd Rozinante, and Sancho followed after a foot, animated by the hope of the young Asses his Master had promised unto him: And having compassed a part of the Moun­tain, they found a little stream, wherein lay dead, and half devoured by Doggs and Crows, a Mule saddled and bridled, all which confirmed more in them the suspition, that hee which fled away was owner of the Mule and Cushion. And as they looked on it, they heard a whistle, much like unto that which Sheepheards use as they keep their Flocks, and presently appeared at their left hand a great number of Goats, after whom the Goatheard that kept them, who was an aged man followed on the top of the Mountain; and Don-Quixote cried to him, requesting him to come down to them: who answered them again as loudly; demanding of them, who had brought them to those Desarts rarely trodden by any other then Goats, Wolves, or other Savage Beasts which frequented those Mountains? Sancho answered him, That if hee would descend where they were, they would give him account thereof.

With that the Sheepheard came down, and arriving to the place where Don-Quixote was, hee said; I dare wager that you look on the hyred Mule which lies dead there in that bottome; well, in good faith, he hath lien in that very place these six moneths. Say, I pray you, have not you met in the way with the Master thereof? Wee have encountred no body but a Cushion and a little Malet, which we found not very far off from hence. I did likewise finde the same, replyed the Goat-heard, but I would never take it up nor approach to it, fearfull of some misdemeanor, or that I should be hereafter demanded for it as for a stealth. For the Divell is crafty, and now and then something ariseth, even from under a mans feet, whereat he stumbles and falls, without knowing how or how not.

That is the very same, I say, quoth Sancho: for I likewise found it, but would not approach it the cast of a stone: There I have left it; and there it remains as it was; for I would not have a Dog with a Bell. Tell me good fellow, quoth Don-Quixote, dost thou know who is the owner of all these things?

That which I can say, answered the Goat-heard, is, that about some six moneths past, little more or lesse, there arrived at a certain Sheep fold some three leagues off, a young Gentleman of comely personage, and presence, mounted on that very Mule which lies dead there, and with the same Cushion and Malet which you say you met, but touched not. Hee demanded of us, which was the most hidden and inaccessable part of the Mountain? And we told him that this wherein we are now: And it is true; for if you did enter but half a league farther, perhaps you would not finde the way out again so readily: and I doe greatly marvell how you could finde the way hither it self; for there is neither high way nor path that may addresse any to this place. I say then, that the young man, as soon as he heard our answer, he turned the bridle, and travelled towards the place we shewed to him, leaving us all with very great liking of his comelinesse, and marvelled at his demand and speed, wherewith he departed and made towards the Mountain: and after that time, we did not see him a good many of dayes, untill by chance one of our Sheepheards came by with our provision of victuals, to whom hee drew nee [...], without speaking a word, and spurned and bea [...] him welfavour'dly, and after went to the Asse which carried our victuals, and taking away all the Bread and Cheese that was there, hee fled into the Mountain with wonderfull speed.

When we heard of this, some of us Goat-heards, we went to search for him, and spent therein almost two dayes in the most solitary places of this Mountain, and in the [Page 50] end found him lurking in the hollow part of a very tall and great Corke-tree; who as soon as he perceived us, came forth to meet us with great staidnesse; His apparrell was all torn; his visage disfigured, and toasted with the Sunne in such manner, as we could scarce know him, if it were not that his attire, although rent, by the notice we had of it, did give us to understand that he was the man for whom we sought. He saluted us courteously, and in brief and very good reasons he said, that we ought not to mar­vell, seeing him goe in that manner; for that it behoved to doe so, that he might ac­complish a certain penance injoyned to him, for the many sinns hee had committed. We prayed him to tell us what he was; but we could never perswade him to it. Wee requested him likewise, that whensoever hee had any need of meat (without which hee could not live) hee should tell us where we might finde him, and wee would bring it to him with great love and dilligence; and that if he also did not like of this motion, that he would at least wise come and ask it, and not take it violently, as he had done before from our Sheepheards. He thanked us very much for our offer, and intreated pardon of the assults passed, and promised to ask it from thence forward for Gods sake, without giving annoyance to any one. And touching his dwelling or place of abode, he said, That he had none other then that where the night overtook him, and ended his Discourse with so feelling laments, that we might well be accounted stones which heard him, if therein we had not kept him company, considering the state wherein wee had seen him first; and that wherein now he was. For as I said, he was a very comely and gracious young man, and shewed by his courteous and orderly speech, that he was well borne, and a Court-like person: For though wee were all Clowns, such as did hear him, his Gentility was such as could make it self known, even to rudenesse it self: And being in the best of his Discourse, he stopt and grew silent, fixing his eyes on the ground a good while, wherein we likewise stood still suspended, expecting in what that distraction would end, with no little compassion to behold it; for we easily perceived that some accident of madness had surprized him, by his staring & beholding the earth so fixedly, without once moving the eye-lid; And other times by the shutting of them, the byting of his lips, and bending of his brows. But very spee­dily after, he made us certain thereof himself: for rising from the ground (wheron he had thrown himself a little before) with great furie, he set upon him that sate next unto him, with such courage and rage, that if wee had not taken him away, he would have slain him with blows and bites; and hee did all this, saying, O treacherous Fer­nando, here, here thou shalt pay me the injurie that thou did'st me; these hands shall rent out the heart, in which doe harbour and are heaped all evills together, but princi­pally fraud and deceit: And to these hee added other words, all addrest to the dis­praise of that Fernando, and to attach him of treason and untruth.

Wee tooke from him at last, not without difficulty, our fellow, and hee without saying a word departed from us, embushing himselfe presently among the bushes and brambles, leaving us wholly disabled to follow him in those rough and unhaunted pla­ces. By this wee gathered that his madnesse comes to him at times, and that some one called Fernando, had done some ill worke of such weight, as the termes shew, to which it hath brought him. All which hath after beene yet confirmed as often (which were many times) as hee came out to the fields, sometimes to demand meat of the Sheep­heards, and other times to take it of them perforce; for when hee is taken with this fit of madnesse, although the Sheepheards doe offer him meat willingly, yet will not hee receive, unlesse hee take it with buffets: and when hee is in his right sense, hee asks it for Gods sake, with courtesie and humanitie, and renders many thanks, and that not without teares. And in very truth, Sir, I say unto you, quoth the Goat-heard, that I and foure others, whereof two are my men, other two my friends, resolved yester­day to search untill wee found him, and being found, either by force or faire meanes, wee will carry him to the towne of Almodaver, which is but eight leagues from hence, and there will wee have him cured, if his disease may bee holpen, or at least wee shall learne what hee is, when hee turnes to his wits, and whether hee hath any friends to whom notice of his misfortune may bee given. This is, Sirs, all that I can say concer­ning [Page] that which you demand of mee; and you shall understand that the owner of those things which you saw in the way, is the very same, whom you saw passe by you so na­ked and nimble: for Don-Quixote had told him by this, that hee had seen that man goe by, leaping among the Rocks.

Don-Quixote rested marvailously admired at the Goatheards tale, and with greater desire to know who that unfortunate mad-man was, purposed with himselfe, as he had already resolved, to search him throughout the Mountaines, without leaving a corner or Cave of it unsought, untill hee had gotten him. But Fortune disposed the matter better then hee expected; for hee appeared in that very instant in a clift of a Rock, that answered to the place where they stood speaking, who came towards them, murmu­ring somwhat to himselfe, which could not bee understood neere at hand, and much lesse a farre off: His aparrell was such as wee have delivered, only differing in this, as Don-Quixote perceived when hee drew neerer, that hee wore on him, although torne, a leather Jerkin, perfumed with Amber; by which hee throughly collected, that the person which wore such attire was not of the least qualitie.

When the young man came to the place where they discoursed, hee saluted them with a hoarce voice, but with great courtesie: and Don-Quixote returned him his gree­tings with no lesse complement; and alighting from Rozinante, hee advanced to im­brace him with very good carriage and countenance, and held him a good while streightly betweene his armes, as if hee had known him of long time. The other, whom wee may call The unfortunate Knight of the Kock, as well as Don-Quixote the Knight of the illfavored face; after hee had permitted himselfe to bee imbraced a while, did step a little off from our Knight, and laying his hand on his shoulders, began to be­hold him earnestly, as one desirous to call to minde whether hee had ever seene him be­fore; being perhaps no lesse admired to see Don-Quixotes figure, proportion and Armes, then Don-Quixote was to view him. In resolution, the first that spoke after the imbracing, was the ragged Knight, and said what wee will presently recount.

CHAP. X.
Wherein is prosecuted the Adventure of Sierra Morena.

THE Historie affirmes, that great was the attention wherewithall Don-Quixote listned to the unfortunate Knight of the Rock, who be­gan his speech on this manner: Truly, good Sir, whatsoever you bee (for I know you not) I doe with all my heart gratifie the signes of affection and courtesie which you have used towards mee, and wish heartily that I were in termes to serve with more then my will, the good-will you beare towards mee, as your courteous entertain­ment denotes; but my fate is so niggardly, as it affords mee no other meanes to repay good works done to mee, then only to lend mee a good desire sometime to satisfie them.

So great is mine affection, replied Don-Quixote, to serve you, as I was fully resol­ved never to depart out of these Mountaines untill I had found you, and known of your selfe whether there might bee any kinde of remedy found for the griefe that this your so unusuall a kinde of life argues doth possess your soule; and if it were requisite, to search it out with all possible diligence: and when your disasters were knowne of those which clap their doores in the face of comfort, I intended in that case to beare a part in your lamentations, and plaine it with the dolefull note; for it is a consolation in afflictions, to have one that condoles in them. And if this my good intention may merit any acceptance, or bee gratified by any courtesie, let mee intreat you Sir, by the [Page 51] excesse thereof, which I see accumulated in your bosome; and joyntly I conjure you by that thing which you have, or doe presently most affect; that you will please to dis­close unto mee who you are, and what the cause hath beene that perswaded you to come to live and die in these Desarts, like a bruite beast, seeing you live among such, so alie­nated from your selfe, as both your attyre & countenance demonstrate. And I doe vow (quoth Don-Quixote) by the high order of Chivalry, which I (although unwor­thy and a sinner) have received; and by the profession of Knighes Errant, that if you doe pleasure mee herein, to assist you with as good earnest as my profession doth binde mee, eyther by remedying your disaster, if it can bee holpen; or else by assisting you to lament it, if it bee so desperate.

The Knight of the Rock, who heard him of the Illfavored face speake in that manner, did nothing else for a great while, but behold him again and again, and re-behold him from top to toe, And after viewing him well hee said, If you have any thing to eate, I pray you give it mee for Gods sake, and after I have eaten I will satisfie your demand throughly, to gratifie the many courtesies and undeserved proffers you have made unto mee. Sancho, and the Goatheard presents the one out of his Wallet, the other out of his Scrip, tooke some meate and gave it to the Knight of the Rock to allay his hunger, and hee did eate so fast, like a distracted man, as hee left no intermission betweene bit and bit, but clapt them up so swiftly, as hee rather seemed to swallow then to chew them; and whilest hee did eate, neither hee or any of the rest spake a word; and ha­ving ended his dinner, hee made them signes to follow him, as at last they did, unto a little Meadow seated hard by that place, at the fold of a Mountaine, where being ari­ved, hee stretched himselfe on the grasse, which the rest did likewise in his imitation, without speaking a word, untill that hee after setling himselfe in his place, began in this manner; If Sirs, you please to heare the exceeding greatnesse of my disasters briefly re­hearsed, you must promise mee, that you will not interrupt the file of my dolefull nar­ration, with either demand or other thing; for in the very instant that you shall doe it, there also must remaine that which I say depending. These words of our ragged Knights, called to Don-Quixotes remembrance the tale which his Squire had told unto him, where hee erred in the account of his Goates which had passed the River, for which that Historie remained suspended. But returning to our ragged man, hee said; This prevention which now I give, is to the end that I may compendiously passe over the discourse of my mishaps; for the revoking of them to remembrance, only serves mee to none other stead, then to increase the old, by adding of new misfortunes; and by how much the fewer your questions are, by so much the more speedily shall I have finished my pittifull discourse; and yet I meane not to omit the essentiall point of my woes untouch't, that your desires may bee herein sufficiently satisfied. Don-Quixote in his owne, and his other companions name, promised to perform his request, where­upon he began his relation on this manner.

My name is Cardenic, the place of my byrth, one of the best Cities in Andaluzia, my linage noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great, as I thinke my parents have ere this deplored, and my kinsfolke condoled them; being very little able with their wealth to redresse them; for the goods of fortune are but of small vertue to re­medie the disasters of Heaven. There dwelt in the same Citie a Heaven, wherein love had placed all the glorie that I could desire: so great is the beauty of Luscinda, a dam­zel as noble and rich as I, but more fortunate, and lesse constant then my honourable desires expected. I loved, honoured and adored this Luscinda, almost from my very infancy, and shee affected mee likewise, with all the integritie and good will which with her so young yeeres did accord. Our parents knew our mutuall amitie, for which they were nothing agrieved, perceiving very well, that although wee continued it, yet could it have none other end but that of Matrimonie; a thing which the equalitie of our blood and substance, did of it selfe almost invite us to. Our age and affection increa­sed in such sort, as it seemed fit for Luscinda's father, for certaine good respects, to de­ny mee the entrance of his house any longer; imitating in a manner therein Tisbi, so much solemnized by the Poets, her parents, which hindrance served only to add flame [Page] to flame, and desire to desire: for although it set silence to our tongues, yet would they not impose it to our Pens, which are wont to expresse to whom it pleased, the most hidden secrecies of our souls, with more libertie then the tongue; for the pre­sence of the beloved doth often distract, trouble, and strike dumb the boldest tongue and firmest resolution. O Heavens! how many Letters have I written unto her? What cheerfull and honest answers have I received? How many Ditties and amorous Verses have I composed, wherein my soul declared and published her passions, declined her inflamed desires, entertained her remembrance, and recreated her will? In effect, perceiving my self to be forced, and that my soul consumed with a perpetuall desire to behold her, I resolved to put my desires in execution, and finish in an instant that which I deemed most expedient for the better atchieving of my desired, and de­served reward; which was (as I did indeed) to demaund her of her father for my lawfull Spouse.

To which he made answer, That he 'did gratifie the good will which I shewed by honouring him, and desire to honour my self with pawns that were his: But seeing my Father yet lived, the motion of that matter properly most concerned him: For if it were not done with his good liking and pleasure, Luscinda was not a woman to be taken or given by stealth. I rendred him thanks for his good will, his words seeming unto me very reasonable, as that my father should agree unto them, as soon as I should explain the matter; and therefore departed presently to acquaint him with my desires; who at the time which I entred into a chamber, wherein he was, stood with a letter open in his hand; and espying me, e're I could break my minde unto him, gave it me, saying; By that Letter, Cardenio, you may gather the desire that Duke Ricardo bears, to doe you any pleasure or favour.

This Duke Ricardo, as I think you know Sirs already, is a Grandee of Spain, whose Dukedome is seated in the best part of all Andaluzia. I took the Letter and read it, which appeared so urgent, as I my self accounted it would be ill done, if my father did not accomplish the contents thereof, which were indeed, that he should presently ad­dresse me to his Court, to the end I might be companion (and not servant) to his eldest sonne; and that hee would incharge himself with the advancing of me to such preferments as might be answerable unto the value and estimation hee made of my person. I past over the whole Letter, and was strucken dumb at the reading thereof; but chiefly hearing my Father to say, Cardenio, thou must depart within two dayes, to accomplish the Dukes desire; and omit not to render Almighty God thanks, which doth thus open the way, by which thou mayest attain in fine to that which I know thou doest merit: And to these words added certain others of Fatherly counsell and direction. The term of my departure arrived, and I spoke to my Luscinda on a cer­tain night, and recounted unto her all that passed, and likewise to her father, intreat­ing him to overslip a few dayes, and defer the bestowing of his daughter else-where, untill I went to understand Duke Ricardo his will; which he promised me, and shee confirmed it with a thousand oaths and promises.

Finally, I came to Duke Ricardo's Court, and was so friendly received and enter­tained by him, as even very then envie began to exercise her accustomed Function, be­ing forthwith emulated by the ancient Servitors; perswading themselves, that the tokens the Duke shewed to doe me favours could not but turn to their prejudice. But hee that rejoyced most at mine arrivall was a second sonne of the Dukes, called Fer­nando, who was young, gallant, very comely, liberall and amorous; who within a while after my coming, held me so deerly, as every one wondred thereat: And though the elder loved me well, and did me favour; yet was it in no respect comparable to that wherewithall Don Fernando loved and treated me. It therefore befell, that as there is no secresie amongst friends so great, but they will communicate it the one to the other; and the familiarity which I had with Don Fernando was now past the limits of favour, and turned into dearest amitie: He revealed unto me all his thoughts; but chiefly one of his Love, which did not a little molest him: For he was enamoured on a Farmers daughter that was his Fathers Vassall, whose parents were marvellous rich, [Page 52] and shee her self so bautifull, warie, discret, and honest, as never a one that knew her could absolutely determine wherein, or in which of all her perfections shee did most excell, or was most accomplished. And those good parts of the beautifull Countrey­maide, reduced Don-Fernando his desires to such an exigent, as hee resolved that hee might the better gaine her good will, and conquer her integritie, to passe her a promise of marriage; for otherwise hee should labour to effect that which was impossible, and but strive against the streame. I, as one bound thereunto by our friendship, did thwart and disswade him from his purpose with the best reasons, and most efficacious words I might: and seeing all could not prevaile, I determined to acquaint the Duke Ricardo his father therewithall; But Don Fernando being very crafty and discreete, su­spected and feared as much, because hee considered that in the law of a faithfull servant, I was bound not to conceale a thing that would turne so much to the prejudice of the Duke my Lord, and therefore both to divert and deceive mee at once, that hee could finde no meanes so good, to deface the remembrance of that beautie out of his minde, which held his heart in such subjection, then to absent himselfe for certaine moneths; and hee would likewise have that absence to be this, That both of us should depart to­gether, and come to my fathers house, under prettence (as he would informe the Duke) that he went to see and cheap [...]n certain great horses that were in the City wherein I was borne; a place of breeding the best horses in the world.

Scarce had I heard him say this (when borne away by the naturall propension each one hath to his Countrey, and my love joyn'd) although his designment had not been so good, yet would I have ratified it, as one of the most expedient that could be ima­gined, because I saw occasion and oportunity so fairly offered, to return and see again my Luscinda. And thereof set on by this thought and desire, I approved his opinion, and did quicken his purpose, perswading him to prosecute it with all possible speed; for absence would in the end work her effect in despight of the most forcible and ur­gent thoughts; And when he said this to me, he had already, under the title of a hus­band (as it was afterward known) reaped the fruits of his longed desires, from his beautifull Countr [...]y-Maid, and did only await an oportunity to reveal it without his own detriment, fearfull of the Duke his fathers indignation, when he should under­stand his erro [...]r.

It afterward hapned, that as love in young men is not for the most part Love, but last, the which (as it ever proposeth to it self as his last end and period, is delight) so as soon as it obteineth the same, it likewise decayeth and maketh forcibly to retire that which was tearmed Love; for it cannot transgresse the limits which Nature hath assigned it which boundings are meares, Nature hath in no wise allotted to true and sincere affe­ction. I would say, that as soon as Don Fernando had injoyed his Countrey-Lasse, his desires weakned, and his importunities waxed cold; and if at the first he [...]eigned an excuse to absent himself, that he might with more facility compasse them, he did now in very good earnest procure to depart, to the end hee might not put them in execu­tion. The Duke gave him licence to depart, and commanded me to accompany him. Wee came to my Citie, where my Father entertained him according [...] talling. I saw Luscinda, and then again were reviv'd (although indeed they were neither dead nor mortified) my desires, and acquainted Don Fernando (alas, to my totall ruine) with them, because I thought it was not lawfull by the law of amity to keep any thing concealed from him: There I dilated to him, on the Beauty, Wit, and Discretion of Luscinda, in so ample manner, as my prayses stirred in him a desire to view a Damzell so greatly adorned, and inriched with so rare endowments: And this his desire I (through my misfortune) satisfied, shewing her unto him by the light of a candle, at a window where wee two were wont to pa [...]le together; where he beheld her to bee such as was sufficient to blot out of his memory all the beauties which ever hee had viewed before. Hee stood mute, beside himself, and ravished; and moreover rested so greatly enamoured, as you may perceive in the discourse of this my do [...]efull narration: And to inflame his desires the more (a thing which I fearfully avoyded, and only discovered to heaven) fortune so disposed; that hee found after me one of her Letters, wherein [Page] she requested that I would demand her of her father for wife, which was so discreete, honest and amorously penned, as he said after reading it, that in Luscinda alone were included all the graces of Beauty and Understanding joyntly, which were divided and separate in all the other women of the world.

Yet in good sooth I will here confesse the truth, that although I saw cleerely how de­servedly Luscinda was thus extold by Don Fernando, yet did not her prayses please mee so much pronounced by him; and therefore began to feare and suspect him, because he let no moment overslip us, without making some mention of Luscinda, and would still himselfe begin the Discourse, were the occasion ever so far fetched, a thing which rowsed in mee I cannot tell what jealousie; not that I did feare any traverse in Luscindaes loyalty, but yet for all my Fates made mee the very thing which they most assured mee: and Don Fernando procured to read all the papers I sent to Luscinda, or shee to mee, under pretext that hee tooke extraordinary delight to note the witty con­ceits of us both. It therefore fell out, that Luscinda having demanded of mee a booke of Chivalry to read, wherein shee took marveilous delight, and was that of Amadis du Gaule.

Scarce had Don-Quixote well heard him make mention of bookes of Knighthood, when hee replyed to him. If you had, good sir, but once told mee at the beginning of your historicall narration, that your Lady Luscinda was affected to the reading of Knightly Adventures, you needed not to have used any amplification to indeer or make plaine unto mee the eminencie of her wit, which certainly could not in any wise bee so excellent and perspicuous as you have figured it, if shee wanted the propension and fee­ling you have rehearsed, to the perusing of so pleasing discourses; so that henceforth, with mee, you neede not spend any more words to explane and manifest the height of her beauty, worths and understanding, for by this only notice I have received of her devo­tion to bookes of Knighthood, I doe confirme her for the most faire and accomplished woman for all perfections in the world; and I would to God, good Sir, that you had also sent her together with Amadis, the Histories of the good Don Rugel of Grecia, for I am certaine, the Lady Luscinda would have taken great delight in Darayda and Ga­raya, and in the witty conceits of the Sheepheard Darinel, and in those admirable ver­ses of his Bucolicks, sung and rehearsed by him with such grace, discretion and libertie. But a time may come, wherein this fault may bee recompenced, if it shall please you to come with mee to my Village; for there I may give you three hundred Bookes, which are my Soules greatest contentment, and the entertainment of my life; although I doe now verily beleeve that none of them are left, thanks bee to the malice of evill and en­vious Enchanters. And I beseech you to pardon me this transgression of our agreement at the first, promised not to interrupt your Discourses; for when I heare any motion made of Chivalry or Knights Errant, it is no more in my power to omit to speake of them, then in the Sunne-beames to leave off warming, or in the Moones to render things humid. And therefore I intreate pardon, and that you will prosecute your Hi­story, as that which most imports us.

Whilest Don-Quixotes spoke those words, Cardenio hanged his head on his breast, giving manifest tokens that hee was exceeding sad. And although Don-Quixote reque­sted him twice to follow on with his Discourse, yet neither did he lift up his head, or answere a word, till at last, after hee had stood a good while musing, hee held up his head and said; It cannot bee taken out of my minde, nor is there any one in the world can deprive me of the conceit, or make me beleeve the contrary; and hee were a bottle-head, that would think or beleeve otherwise then that the great villain Mr. Elisabat the Barbar kept Queen Madasima as his Lemman.

That is not so, I vow by such and such, quoth Don-Quixote in great choler (and as hee was wont, rapt out three or foure round oathes) It is great malice, or rather vil­lany to say such a thing. For Queene Madasima was a very noble Lady, and it ought not to bee presumed that so high a Princesse would fall in love with a Quack-salver, and whosoever thinks the contrary, lies like an arrant Villaine, as I will make him under­stand a horseback or a foote, armed or disarmed, by night or by day, or as he best liketh. [Page 53] Cardenio stood beholding him very earnestly as hee spoke these words, whom the acci­dent of his madnesse had by this possessed, and was not in plight to prosecute his Histo­ry, nor would Don-Quixote give eare to it, he was so mightily disgusted to hear Queen Madasima detracted.

A marvellous accident! for hee took her defence as earnestly, as if she were verily his true and naturall Princesse, his wicked books had so much distracted him. And Cardenio being by this furiously madd, hearing himself answered with the lye, and the denomination of a Villaine, with other the like outrages, hee took the rest in ill part; and lifting up a stone that was neer unto him, gave Don-Quixote such a blow there­withall, as he overthrew him to the ground on his back. Sancho Panca seeing his Ma­ster so roughly handled, set upon the fool with his fist shut; and the ragged man re­ceived his assault in such manner, as he likewise overthrew him at his feet with one fist, and mounting afterward upon him, did work him with his feet like a piece of dough: And the Goat-heard who thought to succour him, was like to incur the same danger. And after he had overthrown and beaten them all very well, he departed from them and entred into the wood very quietly. Sancho arose, and with rage to see himself so belaboured without desert, he ran upon the Goat-heard to be revenged on him, say­ing that he was in the fault, who had not premonished them, how that mans raving fits did take him so at times; for had they been advertised thereof, they might have stood all the while on their guard.

The Goat-heard answered, that he had already advised them thereof; and if he had not been attentive thereunto, yet he was therefore nothing the more culpable.

Sancho Panca replyed, and the Goat-heard made a rejoynder thereunto; but their disputation ended at last in the catching hold of one anothers beards, and be-fisting themselves so uncompassionately, as if Don-Quixote had not pacified them, they would have torne one another to pieces. Sancho holding still the Goat-heard fast, said unto his Lord, Let me alone, Sir Knight of the Ill-favoured face; for on this man who is a Clown as I am my self, and no dubed Knight, I may safely satisfie my self of the wrong hee hath done me, by fighting with him hand to hand like an honourable man. It is true, quoth Don-Quixote, but I know well, that hee is in no wise culpa­ble of that which hath hapned. And saying so, appeased them, and turned a­gain to demand of the Goat-heard, whether it were possible to meet again with Cardenio; for he remained possessed with an exceeding desire to know the end of his History.

The Goat-heard turned again to repeat what he had said at the first, to wit, that he knew not any certain place of his abode; but if hee haunted that Commark any while, he would some time meet with him, either in his madd or modest humour.

CHAP. XI.
Which treates of the strange Adventures that happened to the Knight of the Mancha, in Sierra Morena; and of the pennance he did there, in imitation of Beltinebros.

DOn-Quixote tooke leave of the Goatheard, and mounting once againe on Rozinante, hee commanded Sancho to follow him, who obeyed but with a very ill will; and thus they travelled by little and little, entring into the thickest and roughest part of all the Mountaine, and Sancho went almost burst with a desire to reason with his Master, and therefore wished in minde that hee would once begin, that he might not transgresse his commandement of silence imposed on him, but growing at last wholly impotent to containe himselfe speechlesse any longer: Good Syr Don-Quixote. I pray you give mee your blessing, and license; for I meane to de­dart from this place, and returne to my house, my wife and children, with whom I shall bee, at least, admitted to reason and speake my pleasure; for that you would de­sire to have mee keepe you company through these Desarts, night and day, and that I may not speake when I please, is but to bury mee alive. Yet if Fortune had so happily disposed our affaires, as that beasts could speake as they did in Guisopetes time, the harme had beene lesse, for then would I discourse a while with Rozinante (seeing my [...]iggardly fortune hath not consented I might doe it with mine Asse) what I thought good, and in this sort would I weave my mishaps; for it is a stubborne thing, and that cannot bee borne with patience, to travell all the dayes of our life, and not to encoun­ter any other thing then tramplings under feete, tossings in Coverlets, blowes of stones and buffets, and bee besides all this forced to sow up our Mouthes, a man daring not to breake his minde, but to stande mute like a poste. Sancho, I understand thee now, quoth Don-Quixote, thou diest with longing to speake that which I have forbidden thee to speake; account therefore that commandement revoked, and say what thou plea­sest, on condition that this revocation be only available and of force whilest we dewll in these Mountaines, and no longer.

So bee it, quoth Sancho, let mee speake now, for what may [...]er befall God only knowes, and then beginning to take the benefit of his license, hee said, I pray you tell mee, what benefit could you reape by taking Queene Magimasaes part? Or what was it to the purpose that that Abbat was her friend or no? For if you had let it slip, see­ing you were not his Judge, I verily beleeve that the foole had prosecuted his tale, and wee should have escaped the blow of the stone, the trampling under feete and spurnings; yea, and more then five or six good buffets. Yfaith Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, if thou knowest as well as I did, how honourable and principall a Lady was Queen Ma­dasima, thou wouldst rather say that I had great patience, seeing I did not strike him on the mouth, out of which such blasphemies issued; for it is a very great dishonour to aver or thinke that any Queene would fall in love with a Barber. For the truth of the History is, that Master Elisabat, of whom the mad man spoke, was very prudent, and a man of a sound judgemen, and [...] the Queene as her Tutor and Physitian; but to thinke that shee was his Lemman, is a madnesse worthy the severest punishment: and to the end thou maist see that Cardenio knew not what hee said, thou must understand that when he spoke it, he then was wholy beside himself.

That's it which I say, quoth Sancho, that you ought not to make recount of words spoken by a Foole; for if fortune had not assisted you, but addressed the stone to your head, as it did to your breast, wee should have remained in good plight, for having tur­ned so earnestly in that my Ladies defence, whom God confound: and think you that [Page 54] Cardenio would not escape the dangers of the Law, by reason of his madnesse? Any Knight Errant, answered Don-Quixote, is bound to turn for the honour of women, of what quality soever, against [...] mad or unmad men: How much more for Queens of so high degree and worth, as was Queen Madesina, to whom I bear particular affections for her good parts? For besides her being marvellous beautifull, shee was moreover very prudent and patient in her calamities, which were very many, and the company and counsells of Master Elisabat proved very beneficiall and necessary, to induce her to bear her mishaps with prudence and patience: and hence the ignorant and ill-meaning Vulgar took occasion to suspect and affirm, that shee was his friend: but I say again they lie, and all those that doe either think or say it, doe lie a thousand times.

Why, quoth Sancho, I neither say it nor think it; let those affirm any such thing, eat that [...]ye and swallow it with their bread [...] and if they of whom you spoak lived lightly, they have given account to God thereof by this: I come from my Vineyard; I know nothing: I am not afraid to know other mens lives: For he that buyes and lyes, shall feel it in his purse: How much more seeing I was borne naked, aud am now naked, I can neither win nor lose? A man is but a man, though he have a hose on his head; but howsoever, what is that to me? And many think there is a Sheep where there is no Fleece. But who shall bridle a man's understanding when men are prophane? Good God, quoth Don-Quixote! how many follies hast thou inserted here? and how wide from our purpose are those proverbs which thou hast recited? Honest Sancho, hold thy peace, and from henceforth indeavour to serve thy Master, and doe not meddle with things which concern thee nothing; and under­stand with all thy five Senses, that whatsoever I have done, doe, or shall doe, is wholly guided by reason, and conformable to the rules of Knighthood, which I know better then all the other Knights that ever profest them in the world. Sir, quoth Sancho, and it is a good rule of Chivalry, that wee goe wandring and lost among these Mountains in this sort, without path or way, in the search of a mad-man, to whom peradventure after hee is found, will return a desire to finish what hee began, not of his tale, but of your head and my ribs, by indeavouring to break them soundly and thorowly.

Peace I say Sancho, once again, quoth Don-Quixote; for thou must wit, that the desire of finding the mad-man alone brings me not into these parts so much, as that which I have in my minde to atchieve a certain Adventure, by which I shall acquire eternall renown and fame, throughout the universall face of the earth; and I shall therewithall seal all that which may render a Knight Errant compleat and famous. And is the Adventure very dangerous, quoth Sancho Panca? No, answered the Knight of the Ill-favoured face, although the Die might runne in such sort, as wee might cast a hazard instead of an incounter; but all consists in thy diligence. In mine, quoth Sancho? Yes (quoth Don-Quixote) for if thou returnest speedily from the place whereunto I mean to send thee, my pain will also end shortly, and my glory commence very soon after: and because I will not hold thee long suspended, awaiting to hear the effect of my words, I would have thee to know, that the famous Amadis du Gaule was one of the most accomplished Knights Errant. I doe not say well, saying he was one; for hee was the only, the first, and prime Lord of as many as lived in his age. An evill yeer and a worse moneth for Don Belianis, or any other that shall dare presume to compare with him; for I swear, that they all are questionlesse deceived. I also say, that when a Painter would become rare and excellent in his Art, hee procures to imi­tate the patterns of the most singular Masters of his Science: And this very rule runns currant throughout all other Trades and Exercises of account, which serve to adorn a well disposed Commonwealth; and so ought and doth he that means to obtain the name of a prudent and patient man, by imitating Vlysses, in whole person and dan­gers doth Homer delineate unto us the true pourtraiture of patience and sufferance; as likewise Virgil demonstrates under the person of Eneas, the duty and valour of a pious sonne, and the Sagacity of a hardy and expert Captain, not shewing them such [Page] as indeed they were, but as they should be, to remain as an example of Virtue, to ensuing Posterities. And in this very manner was Amadis the Noth-star and Sunne of valourous and amorous [...] Knights, whom all we ought to imitate which march under the ensignes of Love and Chivalry. And this being so manifest as it is, I finde, friend Sancho, that the Knight Errant who shall imitate him most, shall likewise bee neerest to attain the perfection of Armes: And that wherein this Knight bewrayed most his Prudence, Valour, Courage, Patience, Constancie and Love, was when he retyred himself to doe penance, being disdained by his Lady Oriana, to the Poor Rock, changing his name unto that of Beltenebros, a name certainly most significative and proper for the life which he had at that time willingly chosen. And I may more easily imitate him herein, then in cleaving of Gyants, beheading of Serpents, killing of Monsters, over-throwing of Armies, putting [...] Navies to flight, and finishing of Inchantments. And seeing that this Mountain is so fit for that purpose, there is no reason why I should overslip the occasion, which doth so commodiously proffer me her Locks.

In effect, quoth Sancho, what is it you meane to doe in these remote places? Have not I told thee already, said Don-Quixote, that I meane to follow Amadis, by play­ing here the despayred, wood, and furious man? To imitate likewise the valiant Or­lando, where hee found the tokens by a Fountaine that Angelica the faire had abused he [...] selfe with Medozo, for greefe whereof hee ran mad, and pluckt up Trees by their roots, troubled the water of cleere Fountaines, slew Sheepheards, destroyed their Flocks, fi­red the sheep- [...]olds, overthrew houses, trayled Mares after him, and committed a hundred thousand other insolencies worthy of eternall fame and memorie? And al­though I meane not to imitate Roldan, or Orlands, or Rowland (for hee had all these names) exactly in every mad pranke that hee played: Yet will I doe it the best I can, in those things which shall seeme unto mee most essentiall. And perhaps I may rest contented with the only imitation of Amadis, who without indammaging any by his ravings, and only using these of feeling laments, ariving to as great fame thereby as any one whatsoever.

I beleeve, replied Sancho, that the Knights which performed the like penances, were moved by some reasons to doe the like austerities and follies; but good Sir, what occa­sion hath beene offered unto you to become madd? What Lady hath disdayned you? Or what arguments have you found, that the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso hath ever dallied with Moore or Christian? There is the point, answered our Knight, and therein con­sists the perfection of mine affaires; for that a Knight Errant doe runne madd upon any just occasion, deserves neither prayse nor thanks; the wit is in waxing madd without cause, whereby my Mistresse may understand, that if drie I could doe this, what would I have done being watered? How much more seeing I have a just motive through the proli [...]e absence that I have made from my ever supremest Lady Dulcinea of Toboso? For as thou mightest have heard read in Marias Ambrosio his Sheepheard,

So that friend Sancho, I would not have thee lavish time longer in advising, to let slip so rare, so happy and singular an imitation. I am madd, and will bee madd, untill thou returne againe with answere upon a Letter, which I meane to send with thee to my Lady Dulcinea; and if it bee such as my loyalty deserves, my madnesse and penance shall end; but if the contrary, I shall runne madd in good earnest, and bee in that state that I shall apprehend nor feele any thing. So that howsoever I bee answered, I shall issue out of the conflict and paine wherein thou leavest me by joying the good thou shalt bring mee, as wise, or not feeling the evill thou shalt denounce, as mad. But tell mee Sancho, keepest thou charily yet the helmet of Mambrino, which I saw thee take up from the ground the other day, when that ungratefull fellow thought to have brok­en it into pieces, but could not; by which may be collected the excellent temper thereof?

[Page 55] Sancho answered to this demand, saying, I cannot suffer or bear longer, Sir Knight of the Ill-favoured face, nor take patiently many things which you say; and I beginne to suspect by your words, that all that which you have said to mee of Chivalry, and of gaining Kingdomes and Empires, of bestowing Islands and other gifts and great things, as Knights Errant are wont, are all matters of ayre and lies, all couzenage or couzening, or how else you please to term it: for he that shall hear you name a Barbers Bason, Mambrino's Helmet, and that you will not abandon that errour in more then four dayes; what other can he think, but that hee who affirms such a thing doth want wit and discretion? I carry the Bason in my Bagge all battered and boared, and will have it mended, and dresse my beard in it at home, if God shall doe me the favour that I may one day see my Wife and Barnes.

Behold, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, I doe likewise swear, that thou haste the shallowest pate that ever any Squire had or hath in the World: is it possible, that in all the time thou hast gone with me, thou couldest not perceive, that all the Adven­ters of Knights Errant doe appear Chimera's, follies, and desperate things, being quite contrary? Not that they are indeed such; but rather by reason that wee are still haunt­ed by a crue of Inchanters, which change and transforme our acts making them seem what they please, according as they like to favour or annoy us. And so this which seems to thee a Barbers Bason, is in my conceit Mambrino his Helmet, and to another will appear in some other shape. And it is doubtlesly done by the profound Science of the wise man my friend, to make that seem a Bason, which really and truely is Mambrino's Helmet; because that it being so precious a Jewell, all the world would pursue me to deprive me of it; but now seeing that it is to like a Barbers Bason, they indeavour not to gain it, as was cleerly shewed in him that thought to break it the other day, and would not carry it with him, but left it lying behinde him on the ground; for yfaith hee had never left it, did he know the worthinesse thereof. Keep it friend, for I need it not at this present, wherein I must rather di [...]arme my self of the Armes I weare, and remain as naked as I was at the hour of my birth, if I shall take the humour rather to imitate Orlando in doing of my penance, then Amadis.

Whilest thus hee discoursed, hee arived to the foote of a loftie Mountaine, which stood like a hewn Rock, divided from all the rest, by the skyrt whereof glyded a smooth River, hemmed in on every side by a greene and flourishing Meadow, whose verdure did marveilously delight the greedy beholding eye. There were in it also many wilde Trees, and some plants and floures, which rendred the place much more pleasing. The Knight of the illfavored face made choice of this place to accomplish therein his penance, and therefore as soone as hee had viewed it, hee began to say with a loud voice, like a distracted man, these words ensuing. This is the place where the humor of mine eyes shall increase the liquid veines of this Chrystall Current, and my continu­all and deepe sighes shall give perpetuall motion to the leaves of these mountanie Trees, in testimony of the paine which my oppressed heart doth suffer. O you, whosoever ye bee, Rusticall Gods, which have your Mansion in this inhabitable place, give care to the plaints of this unfortunate Lover, whom a long absence, and a few imagined suspi­cions have conducted to deplore his state among these Desarts, and make him exclame on the rough condition of that Ingrate and Faire, who is the top, the su [...], the peri­od, terme and end of all humane beauty. O ye Napeas and Driades, which doe wont­edly inhabite the Thickets and Groves, so may the nimble and lascyvious Satyres, by whom (although in vaine) you are beloved, never have power to interrupt your sweet rest, as you shall assist mee to lament my disasters, or at least attend them, whilest I dolefully breathe them. O Dulcinea of Toboso, the day of my night, the glory of my paine, North of my travells, and starre of my Fortunes; so heav'n enrich thee with the highest, whensoever thou shalt demand it, as thou wilt consider the place and passe, unto which thine absence hath conducted mee, and answere my faith and desires in com­passionate and gracious manner. O solitary Trees (which shall from henceforward keepe company with my solitude) give tokens with the soft motion of your boughs, that my presence doth not dislike you. O thou my Squire, and gratefull companion in [Page] all prosperous and adverse successes, beare well away what thou shalt see mee doe here, to the end that thou mayest after promptly recount it as the totall cause of my ruine. And saying so, he alighted from Rozinante, and taking off in a trice his bridle and sad­dle, he struck him on the buttock, saying, Hee gives thee Liberty that wants it himself; O horse! as famous for thy works as thou art unfortunate by thy Fates: Goe where thou pleasest; for thou bearest written in thy forehead, how that neither the Hippo­griphon of Astolpho, nor the renowned Frontino, which cost Bradamant so deerly, could compare with thee for swiftnesse.

When Sancho had viewed and heard his Lord speak thus, hee likewise said, Good be [...]ide him that freed us from the pains of unpannelling the gray Asse; for if he were here yfaith he should also have two or three claps on the buttocks, & a short Oration in his praise: yet if he were here, I would not permit any other to unpannell him, seeing there was no occasion why; for he good Beast was nothing subject to the passions of Love, or despair, no more then I, who was his Master when it pleased God: And in good sooth, Sir Knight of the Ill-favoured face, if my departure and your madnesle bee in good earnest, it will bee needfull to saddle Rozinante again, that he may supply the want of mine Asse; for it will shorten the time of my departure and return again: And if I make my voyage afoot, I know not when I shall arrive there, or return here back unto you; for in good earnest I am a very ill footman.

Let it be as thou likest, quoth Don-Quixote, for thy designe displeaseth me nothing; and therefore I resolve that thou shalt depart from hence after three dayes; for in the mean space thou shalt behold what I will doe and say for my Ladies sake, to the end thou mayest tell it to her. Why, quoth Sancho, what more can I view then that which I have seen already? Thou art altogether wide of the matter, answered Don-Quixote, for I must yet teare mine apparrell, throw away mine Armour, and beat my head about these Rocks, with many other things of that kinde that will strike thee into admiration. Let me beseech you, quoth Sancho, see well how you give your self those knocks about the Rocks; for you might happen upon some one so ungracious a Rock, as at the first rap would dissove all the whole Machina of your Adventures and Pen­ance; and therefore I would be of opinion, seeing that you doe hold it necessary that some knocks be given with the head, and that this enterprize cannot be accomplished without them, that you content your self, seeing that all is but seigned, counterfeited, and a Jest, that you should, I say, content your self with striking it on the water, or on some other soft thing, as Cotten, or Wooll, and leave to my charge the exaggera­tion thereof; for I will tell to my Lady, that you strike [...] your head against the point of a Rock which was harder then a Diamond.

I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will, quoth Don-Quixote; but I can assure thee that all these things which I doe, are no Jests, but very serious Earnests; for otherwise wee should transgresse the Statutes of Chivalry, which command us not to avouch any untruth, on pain of relapse, and to doe one thing for another, is as much as to lye. So that my head-knocks must be true, firm, and sound ones, without any sophisticall or fantasticall shaddow: and it will be requisite that thou leave me some lint to cure me, seeing that Fortune hath deprived us of the Balsamum which we lost. It was worse to have lost the Asse, quoth Sancho, seeing that at once with him we have lost our Lint, and all our other provision: and I intreat you most earnestly not to name again that accursed drink; for in only hearing it mentioned, you not only turn my guts in me, but also my soul. And I request you moreover, to make account that the terme of three dayes is already expired, wherein you would have me take notice of your fol­lies; for I declare them already for seen, and will tell wonders to my Lady; where­fore goe write your Letter, and dispatch me with all haste; for I long already to re­turn, and take you out of this Purgatory wherein I leave you.

Doest thou call it a Purgatory, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote? Thou had'st done better, had'st thou called it Hell; or rather worse, if there be any thing worse then that. I call it so (quoth Sancho) Quia in inferno nulla est retentio, as I have heard say.

[Page 56] I unddrstand not, said Don-Quixote, what retentio meaneth. Retentio (quoth Sancho) is that, whosoever is in Hell, never comes, nor can come out of it. Which shall fall out contrary in your person, or my feet shall goe ill, if I may carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and that I may safely arrive before my Lady Dulcinea in To­boso, for I will recount unto her such strange things of your follies and madnesse (for they be all one) that you have, and doe daily, as I will make her as soft as a Glove, although I found her at the first harder then a Cork tree: with whose sweet and hony answer, I will return in the ayre as speedily as a Witch, and take you out of this Purgatory, which is no Hell, although it seems one, seeing there is hope to escap from it; which as I have said, they want which are in hell: and I beleeve you will not contradict me herein.

Thou hast reason, answered The Knight of the illfavoured face, but how shall I write the Letter, and the warrant for the receipt of the Colts also? added Sancho. All shall bee inserted together, quoth Don-Quixote; and seeing wee have no paper, wee may doe well, imitating the ancient men of times past, to write our minde in the leaves of Trees or waxe, yet waxe is as hard to bee found here as paper. But now that I remem­ber my selse, I know where wee may write our minde well, and more then well, to wit, in Cardinio's Tablets, and thou shalt have care to cause the letters to bee written out againe fairely, in the first Village wherein thou shalt finde a Schoole master; or if such a one bee wanting, by the Cleark of the Church; and beware in any sort that thou give it not to a Notary or Court-Clearke to bee copied, for they write such an intan­gling-confounding processe Letter, as Satan himself would scarce bee able to reade it. And how shall wee doe for want of your name and subscription, quoth Sancho? Why answered Don-Quixote, Amadis was never wont to subscribe to his Letters. I, but the warrant to receive the three Asses must forcibly bee subsigned; and if it should af­terward bee copied, they would say the former is false, and so I shall rest without my Colts, The Warrant shall bee written and firmed with my hand in the Tablets, which as soone as my Neece shall see, shee shall make no difficulty to deliver thee them. And as concerning the love-letter, thou shalt put this subscription to it; Yours untill death, The Knight of the ill-favored face; and it makes no matter though it bee written by any stranger; for as much as I can remember, Dulcinea can neyther write nor read, nor hath shee seene any Letter, no, not so much as a Character of my writing all the dayes of her life: For my love and hers have beene ever Platonicall, never extending them­selves farther then to an honest regard and view the one of the other, and even this same so rarely, as I dare boldly sweare, that in these dozen yeeres which I love her more deerely then the light of these mine eyes, which the earth shall one day devour. I have not seen her four times, and perhaps of those same four times shee hath scarce perceived once that I beheld her. Such is the case and closenesse wherewithall her parents Lorenco Corcuelo and her Mother Aldonca Nogales, have brought her up. Ta, ta, quoth Sancho, that the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is Lorenco Corcuelo his Daughter, called by another name Aldonca Loreno? The same is shee, quoth Don-Quixote, and it is shee that merits to bee Empresse of the vast Universe. I know her very well, replyed Sancho, and I dare say, that she can throw an Iron barr as well as any the strongest Lad in our Parish. I vow by the giver, that 'tis a Wench of the mark, tall and stout, and so sturdy withall, that she will bring her chinn out of the mire, in despite of any Knight Errant, or that shall err, that shall honour her as his Lady. Out upon her, what a strength and voyce shee hath? I saw her on a day stand on the topp of the Church steeple, to call certain servants of her Fathers, that laboured in a fallow field; and although they were half a league from thence, they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the Steeple: And the best that is in her is, that shee is nothing coy; for shee hath a very great smack of Courtship, and playes with every one, and Jibes and Jests at them all. And now I affirm, Sir Knight of the Ill [...] favoured face, that not only you may, and ought to commit raving follies for her sake; but eke you may with just title also despair and hang your self: For none shall hear thereof, but will say you did very well, although the Divell carried you away. And fain would I [Page] bee gone, if it were for nothing else but to see her: for it is many a day since I saw her, and I am sure shee is changed by this; for womens beauty is much impaired by going alwaies to the field, exposed to the Sunne and weather.

And I will now, Sir Don-Quixote, confesse a truth unto you, that I have lived untill now in a marvellous errour, thinking well and faithfully that the Lady Dulcinea was some great Princesse, on whom you were enamoured, or such a person as merited those rich presents which you bestowed on her, as well of the Biscaines, as of the Slaves, and many others that ought to bee, as I suppose, correspondent to the many victories which you have gained, both now and in the time that I was not your Squire. But pondering well the matter, I cannot conceive why the Lady Aldonea Lorenco; I mean the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, of these should care whether these vanquished men which you send or shall send, doe goe and kneel before her. For it may befall, that she at the very time of their arrivall bee combing of Flax or threshing in the Barn, whereat they would be ashamed, and shee likewise laugh, and bee somewhat displeased at the present.

I have oft told thee, Sancho, many times that thou art too great a prattler, quoth Don-Quixote, and although thou hast but a grosse wit, yet now and then thy frumps nip [...]: But to the end thou mayest perceive the faultinesse of thy brain, and my discre­tion, I will tell thee a short History, which is this: There was once a widow fair, young, free, rich, and withall very pleasant and jocund, that fell in Love with a cer­tain round and well-set servent of a Colledge: his Regent came to understand it; and therefore said on a day to the Widow, by the way of fraternall correction, Mistriss, I doe greatly marvell, and not without occasion, that a woman so principall, so beau­tifull, so rich, and specially so wittie, could make so ill a choise, as to waxe enamoured on so foul, so base, and foolish a man as such a one, we having in this house so many Masters of Art, Graduates and Divines, amongst whom you might have made choise as among Peers, saying. I will take this, and I will not have that. But shee answered him thus, with a very pleasant and good grace: You are, Sir, greatly deceived, if you deem that I have made an ill choise in such a one, let him seem never so great a fool: for to the purpose that I mean to use him, hee knows as much or rather more Philo­sophy then Aristotle. And so, Sancho, is likewise Dulcinea of Toboso as much worth as the highest Princesse of the World, for the effect I mean to use her: For all the Poets which celebrate certain Ladies at pleasure, thinkest thou that they all had Mi­strisses? No: Doest thou believe that the Amarillis, the Files, Silvias, Dianas, Galateas, Alcidas, and others such like, wherewithall the Books, Ditties, Barbers Shops, and Theaters are filled, were truely Ladies of flesh and bones, and their Mistrisses which have and doe celebrate them thus? No certainly, but were for the greater part [...]eigned, to serve as a subject of their Verses, to the end the Authours might be ac­counted amorous, and men of courage enough to bee such. And thus it is also suffi­cient for me to believe and think that the good Aldonca Lorenco is fair and honest: As for her Parentage it matters but little; for none will send to take information thereof, to give to her an habit; and I make account of her as of the greatest Princesse in the World: For thou oughtest to know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not already, that two things alone incite men to love more then all things else, and those be sur­passing beauty, and a good name: And both these things are found in Dulcinea in their prime; For none can equall her in fairnesse, and few come neer her for a good report. And for a finall conclusion, I imagine, that all that which I say, is really so, without adding or taking ought away. And I doe imagine her in my fantasie to bee such, as I could with her, as well in beauty as principality: And neither can Helen approach, nor Lucrece come neer her; no, nor any of those other famous women, Greek, Barbarous, or Latine, of foregoing ages. And let every one say what hee pleaseth; For though I should be reprehended for this by the ignorant, yet shall I not therefore be chastised by the more observant and rigorous sort of men.

I avouch, quoth Sancho, that you have great reason in all that you say, and that I am my self a very Asse, But alas! why doe I name an Asse with my mouth, seeing one [Page 57] should not mention a Rope in ones house that was hanged? but give me the Letter, and farewell, for I will change. With that Don-Quixote drew out his Tablets, and going aside, began to indite his Letter with great gravity; which ended, he called Sancho to read it to him, to the end he might bear it away in memory, left by chance hee did lose the Tablets on the way, for such were his crosse fortunes, as made him fear every event. To which Sancho answered, saying, Write it there twice or thrice in the book, and give me it after; for I will carry it safely by Gods grace. For to think that I will be able ever to take it by rote, is a great folly; for my memory is so short, as I doe many times forget mine own name: But yet for all that read it to me, good Sir; for I would bee glad to hear it, as a thing which I suppose to be as excellent, as if it were cast in a mould. Hear it then, said Don-Quixote, for thus it sayes.

By my fathers life, quoth Sancho, when he heard the Letter, it is the highest thing that ever I heard. Good God [...] how well doe you say every thing in it? and how excel­lently have you applyed the subscription of The Knight of the Ill-favoured face? I say a­gain in good earnest that you are the Divell himself, and there's nothing but you know it. All is necessary, answered Don-Quixote, for the Office that I professe. Put then (quoth Sancho) in the other side of that leafe, the Warrant of the three Colts, and firm it with a legible Letter, that they may know it at the first sight. I am pleased, said Don-Quixote; and so writing it, he read it after to Sancho, and it said thus.

YOV shall please, good Neece, for this first of Colts, to deliver unto my Squire Sancho Pança, three of the five that I left at home, and are in your charge; the which three Colts I command to bee delivered to him, for as many others counted and received here: for with this, and his acquittance, they shall bee justly delivered. Given in the bowels of Sierra Morena, the two and twentieth of August, of this present yeer.

[Page] It goes very well (quoth Sancho;) subsign it therefore, I pray you. It needs no seal (quoth Don-Quixote) but only my Rubrick, which is as valible as if it were sub­scribed; not only for three Asses, but also for three hundred. My trust is in you, an­swered Sancho, permit me, for I will goe saddle Rozinante, and prepare your self to give me your blessing; for I purpose presently to depart before I see any madd prank of yours; for I will say that I saw you play so many, as no more can bee desired. I will have thee stay, Sancho (and that because it is requisite) at least to see me stark naked, playing a dozen or two of raving tricks; for I will dispatch them in lesse then half an hour; because that thou having viewed them with thine own eyes, mayest safely swear all the rest that thou pleasest to add; and I assure thee, that thou canst not tell so many as I mean to perform. Let me intreat you, good Sir, that I may not see you naked, for it will turn my stomack, and I shall not bee able to keep my self from weeping; and my head is yet so sore since yester night through my lamentations, for the losse of the gray beast, as I am not strong enough yet to indure new plaints; but if your plea­sure bee such, as I must necessarily see some follies, doe them in Ioves name in your clothes briefly, and such as are most necessary; chiefly, seeing none of these things are requisite for me: And as I have said, wee might excuse time (that shall now bee la­vished in these trifles) to return speedily with the news you desire and deserve so much. And if not, let the [...]ady Dulcinea provide her self well; for if shee answer not accor­ding to reason, I make a solemn vow to him that I may, that I'le make her disgorge out of her stomack a good answer, with very kicks and fists: For how can it bee suffered that so famous a Knight Errant as your self should thus runn out of his wits, without, nor for what, for one? Let not the Gentlewomen constrain me to say the rest; for I will out with it, and venter all upon twelve, although it never were sold.

In good faith, Sancho (quoth Don-Quixote) I think thou art grown as mad as my self. I am not so mad, replyed Sancho, but I am more cholerick. But setting that aside, say, What will you eat untill my return? Doe you mean to doe as Cardenio, and take by the high-wayes side perforce from the Sheepheards? Care thou not for that, replyed Don-Quixote; for although I had it, yet would I not eat any other thing then the Hearbs and Fruits that this Field and Trees doe yield; for the perfection of mine affair consists in fasting, and the exercise of other castigations. To this Sancho replyed, Doe you know what I fear? that I shall not finde the way to you again here where I leave you, it is so difficult and obscure. Take well the marks, and I will en­devour to keep here-about, quoth Don-Quixote, untill thou come back again; and will moreover about the time of thy return mount to the tops of these high Rocks, to see whether thou appearest: but thou shouldest doe best of all, to the end thou mayest not stay and misse me, to cut down here and there certain boughs, and strew them on the way as thou goest, untill thou beest out in the Plains, and those may after serve thee as bounds and marks, by which thou mayest again finde me when thou returnest, in imitation of the clue of Theses Labyrinth.

I will doe so, quoth Sancho, and then cutting downe certaine boughes, hee deman­ded his Lords blessing, and departed not without teares on both sides. And mount­ing upon Rozinante, whom Don-Quixote commended very seriously to his care, that hee should tender him as hee would his owne person, hee made on towards the Plaines, strewing here and there on the way his branches, as his Master had advised him; and with that departed, although his Lord importuned him to behold two or three follies ere hee went away: But scarce had hee gone a hundred paces, when hee returned and said, I say Sir, that you said well, that to the end I might sweare with a safe Consci­ence that I have seene you play these mad tricks, it were necessary that at least I see you doe one, although that of your abode here, is one great enough.

Did not I tell thee so, quoth Don-Quixote? Stay Sancho, for I will doe it in the space of a Creede; and taking off with all haste his ho [...]e, hee remained the halfe of him maked, and did instantly give two or three jerks in the ayre, and two tumbles ove [...] and over on the ground, with his head downeward, and his legs aloft, where hee dis­covered such things, as Sancho, because he would not see them againe, turned the bri­dle [Page 58] and rode away, resting contented and satisfied that hee might sweare that his Lord was madd. And so wee will leave him travelling on his way, untill his returne, which was very soone after.

CHAP. XII.
Wherein are prosecuted the prankes played by Don-Quixote in his amorous humors, in the Mountaines of Sierra Mo­rena.

AND turning to recount what The Knight of the ill-favoured face did when hee was all alone, the History sayes, that after Don-Quixote had ended his friskes and leapes, naked from the gyrdle downward, and from that upward aparelled; seeing that his Squire Sancho was gone, and would behold no more of his mad pranks; hee ascended to the top of a high Rock, and began there to thinke on that whereon hee had thought often times before, without ever making a full reso­lution therein, to wit, whether were it better to imitate Orlando in his unmeasurable furies, then Amadis in his melancholy moodes; and speaking to himselfe would say, If Orlando was so valorous and good a Knight, as men say, what wonder seeing in fine hee was inchanted and could not bee slaine, if it were not by clapping a pinne to the soale of his foot; and therefore did weare shooes still that had seven folds of yron in the soales? although these his draughts stood him in no stead at Roncesuales against Ber­nardo del Carpio, which understanding them, pressed him to death betweene his armes. But leaving his valour apart, let us come to the losing of his wits, which it is certaine hee lost through the signes hee found in the Forrest, and by the news that the Sheep-heard gave unto him, that Angelica had slept more then two noone-tydes with the lit­tle Moore Medoro of the curled locks, him that was Page to King Argamante: and if hee understood this, and knew his Lady had played beside the cushion, what wonder was it that hee should runne madd? But how can I imitate him in his furies, if I can­not imitate him in their occasion? for I dare sweare for my Dulcinea of Toboso, that all the dayes of her life shee hath not seene one Moore, even in his owne attyre as hee is, and shee is now right as her mother bore her: and I should doe her a manifest wrong, if upon any false suspicion I should turne madd, of that kinde of folly that did distract furious Orlando.

On the otherside, I see that Amadis du Gaule, without losing his wits, or using a­ny other raving tricke, gained as great fame of being amorous, as any one else whatso­ever. For that which his Historie recites was none other, then that seeing himself dis­dained by his Lady Oriana, who had commanded him to withdraw himselfe from her presence, and not appeare againe in it untill shee pleased: hee retyred himselfe in the company of a certaine Hermit, to the poore-Rock, and there crammed himselfe with weeping, untill that heav'n assisted him in the midst of his greatest cares and necessitie. And this being true, as it is, why should I take now the paines to stripe my selfe all na­ked, and offend these Trees, which never yet did mee any harme? Nor have I any reason to trouble the cleere waters of these brookes, which must give mee drinke when I am thirsty. Let the remembrance of Amadis live, and bee imitated in ev'ry thing as much as may bee, by Don-Quixote of the Mancha: of whom may bee said what was said of the other, that though hee atchieved not great things, yet did hee die in their pursuite. And though I am not contemned or disdained by my Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient as I have said already, that I bee absent from her; therefore hands to your [Page] take, and yee famous actions of Amadis, occur to my remembrance, and instruct me where I may best beginne to imitate you. Yet I know already, that the greatest thing hee did use was Prayer, and so will I. And saying so, hee made him a payre of Beades of great Gaules, and was very much vexed in minde for want of an Eremite, who might heare his confession, and comfort him in his afflictions; and therefore did enter­taine himselfe walking up and downe the little greene field, writing and graving in the rindes of Trees, and on the smoothe sands many verses, all accommodated to his sad­nesse, and some of them in the prayse of Dulcinea, But those that were found tho­rowly finished, and were legible after his owne finding againe in that place, were only these ensuing.

The addition of Toboso to the name of Dulcinea, did not cause small laughter in those which found the Verses recited, because they imagined that Don-Quixote conceived, that if in the naming of Dulcinea hee did not also add that Of Toboso, the time could not bee understood; and in truth it was so, as hee himself did afterward confesse. Hee composed many others; but as we have related, none could be well copied or found intire but these three Stanza's. In this, and in sighing, and invoking the Fa [...]nes and Silvanes of these woods, and the Nymphs of the adjoyning streams, with the doloro [...]s and hollow Ecch [...], that it would answer, and they consort and listen unto him; and [Page 59] in the search of some hearbs to sustein his languishing forces, he entertained himself all the time of Sancho his absence; who had he staid three weeks away as hee did but three dayes, The Knight of the Ill-favoured face should have remained so disfigured, as the very mother that bore him would not have known him.

But now it is congruent, that leaving him swallowed in the gulfs of sorrow and verifying, we turn and recount what hapned to Sancho Panca in his Embassage; which was, that issuing out to the high-way, hee presently took that which led towards Toboso, and arrived the next day following to the Inn where the disgrace of the Coverlet befell him; and scarce had he well espied it, but presently hee imagined that he was once again flying in the aire; and therefore would not enter into it, although his arrivall was at such an hour as hee both might and ought to have stayed, being dinner time, and he himself likewise possest with a marvelous longing to taste some warme meat; for many dayes past he had fed altogether on cold Viands. This desire enforced him to approach to the Inn, remaining still doubtfull, notwithstanding, whether hee should enter into it or no. And as hee stood thus suspended, there issued out of the Inn two persons which presently knew him, and the one said to the other, Tell me, Master Licentiate, is not that horseman that rides there Sancho Panca, hee whom our Adventurers old woman said departed with her Master for his Squire? It is, quoth the Licentiat, and that is our Don-Quixote his horse: And they knew him so well, as those that were the Curate and Barber of his own Village, and were those that made the search and formall pro­cesse against the Books of Chivalry: and therefore as soon as they had taken full no­tice of Sancho Panca and Rozinante, desirous to learn news of Don-Quixote, they drew neer unto him; and the Curate called him by his name, saying, Friend Sancho Panca, where is your Master? Sancho Panca knew them instantly, and desirous to conceal the place and manner wherein his Lord remained, did answer them, that his Master was in a certain place with-held by affairs for a few dayes, that were of great consequence and concerned him very much, and that hee durst not for both his eyes discover the place to them. No, no (quoth the Barber) Sancho Panca, if thou doest not tell us where hee sojourneth, wee must imagine (as wee doe already) that thou hast rob'd and slain him, specially seeing thou commest thus on his horse; and therefore thou must in good faith get us the horses owner, or else stand to thine answer. Your threats fear me nothing, quoth Sancho, for I am not a man that Robs or Murthers any one: every man is slain by his destinie, or by God that made him. My Lord remains doing of penance in the midest of this Mountain [...]with very great pleasure. And then hee presently recounted unto them, from the beginning to the end, the fashion wherein he had left him, the Adventures which had befaln, and how hee carried a Letter to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, who was Larenco Corcuelo his daughter, of whom his Lord was enamoured up to the Livers.

Both of them stood greatly admired at Sancho's relation, and although they knew Don-Quixote's madnesse already, and the kinde thereof, yet as often as they heard speak thereof, they rested newly amazed. They requested Sancho to shew them the Letter that he carried to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. Hee told them that it was written in Tablets, and that hee had expresse order from his Lord to have it fairly copied out in paper, at the first Village whereunto he should arrive. To which the Curate answered, bidding shew it unto him, and he would write out the copie very fairly.

Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosome, and searched the little book, but could not finde it, nor should not, though hee had searched till Dooms-day; for it was in Don-Quixote's power, who gave it not to him, nor did hee ever remember to demand it. When Sancho perceived that the book was lost, hee waxed as wan & pale as a dead man, and turning again very speedily to feel all the parts of his body, hee saw cleerly that it could not bee found; and therefore without making any more adoe, hee laid hold on his own beard with both his fists, and drew almost the one half of the hair away, and afterward bestowed on his face and nose in a momento half a dozen such cuffs, as hee bathed them all in blood: which the Curate and Barber beholding, they asked him what had befalne him, that hee intreated himself so ill? What should befall me, an­swered [Page] swered Sancho, but that I have lost at one hand, and in an instant three Colts, whereof the least was like a Castle? How so, quoth the Barber? Marry, said Sancho, I have lost the Tablets wherein were written Dulcineas Letter, and a schedule of my Lords, addrest to his Neece, wherein hee commanded her to deliver unto me three Colts, of four or five that remained in his house: And saying so, hee recounted the losse of his gray Asse: The Curate comforted him, and said, that as soon as his Lord were found, hee would deal with him to renew his grant, and write it in Paper, according to the common use and practise; for as much as those which were written in Tablets, were of no value, and would never be accepted nor accomplished.

With this Sancho took courage, and said, if that was so, he cared not much for the losse of Dulcineas Letter; for he knew it almost all by rote. Say it then, Sancho, quoth the Barber, and we will after write it. Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head, to call the Letter to memory, and now would hee stand upon one leg, and now upon another. Sometimes hee looked on the earth, other whiles upon Heaven, and after he had gnawn off almost the half of one of his nails, and held them all the while suspended, expecting his recitall thereof, he said after a long pause; On my soul, Ma­ster Licentiate, I give to the Divell any thing that I can remember of that Letter, al­though the beginning was thus; High and un [...]avorie Lady. I warrant you, quoth the Barber, he said not, but super-humane or Sovereigne Ladie.

It is so, quoth Sancho, and presently followed, if I well remember. He that is woun­ded and wants sleepe, and the hurt man doth kisse your worships hands, ingrate and very scornefull faire. And thus hee went roving untill hee ended in Yours untill death, The Knight of the ill-favoured face. Both of them tooke great delight to see Sancho's good memorie, and praysed it to him very much, and requested him to repeate the Letter once or twice more to them, that they might also beare it in memorie, to write it at the due season. Sancho turned to recite it againe and againe, and at every repetition said other three thousand Errors. And after this hee told other things of his Lord, but spoke not a word of his owne tossing in a Coverlet, which had befaln him in that Inne, into which hee refused to enter. Hee added besides, how his Lord, in bringing him a good dispatch from his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, would forthwith set out to endeavour how hee might become an Emperour, or at the least a Monarch; for they had so agreed betweene themselves both, and it was a very easie matter for him to become one, such was the valour of his Person and strength of his arme. And that when hee were one, hee would procure him a good marriage; for by that time hee should bee a widower at the least; and hee would give him one of the Emperours Ladies to wife, that were an Inheritrix of some great and rich state on the firme land, for now hee would have no more Islands. And all this was related so seriously by Sancho, and so in his perfect sence, hee scratching his nose ever and anon as hee spoke, so as the two were stricken into a new amazement, pondering the vehemencie of Don-Quixotes frenzie, which carried quite away with it, in that sort, the judgement of that poore man, but would not labour to dispossesse him of that Errour, because it seemed to them, that since it did not hurt his Conscience, it was better to leave him in it; that the recitall of his fol­lies might turn to great recreation, and therefore exhorted him to pray for the health of his Lord; for it was a very possible and contingent thing to arive in the processe of time to the dignity of an Emperor, as he said, or at least, to that of an Archbishop, or other calling equivalent to it.

Then Sancho demanded of them, Sirs, if fortune should turne our affaires to another course, in such sort as my Lord abandoning the purpose to purchase an Empire, would take in his head that of becomming a Cardinall, I would faine learne of you here, what Cardinalls-Errant are wont to give to their Squires? They are wont to give them (quoth the Curate) some simple Benefice, or some Parsonage, or to make them Clerkes or Sextons, or Vergers of some Church, whose living amount to a good penny rent, beside the profit of the Altar, which is oft-times as much more. For that it is requisite (quoth Sancho) that the Squire bee not married, and that hee know how to helpe Masse at least: and if that bee so [Page 60] unfortunate I, that both am married, and knows not besides the first letter of the A, B, C. what will then become of me, if my Master take-the humour to bee an Arch-Bishop, and not an Emperour, as is the Custome and use of Knights Errant? Doe not afflict thy minde for that, friend Sancho (quoth the Barber) for wee will deal with thy Lord here, and wee will counsell him, yea wee will urge it to him as a matter of con­science, that hee become an Emperour, and not an Arch-Bishop; for it will bee more easie for him to bee such a one, by reason that hee is more valorous then learned.

So me thinks (quoth Sancho) although I know he hath ability enough for all. That which I mean to doe for my part is, I will pray unto our Lord to conduct him to that place wherein he may serve him best, and give me greatest rewards. Thou speakest like a discreet man (quoth the Curate) and thou shalt doe therein the dutie of a good Chri­stian. But that which wee must indeavour now, is to devise how wee may winn thy Lord from prosecuting that unprofitable penance hee hath in hand, as thou sayest: And to the end wee may think on the manner how, and eat our dinner withall, seeing it is time, let us all enter into the Inn. Sancho bade them goe in, and hee would stay for them at the door, and that he would after tell them the reason why he had no minde to enter, neither was it in any sort convenient that he should; but he intreated them to bring him somewhat forth to eat that were warm, and some Provand for Rozinante. With that they departed into the lodging, and within a while after the Barber brought forth unto him some meat: And the Curate and the Barber, after having pondered well with themselves what course they were to take to attain their design; the Curate fell on a device very fit both for Don-Quixotes humour, and also to bring their purpose to passe; and was, as he told the Barber, that hee had bethought him, to apparell him­self like a Lady Adventurous, and that he therefore should doe the best that he could to fit himself like a Squire, and that they would goe in that habit to the place where Don-Quixote sojourned, feigning that she was an afflicted and distressed Damzell, and would demand a boon of him, which hee as a valorous Knight Errant would in no wise denye her; and that the gift which hee meaned to desire, was to intreat her to follow her where she would carry him, to right a wrong which a naughty Knight had done unto her; and that shee would besides pray him not to command her to unmask her self, or inquire any thing of her estate, untill hee had done her that right [...] against that bad Knight. And by this means he certainly hoped that Don-Quixote would grant all that he requested in this manner: And in this sort they would fetch him from thence and bring him to his Village, where they would labour with all their power, to see whether his extravagant frenzie could bee recovered by any remedy.

CHAP. XIII.
How the Curate and the Barber put their Designe in practise, with many other things, worthy to be recorded in this famous History.

THE Curates invention disliked not the Barber, but rather pleased him so well as they presently put it in execution. They borrowed there­fore of the Inn-keepers wife a Gown and a Kerchief, leaving her in pawn thereof a fair new Cassock of the Curates. The Barber made him a great beard of a pyed Oxes tayle, wherein the Inn-keeper was wont to hang his Horse-combe. The Hostesse demanded of them the occasion why they would use these things? The Curate recoun­ted in brief reasons of Don-Quixotes madnesse, and how that disguisement was requisite, to bring him away from the Mountain, wherein at that present he made his abode.

[Page] Presently the Inn-keeper and his wife remembred themselves how hee had been their guest, and of his Balsamum, and was the tossed Squires Lord; and then they rehearsed again to the Curate all that had passed between him and them in that Inn, without omitting the accident that had befallen Sancho himself; and in conclusion the Hostesse tricked up the Curate so handsomely, as there could bee no more de [...]ired; for she at­tired him in a Gown of broad-cloth, laid over with guards of black Velvet, each being a span bredth, full of gashes and cuts; the bodies and sleeves of green Velvet, welted with white sattin; which gown and doublet, as I suspect, were both made in the time of of King Bamba. The Curate would not permit them to vaile and be kerchif him, but set on his head a white-quilted-linnen-night-cap, which hee carried for the night, and girded his fore-head with a black Taffata garter, and with the other hee masked his face wherewithall he covered his beard and visage very neatly; then did hee incask his pate in his hat, which was so broad, as it might serve him excellently for a Quitasoll; and lapping himself up handsomly in his long cloak, hee went to horse, and rode as wo­men use. Then mounted the Barber likewise on his Mule, with his beard hanging down to the girdle, half red and half white, as that which as wee have said was made of the taile of a pyed coloured Oxe: then taking leave of them all, and of the good Mari­tornes, who promised (although a sinner) to say a Rosary to their intention, to the end that God might give them good successe, in so Christian and difficult an adventure, as that which they undertooke. But scarce were they gone out of the Inne, when the Curate begann to dread a little that he had done ill, in apparrelling himself in that wise, accounting it a very indecent thing, that a Priest should dight himself so, although the matter concerned him never so much. And acquainting the Barber with his sur­mise, hee intreated him that they might change attires, seeing it was much more just that hee, because a Lay-man, should faine the oppressed Lady, and himself would be­come his Squire; for so his dignitie would be less prophaned; to which if he would not condescend, he resolved to passe on no farther, although the Divell should carrie therefore Don-Quixote away. Sancho came over to them about this season; and seeing them in that habit hee could not contain his laughter. The Barber (to bee brief) did all that which the Curate pleased, and making thus an exchange of inventions, the Curate instructed him how hee should behave himself, and what words he should use to Don-Quixote to press and move him to come away with him and forsake the pro­pension and love of that place which hee had chosen to perform his vain penance.

The Barber answered, that he would set every thing in his due poynt and perfection, though he had never lessoned him; but would not set on the array, untill they came neer to the place where Don-Quixote abode; and therefore folded up his clothes, and Master Parson his beard, and forthwith went on their way, Sancho Panca playing the guide, who recounted at large to them all that had hapned with the mad-man whom they found in the Mountain; concealing notwithstanding the booty of the Malet, with the other things found therein: for although otherwise most simple, yet was our young man an ordinary vice of fools, and had a spice of covetousness.

They arrived the next day following to the place where Sancho had left the tokens of boughs, to finde that wherein his Master sojourned: and having taken notice thereof, hee said unto them that that was the entry; and therefore they might doe well to appar­rell themselves, if by change that might be a mean to procure his Lords liberty; for they had told him already, that on their going and apparrelling in that manner consisted wholly the hope of freeing his Lord, out-of that wretched life hee had chosen; and therefore did charge him on his life, not to reveal to his Lord in any case what they were, nor seem in any sort to know them: and that if he demanded (as they were sure hee would) whether hee had delivered his Letter to Dulcinea, hee should say hee did, and that by reason she could not read, shee answered him by word of mouth, saying, that shee commanded, under pain of her indignation, that presently abandoning so austere a life, hee would come and see her; for this was most requisite, to the end that moved therewithall, and by what they meant likewise to say unto him, they made cer­tain account to reduce him to a better life; and would besides perswade him to that [Page 61] course instantly, which might set him in the way to become an Emperour or Monarch; for as concerning the being an Archbishoppe he needed not to feare it at all.

Sancho listned to all the talke and instruction, and bore them away well in memorie, and gave them great thanks for the intention they had to counsell his Lord to become an Emperour, and not an Archbishop; for as hee said, hee imagined in his simple judge­ment, that an Emperour was of more abilitie to reward his Squire then an Archbishop Errant. Hee likewise added, that hee thought it were necessarie hee went somwhat be­fore them to search him, and deliver his Ladies answere; for perhaps it alone would be sufficient to fetch him out of that place, without puting them to any farther paines. They liked of Sancho Pancaes device, and therefore determined to expect him untill his return with the news of finding his Master. With that Sancho entred in by the Clifts of the Rocks (leaving them both behinde together) by which ran a little smoothe streame, to which other Rocks, and some trees that grew neere unto it, made a fresh and plea­sing shadow. The heats, and the day wherein they arived there, was one of those of the moneth of August, when in those places the heate is intolerable: the hour, a­bout three in the afternoon. All which did render the place more gratefull, and invited them to remain therein untill Sancho's return. Both therefore resting there quietly under the shadow, there arrived to their hearing the sound of a voyce, which without being accompanied by any instrument, did resound so sweet and melodi­ously, as they remained greatly admired, because they esteemed not that to be a place wherein any so good a Musician might make his abode. For although it is usually said, that in the Woods and Fields are found Shepheards of excellent voyces, yet is this rather a Poeticall indeerment, then an approved truth; and most of all when they perceived that the verses they heard him singing were not of rustick composition, but rather of delicate and Courtly invention. The truth whereof is confirmed by the verses, which were these:

The hour, the time, the solitarinesse of the place, voice, and art of him that sung, struck wonder and delight in the Hearers mindes, which remained still quiet, listning whether they might hear any thing else: But perceiving that the silence continued a prettie while, they agreed to issue and seek out the Musician, that sung so harmoniously. And being ready to put their resolution in practise, they were again arrested by the same voyce, the which touched their ears anew with this Sonnet.

The Song was concluded with a profound sigh; and both the others lent atten­tive eare to heare if hee would sing any more; but perceiving that the Musick was converted into throbs and dolefull plaints, they resolved to goe and learn who was the wretch, as excellent for his voyce, as dolorous in his sighs: and after they had gone a little at the doubling of the poynt of a cragg, they perceived one of the very same form and fashion that Sancho had painted unto them, when hee told them the History of Cardenio; which man espying them likewise, shewed no semblance of fear but stood still with his head hanging on his breast like a male-content, not once lifting up his eyes to behold them from the first time, when they unexpectedly arrived.

The Curate who was a man very well spoken (as one that had already intelligence of his misfortune; for he knew him by his signes) drew neerer to him, and prayed and perswaded him with short, but very forcible reasons, to forsake that miserable life, left hee should there eternally lose it, which of all miseries would prove the most miserable. Cardenio at this season was in his right sense, free from the furious accident that distra­cted him so often; & therefore viewing them both attyred in so strange & unusuall a fa­shion from that which was used among those Desarts, he rested somewhat admired; but chiefly hearing them speak in his affair, as in a matter known (for so much he gathered out of the Curates speeches:) and therefore answered in this manner. I perceive well, good Sirs (whosoever you be) that Heaven which hath alwayes care to succour good men; yea even and the wicked many times, hath without any desert, addrest unto me by these Desarts and places so remote from vulgar haunt; persons, which laying be­fore mine eyes with quick and pregnant reasons, the little I have to lead this kinde of life, doe labour to remove me from this place to a better: And by reason they know not as much as I doe, and that after escaping this harme, I shall fall into a far greater, they account me perhaps for a man of weak discourse; and what is worse for one [Page 62] wholly devoid of judgement? And were it so, yet is it no marvell; for it seems to me that the force of the imagination of my disasters is so bent and powerfull in my destru­ction, that I, without being able to make it any resistance, doe become like a stone, void of all good feeling and knowledge: and I come to know the certainty of this truth, when some men doe recount and shew unto me tokens of the things I have done whilest this terrible accident over-rules me; and after I can doe no more, then be grieved, though in vain, and curse, without benefit, my too froward fortune; and render as an excuse of my madnesse the relation of the cause thereof, to as many as please to hear it: for wise men perceiving the cause, will not wonder at the effects. And though they give me no remedie, yet at least will not condemn me; for it will convert the anger they conceive at my mis-rules, into compassion of my disgraces: And Sirs, if by chance it be so, that you come with the same intention that others did, I re­quest you, e're you inlarge farther your discreet perswasions, that you will give eare a while to the relation of my mis-haps; for perhaps when you have understood it, you may save the labour that you would take, comforting an evill wholy incapable of con­solation.

Both of them, which desired nothing so much as to understand from his own mouth the occasion of his harmes, did intreate him to relate it, promising to doe nothing else in his remedie or comfort, but what himselfe pleased. And with this the sorrowfull Gentleman began his dolefull Historie, with the very same words almost that hee had rehearsed it to Don-Quixote and the Goat-heard a few dayes past, when by occasion of Master Elisabat and Don-Quixotes curiositie in observing the Decorum of Chivalrie, the tale remained imperfect, as our Historie left it above. But now good fortune so dis­posed things, that his foolish fit came not upon him, but gave him leisure to continue his Storie to the end; and so ariving to the passage that spoke of the Letter Don Ferdi­nando found in the booke of Amadis du Gaule, Cardenio said that hee had it very well in memorie; and the sence was this.

This Letter moved mee to demand Luscinda of her father for my wife, as I have al­ready recounted; and by it also Luscinda remayned in Don Ferdinandoes opinion crow­ned, for one of the most discreete women of her time. And this billet Letter was that which first put him in minde to destroy mee ere I could effect my desires. I told to Don Ferdinando wherein consisted all the difficultie of her fathers protracting of the mariage, to wit, in that my father should first demand her; the which I dared not to mention unto him, fearing lest hee would not willingly consent thereunto; not for that the qualitie, bountie, virtue and beautie of Luscinda were to him unknowne, or that shee had not parts in her able to ennoblish and adorne any other linage of Spayne whatsoe­ver: But because I understood by him, that he desired not to marry mee, untill he had [Page] seen what Duke Ricardo would doe for me. Finally, I told him that I dared not re­veale it to my father, as well for that inconvenience, as for many others that made me so afraid, without knowing what they were, as me thought my desires would never take effect.

To all this Don Ferdinando made mee answere, that hee would take upon him to speake to my father, and perswade him to treate of that affaire also with Luscindaes. O ambitious Marius! O cruell Cataline! O facinorous Quila! O trecherous Ga­lalon! O trayterous Vellido! O revengefull Iulian! [one, who for the Rape of his daughter, committed by Roderick King of Spayne, brought in the Moores, and destroyed all the Countrie.] O covetous Iudas! Traytor, cruell, revengefull and couzening, what indeserts did this wench commit, who with such plaines discovered to thee the secrets and delights of her heart? What offence committed I against thee? What words did I speake, or councell did I give, that were not all addrest to the increasing of thine honour and profit? But on what doe I (the worst of all Wretches) complain! seeing that when the current of the Starres doth bring with it mishaps, by reason they come downe precipitately from above, there is no earthly force can withhold, or hu­mane industry prevent or evacuate them. Who would have imagined that Don Ferdi­nando, a noble Gentleman, discreete, oblieged by my deserts, and powerfull to ob­taine whatsoever the amorous desire would exact of him, where and whensoever it sei­zed on his heart, would (as they say) become so corrupt, as to deprive mee of one only sheepe, which yet I did not possesse? But let these considerations bee laid apart as un­profitable, that wee may knit up againe the broken thred of my unfortunate History. And therefore I say that Don Ferdinando beleeving, that my presence was a hindrance to put his treacherous and wicked designe in execution, hee resolved to send mee to his eldest brother, under pretext to get some money of him, for to buy sixe great Horses, that hee had of purpose, and only to the end I might absent my selfe, bought the very same day that hee offered to speake himselfe to my father, and would have mee goe for the money (because hee might bring his treacherous intent the better to passe) could I prevent this Treason? Or could I perhaps but once imagine it? No truely; but rather glad for the good Merchandize hee had made, did make preffer of my selfe to depart for the money very willingly. I spoke that night to Luscinda, and acquainted her with the Agreement past betweene mee and Don Ferdinando, biding her to hope firmly, that our good just desires would sort a wished and happy end. Shee answered mee againe (as little suspecting Don Ferdinandoes treason as my selfe) biding mee to returne with all speede, because shee beleeved that the conclusion of our affections should bee no longer deferred, then my father deferred to speake unto hers. And what was the cause I know not, but as soone as shee had said this unto mee, her eyes were filled with tears, and somwhat thwarting her throat, hindred her from saying many other things, which mee thought shee strived to speak.

I rested admired at this new accident, untill that time never seene in her, for alwaies as many times as my good fortune and diligence granted it, wee conversed with all sport and delight, without ever intermedling in our discourses any teares, sighes, com­plaints, suspicions or feares. All my speech was to advance my fortune; for having received her from Heaven as my Lady and Mistresse, then would I amplifie her beautie, admire her worth, and prayse her discretion. Shee on the other side would returne mee the exchange, extolling in mee, what shee, as one enamoured, accounted worthy of laud and commendation. After this wee would recount a hundred thousand toyes and chances befaln our neighbours and acquaintance, and that to which my presumption dared farthest to extend it selfe, was sometimes to take her beautifull and Ivorie hands perforce and kisse them as well as I might, thorow the rigorous strictnesse of a nigard­ly yron grate which divided us. But the precedent night to the day of my sad depar­ture, shee wept, sob'd and sighed, and departed, leaving mee full of confusion and in­ward assaults, amazed to behold such new and dolefull tokens of sorrow and feeling in Luscinda. But because I would not murder my hopes, I did attribute all these things to the force of her affection towards mee, and to the griefe which absence is wont to [Page 63] stir in those that love one another deerly, To bee briefe, I departed from thence sor­rowfull and pensive, my Soule being full of imaginations and suspicions, and yet know not what I suspected or imagined: Cleere tokens, foretelling the sad successe and mis­fortune which attended mee. I arived to the palce where I was sent, and delivered my Letter to Don Ferdinandoes brother, and was well entertayned, but not well dispatch­ed; for hee commanded mee to expect (a thing to mee most displeasing) eight dayes, and that out of the Duke his fathers presence; because his brother had written unto him to send him certaine moneys unknowne to his father. And all this was but false Don Ferdinandoes invention, for his brother wanted not money wherewithall to have dispatched mee presently, had not hee written the contrary.

This was so displeasing a commandement and order, as almost it brought me to terms of disobeying it, because it seemed to me a thing most impossible to sustein my life so many dayes in the absence of my Luscinda; and specially having left her so sorrowfull as I have recounted; yet notwithstanding I did obey like a good servant, although I knew it would be with the cost of my health. But on the fourth day after I had ar­rived, there came a man in my search with a Letter, which he delivered unto me, and by the indorsement I knew it to be Luscinda's; for the hand was like hers: I opened it (not without fear and assailment of my senses) knowing that it must have been some serious occasion which could move her to write unto me, being absent, seeing shee did it so rarely even when I was present. I demanded of the Bearer, before I read, who had delivered it to him? and what time hee had spent in the way? Hee answered me, That passing by chance at mid-day through a street of the City, a very beautifull Lady did call him from a certain window: Her eyes were all be-blubbered with tears, and said unto him very hastily; Brother, if thou beest a Christian, as thou appearest to bee one, I pray thee for Gods sake, that thou doe forthwith addresse this Letter to the place and person that the superscription assigneth (for they bee well known;) and therein thou shalt doe our Lord great service.

And because thou mayest not want means to doe it, take what thou shalt finde wraped in that handcerchif: And saying so, shee threw out of the window a hand­cerchif, wherein were laped up a hundred Rialls, this Ring of gold which I carry here, and that Letter which I delivered unto you; and presently, without expecting mine answer, shee departed, but first saw me take up the handkerchif and Letter; and then I made her signes that I would accomplish herein her command: and after perceiving the pains I might take in bringing you it, so well considered, and seeing by the indorse­ment, that you were the man to whom it was addrest: for, Sir, I know you very well, and also oblieged to doe it by the tears of that beautifull Lady, I determined not to trust any other with it, but to come and bring it you my self in person; and in sixteen hours since it was given unto me, I have travelled the journey you know, which is at least eighteen leagues long. Whilest the thankfull new Messenger spake thus unto me I remained in a manner hanging on his words, and my thighs did tremble in such man­ner, as I could very hardly sustein my self on foot: yet taking courage, at last I opened the Letter, whereof these were the Contents

These were, in summe, the contents of the Letter, and the motives that perswaded me presently to depart, without attending any other answer, or other monies: for then I conceived cleerly, that it was not the buy-all of the horses, but that of his de­lights, which had moved Don Ferdinando to send me to his brother. The rage which I conceived against him, joyned with the fear to lose the Jewell which I had gained by so many yeers service, and desires, did set wings on me, for I arrived as I had flyen next day at mine owne City, in the houre and moment fit to goe speake to Luscinda. I entred secretly, and left my Mule whereon I rode in the honest mans House that had brought mee the Letter, and my fortune purposing then to bee favourable to mee, disposed so mine affaires, that I found Luscinda siting at that yron-grate, which was the sole witnesse of our Loves. Luscinda knew mee streight and I her, but not as wee ought to know one another: But who is hee in the world that can truely vaunt that hee hath penetrated, and throughly exhausted the confused thoughts and mutable na­ture of women? Truly none. I say then, to proceed with my tale, that as soon as Luscinda perceived me, shee said, Cardenio, I am attyred with my wedding Garments, and in the Hall doth wait for me the Traitor Don Ferdinando, and my covetous father with other witnesses, which shall rather bee such of my death, then of mine espousals; bee not troubled deer friend, but procure to bee present at this sacrifice, the which if I cannot hinder by my perswasions and reasons, I carry hidden about me a Ponyard se­cretly, which may hinder more resolute forces by giving end to my life, and a begin­ning to thee, to know certain the affection which I have ever borne, and doe bear unto thee. I answered her troubled and hastily, fearing I should not have the leisure to re­ply unto her, saying, Sweet Ladie, let thy works verifie thy words; for if thou car­riest a Ponyard to defend thy credit, I doe here likewise bear a Sword wherewithall I will defend thee, or kill my self, if fortune proove adverse and contrary. I believe that she could not hear all my words, by reason shee was called hastily away, as I per­ceived, for that the Bridegroom expected her comming. By this the night of my for­rows did throughly fall, and the Sunne of my gladnesse was set; and I remained with­out light in mine eyes, or discourse in my understanding. I could not finde the way into her house, nor could I moove my self to any part: yet considering at last how important my presence was, for that which might befall in that adventure, I animated my self the best I could, and entred into the house; and as one that knew very well all the entries and passages thereof, and specially by reason of the trouble and businesse that was then in hand, I went in unperceived of any: And thus without beeing seen, I had the oportunity to place my self in the hollow room of a window of the same Hall, which was covered by the ends of two encountring pieces of Tapestry, from whence I could see all that was done in the Hall, remaining my self unviewed of any. Who could now describe the assaults and surprizals of my heart while I there abode? the thoughts which incountred my minde? the considerations which I had? which were so many and such, as they can neither bee said, nor is it reason they should. Let it suffice you to know, that the Bridegroom entred into the Hall without any ornament, wearing the ordinary array hee was wont, and was accompanied by a Cousin Germane of Lu­scinda's, and in all the Hall there was no stranger present, nor any other then the hous­hold Servants: Within a while after, Luscinda came out of the Parlour, accompanied by her mother and two waiting maids of her own, as richly attired and deckt as her [Page 64] calling and beauty deserved, and the perfection of Courtly pomp and bravery could afford: my distraction and trouble of minde lent me no time to note particularly the apparrell shee wore, and therefore did only marke the colours, which were Carnation and White; and the splendour which the precious Stones and Jewels of her Tires, and all the rest of her Garments yeelded: yet did the singular beauty of her fair and gol­den tresses surpasse them so much, as being in competencie with the precious Stones, and flame of four Links that lighted in the Hall, yet did the splendour thereof seem farr more bright and glorious to mine eyes. O memory! the mortall enemie of mine case, to what end serves it now to represent unto me the uncomparable beauty of that my adored enemie? Were it not better, cruell memory! to remember and represent that which shee did then, that being moved by so manifest a wrong, I may at least in­devour to lose my life, since I cannot procure a revenge? Tire not, good Sirs, to hear the digressions I make; for my grief is not of that kinde that may bee rehearsed suc­cinctly and speedily, seeing that in mine opinion every passage of it is worthy of a large discourse.

To this the Curate answered, that not only they were not tyred or wearied, hearing of him; but rather they received marvellous delight to hear him recount each minuity and circumstance, because they were such as deserved not to bee past over in silence, but rather merited as much attention as the principall parts of the History. You shall then wit (quoth Cardenio) that as they thus stood in the Hall the Curate of the Parish entred, and taking them both by the hand to doe that which in such an act is required at the saying of, Will you Lady Luscinda take the Lord Don Ferdinando, who is here pre­sent, for your lawfull Spouse, according as our holy mother the Church commands? I thrust out all my head and neck out of the Tapestry, and with most attentive ears and a trou­bled minde setled my self to hear what Luscinda answered, expecting by it the sentence of my death, or the confirmation of my life. O! if one had dared to sally out at that time, and cried with a loud voyce; O Luscinda, Luscinda! see well what thou doest; consider withall what thou owest me! Behold how thou art mine, and that thou canst not bee any others; note that thy saying of yea, and the end of my life shall bee both in one instant. O Traytor Don Ferdinando! Robber of my Glory! Death of my Life! what is this thou pretendest? what wilt thou doe? Consider that thou canst not Christian-like atchieve thine intention, seeing Luscinda is my Spouse, and I am her hus­band. O foolish man now that I am absent, and farre from the danger, I say what I should have done, and not what I did. Now after that I have permitted my deer J [...]well to bee robbed, I exclaim on the Theese, on whom I might have revenged my self, had I had as much heart to doe it as I have to complain. In fine, since I was then a coward and a fool, it is no matter though I now dye ashamed, sorry and frantic [...]. The Curate stood expecting Luscindaes answer a good while [...] shee gave it; and in the end, when I hoped that shee would take out the Ponyard to stab her self, or would unloose her tongue to say some truth, or use some reason or perswasion that might redound to my benefit, I heard her in stead thereof answer with a dismaied and lan­guishing voyce the word, I will: And then Don Fernando said the same; and giving her the Ring, they remained tyed with an indissoluble knot. Then the Bridegroom comming to kisse his Spouse, shee set her hand upon her heart, and fell in a trance between her Mothers armes.

Now only remains untold the case wherein I was, seeing in that ye [...] which I had heard my hopes deluded, Luscindaes words and promises Falsisied, and my self wholly disabled to recover in any time the good which I lost in that instant; I rested void of counsell, abandoned (in mine opinion) by heaven, proclaimed an enemie to the earth which up-held me the aire denying breath enough for my sighs, and the water humour sufficient to mine eyes; only the fire increased in such manner, as I burned throughly with rage and jealousie. All the house was in a tumult for this suddain amazement of Luscinda; and as her Mother unclasped her bosome to give her the aire there appeared in it a paper folded up, which Don Fernando presently seized on, and went aside to read it by the light of a torch; and after hee had read it, her sate down in a chair, laying his hands [Page] on his cheek, with manifest signes of Melancholy discontent, without bethinking him­self of the remedies that were applyed to his Spouse to bring her again to her self. I seeing all the folk of the house thus in an uproar, did adventure my self to issue, not weighing much whether I were seen or no, bearing withall a resolution (if I were per­ceived) to play such a rash part, as all the World should understand the just indigna­tion of my brest, by the revenge I would take on false Don Fernando, and the mutable and dismayed Traytresse: But my destiny which hath reserved me for greater evills (if possibly there bee any greater then mine owne) ordained that instant my wit should abound, whereof ever since I have so great want; and therefore without will to take revenge of my greatest enemies (of whom I might have taken it with all facilitie, by reason they suspected so little my being there) I determined to take it on my self, and execute in my self the pain which they deserved, and that perhaps with more rigour then I would have used toward them if I had slain them at that time, seeing that the suddain death finisheth presently the pain; but that which doth lingringly torment kills alwaies, without ending the life.

To bee short, I went out of the house, and came to the other where I had left my Mule, which I caused to bee sadled, and without biding mine Host adieu, I mounted on her and rode out of the City, without daring, like another Lot, to turne back and behold it; and then seeing my selfe alone in the Fields, and that the darknesse of the night did cover mee, and the silence thereof invite mee to complaine, without respect or feare to bee heard or known; I did let slip my voice, and untyed my tongue with so many curses of Luscinda and Don Ferdinando, as if thereby I might satisfie the wrong they had done mee. I gave her the title of Cruell, Ingratefull, False and Scornefull, but specially of Covetous, seeing the riches of mine Enemy had shut up the Eyes of her affection, to deprive mee thereof, and render it to him with whom fortune had dealt more frankly and liberally; and in the midst of this tune of maledictions and scornes, I did excuse her saying; That it was no marvell that a Mayden kept close in her parents house, made and accustomed alwaies to obey them, should at last condiscend to their Will, specially, seeing they bestowed upon her for husband, so noble, so rich and pro­per a Gentleman, as to refuse him, would bee reputed in her, to proceede eyther from want of judgement, or from having bestowed her affections else-where, which things must of force greatly prejudice her good opinion and renowne. Presently would I turne againe to say, that though shee had told them that I was her spouse, they might easily perceive that in choosing mee, shee had not made so ill an election that shee might not bee excused, seeing that before Don Ferdinando offered himselfe, they them­selves could not happen to desire, if their wishes were guided by reason, so fit a match for their daughter as my selfe; and shee might easily have said, before shee put her selfe in that last and forcible passe of giving her hand, that I had already given her mine, which I would come out to consesse, and confirme all that shee could any way faine in this Case; and concluded in the end, that little Love, lesse Judgement, much Ambition and desire of greatnesse caused her to forget the Words where­withall shee had deceived, entertayned and sustayned mee in my firme hopes and ho­nest desires.

Using these words, and feeling this unquietnesse in my breast, I travelled all the rest of the night, and struck about dawning into one of the entries of these Mountaines, through which I travelled three dayes at random, without following or finding any path or way, untill I arived at last to certaine Medowes and Fields, that lye, I know not in which part of these Mountaines; and finding there certaine Heards, I demanded of them which way lay the most craggy and inaccessible places of these Rocks, and they directed mee hither; and presently I travelled towards it, with purpose here to end my life: and entring in among those Desarts, my Mule, through wearinesse and hunger, fell dead under mee, or rather as I may better suppose, to disburden himself of so vile and unprofitable a burden as hee carried of mee. I remained a foote, overcome by nature, and pierced through and through by hunger, without having any helpe, or knowing who might succour mee; and remained after that manner, I know not how [Page 65] long, prostrate on the ground, and then I rose againe without any hunger, and I found neere unto mee certaine Goat-heards, who were those doubtlesly that fed mee in my hunger: for they told me in what manner they found me, and how I spake so many foolish and mad words, as gave certain argument that I was devoid of Judgement: and I have felt in my self since that time that I injoy not my wits perfectly, but rather perceive them to bee so weakned and impaired, as I commit a hundred follies, tearing mine apparrell, crying lowdly through these Desarts, cursing my fates, and idlely re­peating the beloved name of mine enemie, without having any other intent or discourse at that time then to endeavour to finish my life e're long; and when I turne to my self, I am so broken and tyred, as I am scarce able to stir me. My most ordinary Mansion­place is in the hollownesse of a Cork-Tree, sufficiently able to cover this wretched Car­kasse. The Cow-heards and the Goat-heards that feed their Cattell here in these Mountains, moved by charity, gave me sustenance, leaving meat for me by the wayes and on the Rocks which they suppose I frequent, and where they think I may finde it; and so, although I doe then want the use of reason, yet doth naturall necessity induce me to know my meat, and stirreth my apppetite to covet, and my will to take it: They tell me when they meet me in my wits, that I doe other times come out to the high-wayes and take it from them violently, even when they themselves doe offer it unto me wil­lingly. After this manner doe I passe my miserable life, untill Heaven shall bee pleased to conduct it to the last period, or so change my memorie, as I may no more remember the beauty and treacherie of Luscinda, or the injurie done by Don Ferdinando; for if it doe me this favour, without depriving my life, then will I convert my thoughts to better discourses: if not, there is no other remedy but to pray God to receive my soul into his mercie; for I neither finde valour nor strength in my self to rid my bodie out of the straights, wherein for my pleasure I did at first willingly intrude it.

This is, Sirs, the bitter relation of my disasters; wherefore judge if it bee such as may be celebrated with lesse feeling and compassion then that, which you may by this time have perceived in my self: And doe not in vain labour to perswade or counsell me that which reason should afford you may bee good for my remedie; for it will work no other effect in me then a medicine prescribed by a skilfull Physician, to a Pa­tient that will in no sort receive it. I will have no health without Luscinda; And since shee pleaseth to alienate her self, being or seeing shee ought to be mine; so doe I also take delight to bee of the retinue of mis-hap, although I might be a retainer to good fortune. Shee hath ordained that her changing shall establish my perdition: And I will labour by procuring mine own losse, to please and satisfie her will: And it shall bee an example to ensuing ages, that I alone wanted that wherewith all other wretches abounded, to whom the impossibility of receiving comfort prooved sometimes a cure; but in me it is an occasion of greater feeling and harme, because I am perswaded that my harmes cannot end even with very death it self, Here Cardenio finished his large Discourse, and unfortunate and amourous Historie; and just about the time that the Curate was bethinking himself of some comfortable reasons to answer and perswade, him hee was suspended by a voyce arrived to his hearing, which with pittifull accents said what shall bee recounted in the fourth Part of this Narration: For in this very poynt the wise and most absolute Historiographer Cid Hamete Benengeli finished the third Part of this Historie.

CHAP. I.
Wherein is discoursed the new and pleasant Adventure that hapned to the Curate and the Barber, in Sierra Morena.

MOST happy and fortunate were those times wherein the thrice­audacious and bold Knight, Don-Quixote of the Mancha, was bestowed on the World; by whose most Honourable resolution to ruine and renew in it the already worne out, and well-nigh diseased Exercise of Armes wee joy in this our so niggard and scant an age of all Pastimes, not only the sweetnesse of his true Historie, but also of the other Tales and digressions contained therein, which are in some respects lesse pleasing, artificiall and true then the very History it self: The which prosecuting the carded, spun, and self-twined thread of the relation sayes, that as the Curate began to bethink himself upon some answer that might both comfort and animate Cardenio, hee was hindred by a voyce which came to his hearing, said very dolefully the words ensuing.

O God! is it possible that I have yet found out the place which may serve for a hidden Sup [...]lchre [...] to the load of this loathsome bodie that I unwillingly bear so long? Yes it may bee, if the solitarinesse of these Rocks doe not illude me an [...] unfortunate that I am. How much more gratefull companions will these Craggs and Thickets prove to my designes, by affording me leisure to communicate my mis-haps to Heaven with Plaints, then that if any mortall man living, since there is none upon earth from whom may be expected counsell in doubts, ease in complaints, or in harmes remedie? The Curate and his companions heard and understood all the words cleerly: and for as much as they conjectured (as indeed it was) that those Plaints were delivered very neer unto them, they did all arise to search out the Plaintiff; and having gone some twenty steps thence, they beheld a young Youth behinde a Rock, sitting under an Ash-Tree, and attyred like a Country Swain, whom by reason his face was inclined, as hee sate washing of his feet in the clear stream that glided that way, they could not perfectly dis­cern; and therefore approached towards him with so great silence, as they were not dis­cryed by him, who only attended to the washing of his feet, which were to white, as they [Page] properly resembled two pieces of cleer Crystall, that grew among the other stones of the stream: The whitenesse and beauty of the feet amazed them, being not made as they well conjectured, to tread clodds, or measure the steps of lazie Oxen, and holding the Plough, as the youths apparell would perswade them; and therefore the Curate, who went before the rest, seeing they were not yet espyed, made signes to the other two that they should divert a little out of the way, or hide themselves behinde some broken cliffts that were neer the place, which they did all of them, nothing what the Youth did with very great attention. Hee wore a little brown Capouch, gyrt very neer to his body with a white Towell, also a pair of Breeches and Gamashoes of the same coloured cloth, and on his head a clay-coloured Cap: his Gamashoes were lifted up half the legg, which verily seemed to bee white Alablaster. Finally having washed his feet, taking out a linnen Kerchif from under his Cap, hee dryed them therewithall, and at the taking out of the Kerchif hee held up his face, and then those which stood gazing on him had leizure to discern an unmatchable beauty, so surpassing great, as Cardenio rounding the Curate in the eare, said, This bodie, since it is not Luscinda, can bee no humane creature, but a divine. The Youth took off his Cap at last, and shaking his head to the one and other part, did dis [...]evell and discover such beautifull hairs, as those of Phoebus might justly emulate them; and thereby they knew the supposed Swain to bee a delicate woman, yea, and the fairest that ever the first two had seen in their lives, or Cardenio himself, the lovely Luscinda excepted; for, as hee after affirmed, no feature save Luscinda's could contend with hers. The long and golden hairs did not only cover her shoulders, but did also hide her round about in such sort, as (her feet exceped) no other part of her body appeared, they were so neer and long. At this time her hands served her for a Combe, which as her feet seemed pieces of Crystall in the water, so did they appear among her hair [...] like pieces of driven Snow. All which circumstances did possesse the three which stood gazing at her with great admiration and desire to know what shee was; and therefore resolved to shew themselves; and with the noyse which they made when they arose the beautifull Mayden held up her head, and remove­ing her hair [...] from before her eyes with both hands, she espyed those that had made it, and presently arising full of fear and trouble, shee laid hand on a p [...]cket that [...] by her, which seemed to bee of apparell, and thought to [...] away without [...]ying to pul [...] on her shooes, or to gather up her hair: But scarce had shee gone [...]span delicate and tender feet, unable to abide the rough incounter of the stones made her to fall to the earth; which the three perceiving, they came out to her, and the curate ar­riving first of all, said to her, Ladie, whatsoever you be stay and fear nothing; for we which you behold here come only with intention to doe you service, and therefore you need not pretend so impertinent a flight, which neither your feet can indure, nor would wee permit.

The poor Gyrl remained so amazed and confounded, as shee answered not a word: wherefore the Curate and the rest drawing neerer, they took her by the hand, and then hee prosecuted his Speech saying, What your habit concealed from us, Ladie, your hairs have bewrayed, being manifest arguments that the causes were of no small moment which have thus bemasked your singular beauty, under so unworthy array, and condu­cted you to this all-abandoned Desart, wherein it was a wonderfull chance to have m [...], you, if not to remedie your harmes, yet at least to give you some comfort, seeing no evill can afflict and ve [...]e one so much, and plunge him in so deep extream [...] (whilest it deprives not the life) that will wholly abhor from listening to the advice that is offered with a good and sincere intention; so that fair Lady, or Lord, or what else you shall please to bee tea [...]med, shake off your affrightment, and rehearse unto us your good or ill fortune; for you shall finde in us joyntly, or in every one part, companions to help you to deplore your disasters.

Whilest the Curate made this Speech, the disguised woman stood as one half asleep, now beholding the one, now the other, without once moving her lip or saying a word; just like a rusticall Clown, when rare and unseen things to him before, are unexpectedly presented to his view.

[Page 67] But the Curate insisting and using other perswasive reasons, addrest to that effect, won her at last to make a breach on her tedions silence, and with a profound sigh blow open her corral gates, saying somwhat to this effect: Since the solitarinesse of these Rocks hath not beene potent to conceale mee, nor the disheveling of my disordered haires, licensed my tongue to belie my sexe, it were in vaine for mee to feigne that a new, which if you beleeved it, would bee more for courtesies sake then any other respect. Which presupposed, I say good Sirs, that I doe gratifie you highly, for the liberall of­fers you have made me, which are such as have bound me to satisfie your demand as neer as I may; although I feare the relation which I must make to you of my mishaps, will breed sorrow, at once, with compassion in you, by reason you shall not bee able to finde any salve that may cure, comfort or begui [...]e them: yet notwithstanding, to the end my reputation may not hover longer suspended in your opinions, seeing you know mee to bee a woman, and view mee young, alone, and thus attyred, being things all of them able, eyther joyned or parted, to overthrow the best credit; I must bee enfor­ced to unfold what I could otherwise most willingly conceale. All this, shee that ap­peared so comely, spoke without stop or staggering, with so ready delivery, and so sweete a voice, as her discretion admired them no lesse then her beauty. And renewing againe their complements and intreaties to her, to accomplish speedily her promise, she setting all coynesse apart, drawing on her shoes very modestly, and winding up her hayre, late her downe on a stone, and the other three about her, where shee used no little violence to smother certaine rebellious teares that strove to breake forth without her permission, and then with a reposed and cleare voice she began the History of her life in this manner.

In this Province of Audaluzia there is a certaine towne from whence a Duke derives his denomination, which makes him one of those in Spayne are called Grandees: Hee hath two sonnes, the elder is Heire of his States, and likewise, as may bee presumed, of his virtues, the younger is Heire I know not of what, if hee bee not of V [...]llido [one that murdered Sancho King of Castil [...], as hee was easing himselfe as the siege of Cam [...]ra.] his treacheries of [...] frauds. My parents are this noblemans vassals, of humble and low calling, but so rich, as if the goods of nature had equalled those of their fortunes: then should they have had nothing else to desire, nor I feared to see my selfe in the mis­fortunes wherein I now am plunged. For perhaps my mis-haps proceede from that of theirs, in not being nobly discended. True it is, that they are not so base, as they should therefore shame their calling, nor so high as may check my conceit, which per­swades mee that my disasters preceede from their lownesse. In conclusion, They are but Farmers and plaine People but without any touch or spot of bad blood, and as wee usually say, Olde rustie Christians, yet so rustie and ancient, as yet their riches and ma­gnificent port, gained them, by little and little, the title of Gentilltie; yea and of worship also; although the Treasure and Nobility, whereof they made most price and account, was to have had mee for their daughter; and therefore, as well by reason that they had none other He [...] then my selfe, as also because as affectionate Parents, they held mee most deere; I was one of the most made of and cherished daughters that ever father brought [...] I was the mirrour wherein they beheld themselves, the staffe of their old age, and the subject to which they addrest all their desires. From which because they were most virtuous, mine did not stray an inch, and even in the same man­ner that I was Ladie of their mindes, so was I also of their goods. By mee were Ser­vants admitted or dismissed; the notice and account of what was sowed or reaped, past thorow my hands, of the Oyle-mills, the Wine-presses, the number of great and little Cattell, the Bee-hives: In fine, of all that which so rich a Farmer as my father was, had [...] could have, I kept the account, and was the Steward thereof and Mistrisse, with such care of my side, and pleasure of theirs, as I cannot possibly indeere it enough. The times of leisure that I had in the day, after I had given what was necessary to the head Ser­vants, and other labourers, I did entertaine in those exercises which were both commen­dable and requisite for Maydens, to wit, in Sowing, making of Bone lace, and many times handling the Distasse: and if sometimes I left those exercises to recreate my mind [Page] a little, I would then take some godly booke in hand, or play on the Harpe; for expe­rience had taught mee that Musick ordereth disordered mindes, and doth lighten the passions that afflict the Spirit.

This was the life which I led in my fathers house, the recounting whereof so particu­larly, hath not beene done for ostentation, nor to give you to understand that I am rich, but to the end you may note how much, without mine owne fault, have I fall'n from that happy state I have said, unto the unhappy plight into which I am now redu­ced. The Historie therefore is this, that passing my life in so many occupations, and that with such recollection as might bee compared to a religious life, unseen as I thought by any other person then those of our house; for when I went to Masse, it was common­ly so early, and so accompanied by my Mother and other Mayd-servants, and I my selfe so cover'd and watchfull, as mine eyes did scarce see the earth whereon I trod: and yet notwithstanding those of love, or as I may better terme them, of idlenesse, to which Lynxes eyes may not bee compared, did represent mee to Don Ferdinandoes affection and care, for this is the name of the Dukes younger sonne, of whom I spake before. Scarce had shee named Don Ferdinando, when Cardenio changed colour, and began to sweate, with such alteration of Bodie and Countenance, as the Curate and Barber which beheld it, feared that the accident of frenzie did assault him, which was wont (as they had heard) to possesse him at times. But Cardenio did nothing else then sweat, and stood still beholding now and then the country gyrle, imagining straight what she was, who without taking notice of his alteration, followed on her discourse in this manner: And scarce had [...] hee seene mee, when (as hee himselfe after confest) hee abode greatly surprized by my love, as his actions did after give evident demonst [...]ation.

But to conclude, soone the relation of those misfortunes which have no conclusion, I will over-slip in silence the diligences and practices of Don Ferdinando, used to de­clare unto me his affection: he suborned all the folk of the house. He bestowed gifts and favours on my parents: every day was a holy-day, and a day of sports in the streets where I dwelled; At night no man could sleep for Musick; The Letters were innumerable that came to my hands, without knowing who brought them, farsed too full of amorous conceits and offers, and containing more promises and protestations then characters: All which not only could not molifie my minde, but rather hardened it as much if hee were my mortall enemie, and therefore did construe all the indeavours hee used to gain my good will to bee practised to a contrary end; which I did not as accounting Don Fernando ungentle, or that I estemed him too importan [...]; for I took a kinde of delight to see my self so highly esteemed and beloved so Noble a Gentleman; nor was I any thing offended to see his papers written in my praise; for, if I bee not deceived in this poynt, be women ever so foul, wee love to hear men call us beautifull. But mine honesty was that which opposed it self unto all these things, and the continuall admonishions of my Parents, which had by this plainly perceived Don Fernando's pretence, as one that cared not all the World should know [...]t: They would often say unto me, that they had deposited their honours and reputation in my virtue alone and discretion, and bade me consider the inequality that was between Don Fernando and me, and that I might collect by it how his thoug [...] (did he ever so much affirm the contrary) were more addrest to compasse his pleasure [...] the [...] my profit: And that if I feared any inconveniencie might befall, to the end they might crosse it, and cause him to abandon his so unjust a pursuit, they would match me where I most liked either to the best of that Town or any other Town adjoyning, saying, they might easily compasse it, both by reason of their great wealth and my good report. I fortified my resolution and integrity with these certain promises and the known truth which they told me; and therefore would never answer to Don Fernando any word that might ever so farr off argue the least hope of condiscending to his desires: All which ca [...]tion [...] of mine which I think he deemed to be disdains, did inflame more his lascivious appetite (for this is the name wherewithall I intitle his affection towards me) which had it been such as it ought, you had not known it now, for then the cause of revealing it had not befaln me. Finally, Don Fernando understanding how my parents meant to marrie me, [Page 68] to the end they might make void his hope of ever possessing me: or at least set more guards to preserve mine honour, and this news or surmize was an occasion that he did what you shall presently hear.

For one night as I sate in my Chamber, only attended by a young Mayden that served me, I having shut the doors very safe, for fear left through any negligence my honesty might incur any danger, without knowing or imagining how it might happen [...] notwithstanding all my dilligences used and preventions, and amid'st the solitude of this silence and recollection he stood before me in my Chamber: At his presence I was so troubled, as I lost both sight and speech; and by reason thereof could not crie, nor I think he would not, though I had attempted it, permit me: For he presently ranne over to me, and taking me between his armes (for, as I have said, I was so amazed, as I had no power to defend my self) he spake such things to me, as I know not how it is possible that so many lies should have ability to fain things resembling in shew so much the truth; and the Traytor caused tears, to give credit to his words; and sighs, to give countenance to his intention.

I, poor soul, being alone amid'st my friends and weakly practised in such affairs, began, I know not how, to account his leasings for verities, but not in such sort as his tears or sighs might any wise move me to any compassion that were not commenda­ble. And so the first trouble and amazement of minde being past, I began again to re­cover my defective Spirits, and then said to him with more courage then I thought I should have had; if, as I am my Lord, between your armes, I were between the paws of a fierce Lyon, and that I were made certain of my Libertie, on condition to doe or say any thing prejudiciall to mine honour, it would prove as impossible for me to ac­cept it, as for that which once hath been to leave off his essence and being: Wherefore even as you have in-gyrt my middle with your armes, so likewise have I tyed fast my minde with virtuous and forcible desires that are wholy different from yours, as you shall perceive, if seeking to force me, you presume to passe further with your inordinate designe: I am your Vassall, but not your Slave; nor hath the nobility of your blood power, nor ought it to harden, to dishonour, stain, or hold in little account the humi­litie of mine; and I doe esteem my self, though a Countrey-Wench and Farmers Daughter, as much as you can your self, though a Noble-man and a Lord; With me your violence shall not prevail, your riches gain any grace, your words have power to deceive, or your fighs and tears bee able to move; yet if I shall finde any of these pro­perties mentioned in him whom my Parent shall please to be [...]ow on me for my Spouse, I will presently subject my will to his, nor shall it ever varie from his minde a jot; So that if I might remain with honour, although I rested void of delights, yet would I willingly bestow on you that which you presently labour so much to obtain; all which I doe say, to divert your straying thought from ever thinking that any one may obtain of me ought, who is not my lawfull Spouse. If the let only consists therein, most beau­tifull Dorotea (for so I am called) answered the disloyall Lord; behold, I give thee here my hand to bee thine alone; and let the Heavens, from which nothing is con­cealed, and this Image of our Lady, which thou hast here present, be witnesses of this truth.

When Cardenio heard her say that she was called Dorotea hee fell again into his for­mer suspicion, and in the end confirmed his first opinion to be true; but would not interrupt her speech, being desirous to know the successe, which hee knew wholly al­most before, and therefore said only, Lady, is it possible that you are named Dorotea? I have heard report of another of that name, which perhaps hath runne the like course of your misfortunes; but I request you to continue your Relation, for a time may come wherein I may recount unto you things of the same kinde, which will breede no small admiration. Dorotea noted Cardenioes words, and his uncouth and disastrous at­tyre, and then intreated him very instantly, if hee knew any thing of her affaires, hee would acquaint her therewithall, For if fortune had left her any good, it was only the courage which shee had to beare patiently any disaster that might befall her, being cer­taine in her opinion, that no new one could arive, which might increase a whit those she had already.

[Page] Ladie, I would not let slip the occasion (quoth Cardenio) to tell you what I thinke, if that which I imagine were true: and yet there is no commoditie l [...]ft to doe it, nor can it availe you much to know it: Let it bee what it list, said Dorotea, but that which after befell of my relation was this: That Don Fernando tooke an Image that was in my Chamber for witnesse of our Contract, and added withall most forcible words and unusuall oathes, promising unto mee to become my husband: Although I warned him before hee had ended his speech, to see well [...] what hee did, and to weigh the wrath of his father, when hee should see him married to one so base, and his Vassall, and that therefore hee should take heede that my beauty (such as it was) should not blinde him, seeing hee should not finde therein a sufficient excuse for his errour, and that if hee meant to doe mee any good, I conjured him by the love that hee bore unto mee, to li­cense my fortunes to roule in their owne spheere, according as my qualitie reached: For such unequall matches doe never please long, nor persevere with that delight where­withall they begun.

All the reasons here rehearsed I said unto him, and many more which now are falne out of minde, but yet proved of no efficacy to weane him from his obstinate purpose; even like unto one that goeth to buy, with intention never to pay for what hee takes, and therefore never considers the price, worth, or defect of the stuffe hee takes co cre­dit. I at this season made a briefe discourse, and said thus to my selfe, I may doe this, for I am not the first which by Matrimony hath ascended from a low degree to a high e­state: not shall Don Fernando bee the first whom beautie or blind affection (for that is the most certaine) hath induced to make choice of a Consort equall to his Greatness. Then since herein I create no new world, nor custome, what error can bee committed by embracing the honour wherewithall fortune crownes mee: Although it so befell, that his affection to mee endured no longer then till he accomplisht his will: for be­fore God, I certes shall still remaine his wife. And if I should disdainfully give him the repulse, I see him now in such termes, as perhaps forgetting the dutie of a Nobleman, hee may use violence, and then shall I remaine for ever dishonoured, and also without excuse of the imputations of the ignorant, which knew not how much without any fault I have faln into this inevitable danger. For, what reasons may bee sufficiently for­cible to perswade my father and other, that this Nobleman did enter into my Chamber without my consent? All these demands and Answeres did I in an instant revolve in mine imagination, and found my selfe chiefly forced (how I cannot tell) to assent to his Petition, by the witnesses hee invoked, the teares hee shed, and finally by his sweete disposition and comely feature, which accompanied with so many arguments of unfai­ned affection, were able to conquer and enthrall any other heart, though it were as free and wary as mine own. Then called I for my waiting-maid, that shee might on earth accompany the coelestiall witnesses.

And then Don Fernando turned again to reiterate and confirme his oathes, and added to his former, other new Saints as witnesses, and wished a thousand succeeding male­dictions to light on him, if hee did not accomplish his promise to mee. His eyes againe waxed moist, his sighes increased, and himselfe inwreathed mee more streightly between his armes, from which hee had never once loosed mee: and with this, and my May­dens departure, I left to bee a Mayden, and hee began to bee a Traytor and a disloyall man. The day that succeeded to the night of my mishaps came not (I think) so soon as Don Fernando desired it; for after a man hath satisfied that which the appetite covets, the greatest delight it can take after, is to apart it selfe from the place where the desire was accomplished. I say this because Don Fernando did hasten his departure from mee, by my maids industrie, who was the very same that had brought him into my Chamber, hee was got in the street before dawning. And at his departure from mee hee said (al­though) not with so great shew of affection and vehemency as hee had used at his com­ing) that I might bee secure of his faith, and that his oathes were firme and most true; and for a more confirmation of his word, hee tooke a rich Ring off his finger and put it on mine. In fine hee departed, and I remayned behinde, I cannot well say whether joy­full or sad; but this much I know, that I rested confused and pensive, and almost be­side [Page 69] my self for the late mischance; yet either I had not the heart, or else I forgot to chide my Maid for her treacherie committed by shutting up Don Fernando in my Cham­ber; for as yet I could not determine, whether that which had befaln me, was a good or an evill.

I said to Don Fernando at his departure, that he might see me other nights when hee pleased, by the same means he had come that night, seeing I was his own, and would rest so, untill it pleased him to let the world know that I was his wife. But hee never returned again, but the next night following could I see him after, for the space of a moneth either in the street or Church, so as I did but spend time in vain to expect him; although I understood that he was still in Town and rode every other day a hunting, an Exercise to which he was much addicted.

Those dayes were, I know, unfortunate and accursed to me, and those hours sor­rowfull; for in them I began to doubt, nay rather wholly to discredit Don Fernando's faith; and my maid did then hear loudly the checks I gave unto her for her presumption, ever untill then dissembled: And I was moreover constrained to watch and keep guard on my tears and countenance, lest I should give occasion to my Parents to demand of me the cause of my discontents, and thereby ingage me to use ambages or untruths to cover them. But all this ended in an instant, one moment ariving whereon all these respects stumbled, all honourable discourses ended, patience was lost, and my most hidden secrets issued in publique; which was when there was spread a certain rumour throughout the Town within a few dayes after, that Don Fernando had married in a Cit­ty neer adjoyning a Damzell of surpassing beauty, and of very Noble birth, although not so rich as could deserve, by her preferment or dowrie, so worthie a husband: it was also said that shee was named Luscinda, with many other things that hapned at their Spousals worthy of admiration. Cardenio hearing Luscinda named did nothing else but lift up his shoulders, bite his lip, bend his brows, and after a little while shed from his eyes two floods of tears. But yet for all that Dorotea did not interrupt the file of her History, saying, This dolefull news came to my hearing, and my heart, instead of freezing thereat, was so inflamed with choler and rage, as I had well-nigh run out to the streets, and with out-cries published the Deceit and Treason that was done to me; but my furie was presently asswaged by the resolution which I made to doe what I put in execution the very same night, and then I put on this habit which you see, being given unto me by one of those that among us Country-folk are called Swains, who was my fathers servant; to whom I disclosed all my misfortunes, and requested him to accom­panie me to the Citie where I understood my enemie sojourned, He, after he had re­prehended my boldnesse, perceiving me to have an inflexible resolution, made offer to attend on me, as he said, unto the end of the world: And presently after I trussed up in a pillow-bear a womans attire, some Money and Jewels, to prevent necessities that might befall; and in the silence of night, without acquainting my treacherous maid with my purpose, I issued out of my house, accompanied by my servant and many imagi­nations: and in that manner set on towards the Citie, and though I went on foot, was yet born away flying by my desires, to come, if not time enough to hinder that which was past, yet at least to demand of Don Fernando that he would tell me with what con­science or soul he had done it. I arrived where I wished within two dayes and a half; and at the entry of the City I demanded where Luscinda her father dwelled? and he of whom I first demanded the question answered me more then I desired to hear; hee shewed me the house, and recounted to me all that befell at the daughters marriage, being a thing so publique and known in the City, as men made meetings of purpose to discourse thereof.

Hee said to me, that the very night wherein Don Fernando was espoused to Luscinda, after she had given her consent to be his wife, she was instantly assailed by a terrible accident that struck her into a Trance; and her Spouse approaching to unclapse her bosome that shee might take the aire, found a paper folded in it, written with Luscinda's own hand, wherein she said and declared, that shee could not be Don Fernando's wife, be­cause she was already Cardenio's, who was, as the man told me, a very principall Gentle­man [Page] man of the same Citie; and that if shee had given her consent to Don Fernando, it was only done, because shee would not disobey her Parents; in conclusion hee told mee, that the paper made also mention, how shee had a resolution to kill her selfe presently after the marriage, and did also lay downe therein the motives shee had to doe it; all which, as they say, was confirmed by a Ponyard that was found hidden about her, in her apparell. Which Don Fernando perceiving, presuming that Luscinda did flout him, and hold him in little account, hee set upon her ere shee was come to her selfe, and attemp­ted to kill her with the very same Ponyard; and had done it, if her father and other friends which were present, had not opposed themselves and hindred his determination. Moreover, they reported that presently after Don Fernando absented himselfe from the Citie, and that Luscinda turned not out of her agonie untill the next day, and then re­counted to her parents how shee was verily Spouse to that Cardenio of whom wee spake even now. I learned besides, that Cardenio, as it is rumor'd, was present at the mar­riage, and that as soone as hee saw her married, being a thing hee would never have cre­dited, departed out of the Citty in a desperate moode, but first left behinde him a letter, wherein hee shewed at large the wrong Luscinda had done to him, and that hee himself meant to goe to some place where people should never after hear of him. All this was notorious, and publiquely bruited thorowout the Citty, and every one spoke thereof, but most of all having very soone after understood that Luscinda was mis­sing from her Parents house and the Citie, for shee could not bee found in neyther of both, for which her parents were almost beside themselves, not knowing what meanes to use to finde her.

These news reduced my hopes againe to their ranks, and I esteemed it better to finde Don Fernando unmarried then married, persuming that yet the gates of my remedy were not wholly shut, I giving my selfe to understand that heaven had peradventure set that impediment on the second marriage, to make him understand what hee ought to the first; and to remember how hee was a Christian, and that hee was more oblieged to his Soule then to humane respects. I revolved all these things in my minde, and comfort­lesse did yet comfort my selfe, by fayning large, yet languishing, hopes, to sustain that life which I now doe so much abhor. And whilest I stayed thus in the Citie, ignorant what I might doe, seeing I found not Don Fernando, I heard a Cryer goe about pub­liquely, promising great rewards to any one that could finde mee out, giving signes of the very age and apparell I wore: And I likewise heard it was bruited abroad, that the Youth which came with mee, had caried mee away from my fathers house. A thing that touched my soule very neerely, to view my credit so greatly wrak't, seeing that it was not sufficient to have lost it by my coming away, without the addition of him with whom I departed, being a subject so base and unworthy of my loftier thoughts. Ha­ving heard this crie, I departed out of the Citie with my servant; who even then began to give tokens that he faultred in the fidelity hee had promised to me; and both of us together entred the very same night into the most hidden parts of this Mountain, fearing lest we might be found. But as it is commonly said, That one evill calls on another, and that the end of one disaster is the beginning of a greater, so proved it with me; for my good servant, untill then faithfull and trustie, rather incited by his own Villainy then my Beauty, thought to have taken the benefit of the oportunity which these inhabi­table places offered, and sollicited me of Love, with little shame and lesse fear of God, or respect of my self: And now seeing that I answered his impudencies with severe and reprehensive words, leaving the intreaties aside wherewithall he thought first to have compast his will, he began to use his force: But just Heaven, which seldome or never neglects the just mans assistance, did so favour my proceedings, as with my weak forces and very little labour I threw him down a [...]eep Rock, and there I left him, I know not whether alive or dead: And presently I entred in among these Mountains, with more swiftnesse then my fear and wearinesse required, having therein no other project or designe then to hide my self in them, and [...] my father and others, which by his intreaty and means sought for me every where.

Some moneths are past since my first comming here, where I found a Heard-man, [Page 70] who carried me to a Village seated in the midest of these Rocks, wherein hee dwelled, and entertained me, whom I have served as a Sheepheard ever since, procuring as much as lay in me, to abide stil in the field, to cover these hairs which have now so unexpectedly betraid me: Yet all my care and industry aviled not, seeing my Master came at last to the notice that I was no man, but a woman, which was an occasion that the like evill thought sprung in him, as before in my servant: And as fortune gives not alwais re­medie for the difficulties which occur, I found neither Rock nor downfall to cool and cure my Masters infirmitie, as I had done for my man; and therefore I accounted it a lesse inconvenience to depart thence, and hide my self again among these Desarts, then to adventure the tryall of my strength or reason with him: Therefore, as I say, I turned to imbosk my self, and search out some place, where, without any encumbrance, I might intreat Heaven with my sighs and tears, to have compassion on my mis-hap, and lend me industry and favour, either to issue fortunately out of it, or else to die amid'st these solitudes, not leaving any memory of a wretch, who hath ministred matter, although not through her own default, that men may speak and murmur of her, both in her own and in other Countries.

CHAP. II.
Which treats of the Discretion of the Beautifull Dorotea, and the artificiall manner used to disswade the amorous Knight from con­tinuing his penance; And how hee was gotten away; with many other delightfull Occurrences.

THis is, Sirs, the true relation of my Tragedie; see therefore now and judge, whether the sighs you heard, the words to which you listened, and the tears that gushed out at mine eyes, have not had sufficient occasion to appear in greater abundance: and having considered the quality of my disgrace, you shall perceive all comfort to be vain, seeing the remedie thereof is impossible: Only I will request at your hands one favour, which you ought and may easily grant, and is, That you will addresse me unto some place, where I may live secure from the fear and suspicion I have to be found by those which I know doe dayly travell in my pursuit: for although I am sure that my Parents great affection toward me doth warrant me to be kindely received and entertained by them; yet the shame is so great that possesseth me, only to think that I shall not return to their presence in that state which they ex­pect, as I account it far better to banish my self from their sight for ever, then once to behold their face with the least suspicion that they again would behold mine, divorced from that honestie which whilom my modest behaviour promised. Here shee ended, and her face suddainly over-run by a lovely scarlet, perspicuously denoted the feeling and bashfullnesse of her soul.

The audients of her sad storie, felt great motions both of pittie and admiration, for her misfortunes: and although the Curate thought to comfort and counsell her forth­with, yet was hee prevented by Cardenio, who taking her first by the hand, said at last; Ladie, thou art the beautifull Dorotea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo. Dorotea rested admired when shee heard her fathers name, and saw of how little value he seemed who had named him; for we have already recounted how raggedly Cardenio was clothed; and therefore shee said unto him, And who art thou, friend, that knowest so well my fathers name; for untill this hour (if I have not forgotten my self) I did not once name him throughout the whole discourse of my unfortunate Tale? I am (answered [Page] Cardenio the unluckie Knight, whom Luscinda (as thou saidst) affirmed to bee her hus­band. I am the disastrous Cardenio, whom the wicked proceeding of him that hath also brought thee to those termes wherein thou art, hath conducted mee to the state in which I am, and thou maist behold ragged, naked, abandoned by all humane comfort; and what is worse, void of sense; seeing I only enjoy it but at some few short times, and that, when heaven pleaseth to lend it mee. I am hee Dorotea, that was present at Don Fernandoes unreasonable wedding, and that heard the consent which Luscinda gave him to bee his wife. I was hee that had not the courage to stay and see the end of her trance, or what became of the paper found in her bosome; for my soule had not po­wer or sufferance to behold so many misfortunes at once, and therefore abandoned the place and my patience together, and only left a Letter with mine Host, whom I intrea­ted to deliver it into Luscinda her owne hands, and then came into these Desarts, with resolution to end in them my miserable life, which since that houre I have hated as my most mortall Enemie: But Fortune hath not pleased to deprive mee of it, thinking it sufficient to have impaired my wit, perhaps reserving me for the good successe befaln mee now in finding of your selfe; for that being true (as I beleeve it is) which you have here discoursed, peradventure it may have reserved yet better hap for us both in our dis­asters then wee expect.

For presupposing that Luscinda cannot marry with Don Fernando, because shee is mine, nor Don Fernando with her because yours; and that shee hath declared so mani­festly the same, wee may well hope that heaven hath meanes to restore to every one that which is his owne, seeing it yet consists in being not made away or annihilated. And seeing this comfor remaines, not sprung from any very remote hope, nor founded on idle surmises, I request thee faire Lady, to take another resolution in thine honourable thought, seeing I meane to doe it in mine, and let us accomodate our selves to expect better successe: For I doe vow unto thee by the faith of a Gentleman and Christian, not to forsake thee, untill I see thee in Don Fernandoes possession, and when I shall not by reasons bee able to induce him to acknowledge how far hee rests indebted to thee then will I use the liberty granted to mee as a Gentleman, and with just title challenge him to the field, in respect of the wrong hee hath done unto thee; forgetting wholly mine owne injuries, whose revenge I will leave to Heaven, that I may be able to right yours on earth.

Dorotea rested wonderfully admired, having knowne and heard Cardenio, and igno­ring what competent thanks shee might returne him in satisfaction of his large offers, shee cast her selfe downe at his feete to have kissed them, which Cardenio would not per­mit; and the Licentiat answered for both, praysing greatly Cardenioes discourse; and chiefly intreated, prayed and counselled them, that they would goe with him to his Village, where they might fit themselves with such things as they wanted, and also take order how to search out Don Fernando, or carie Dorotea to her fathers house, or doe else what they deemed most convenient. Cardenio and Dorotea gratified his courtesies, and accepted the favour hee profferred. The Barbar also, who had stood all the while silent and suspended, made them a pretty discourse, with as friendly an offer of himselfe, and his service as Master Curate; and likewise did brieflie relate the occasion of their com­ming thither, with the extravagant kinde of madnesse which Don-Quixote had, and how they expected now his Squires returne, whom they had sent to search for him. Cardenio having heard him named, remembred presently, as in a dreame, the conflict past betweene them both, and recounted it unto them, but could not in any wise call to mind the occasion thereof.

By this time they heard one call for them, and knew by the voice, that it was Sancho Panchaes, who because hee found them not in the place where hee had left them, cry­ed out for them as lowdly as hee might. They went to meete him, and demanding for Don-Quixote, hee answered, that hee found him all naked to his shyrt, leane, yellow, almost dead for hunger, and sighing for his Lady Dulcinea; and although he had told him, how shee commanded him to repayre presently to Toboso, where shee expected him, yet notwithstanding hee answered, That hee was determined never to appeare be­fore [Page 71] her Beautie, untill hee had done Feats that should make him worthy of her gracious favour. And then the Squire affirmed if that humour passed on any farther, hee fear­ed his Lord would bee in danger never to become an Emperour, as hee was bound in honour, no, nor a Cardinall, which was the least that could be expected of him.

The Licentiat bid him bee of good cheer, for they would bring him from thence whether he would or no; and recounted to Cardenio and Dorotea, what they had be­thought for Don-Quixotes remedie, or at least for the carrying him home to his house. To that Dorotea answered, that shee would counterfeit the distressed Ladie better then the Barber, and chiefly seeing she had apparrel wherewithall to act it most naturally: And therefore desired them to leave to her charge the representing of all that which should bee needfull for the atchieving of their Designe; for shee had read many books of Knighthood, and knew well the stile that distressed Damzels used, when they reque­sted any favour of Knights Adventurous. And then need we nothing else, quoth the Curate, but only to put our purpose presently in execution: For questionlesse good successe turns on our side, seeing it hath so unexpectedly begun already to open the gates of your remedy, and hath also facilitated for us that whereof we had most necessity in this exigent. Dorotea took forthwith out of her Pillow-bear a whole Gown of very rich stuff, and a short Mantle of another green stuff, and a Collar and many other rich Jewels out of a Boxe, wherewithall she adorned her self in a trice so gorgeously, as shee seemed a very rich and goodly Ladie: All which, and much more, shee had brought with her, as shee said, from her house, to prevent what might happen, but never had any use of them untill then. Her grace, gesture, and beauty liked them all extreamly, and made them account Don Fernando to bee a man of little understanding, seeing hee contemned such feature. But hee which was most of all admired was Sancho Panca, because, as hee thought (and it was so indeed) that hee had not in all the dayes of his life before seen so fair a creature; and he requested the Curate very seriously, to tell him who that beautifull Ladie was? and what shee sought among those thorow­fares? This fair Lady, friend Sancho, answered the Curate, is (as if a man said nothing shee is so great) Heir apparent by direct line of the mighty Kingdome of Micomicon, and comes in the search of your Lord, to demand a boon of him, which is, that hee will destroy and undoe a great wrong done unto her by a wicked Gyant; and through the great fame which is spread over all Guinea of your Lords prowesse, this Princesse is come to finde him out. A happy searcher, and a fortunate finding, quoth Sancho! and chiefly, if my Master bee so happy as to right that injury and redresse that wrong by killing that, ô the mighty Lubber of a Gyant, whom you say! yes, hee will kill him, I am very certain, if hee can once but meet him, and if hee bee not a Spirit; for my Master hath no kinde of power over Spirits. But I must request one favour of you, among others most earnestly, good Master Licentiat, and it is, That to the end my Lord may not take an humbur of becoming a Cardinall, which is the thing I fear most in this world) that you will give him counsell to marry this Princesse presently, and by that means hee shal remain incapable of the dignity of a Cardinall, and will come very easily by his Empire, and I to the end of my desires; for I have thought well of the matter, and have found, that it is in no wise expedient that my Lord should become a Cardinall; for I am wholy unfit for any Ecclesiasticall dignity, seeing I am a married man: And therefore to trouble my self now with seeking of dispensations to enjoy Church livings, having, as I have, both wife and children, were never to end: So that all my good consists, in that my Lord doe marry this Princesse instantly, whose name yet I know not; and therefore I have not said it. Shee is hight (quoth the Curate) the Princesse Micomicona: for her Kingdome being called Micomicon, it is evident shee must be termed so.

That is questionlesse, quoth Sancho; for I have known many to take their deno­mination and surname from the place of their birth, calling themselves Peter of Al­cala, Iohn of Vbeda, and Iames of Valedolid; and perhaps in Guinea Princes and Queens use the same custome, and call themselves by the names of their Pro­vinces.

[Page] So I thinke quoth the Curate; and as touching your Masters marriage with her, I will labour therein as much as lies in my power. Wherewithall Sancho remained as well sa­tisfied, as the Curate admired at his simplicitie, and to see how firmly hee had fixed in his fantasie the very ravings of his Master, seeing hee did beleeve without doubt that his Lord should become an Emperour. Dorotea in this space had gotten upon the Curates Mule, and the Barber had somwhat better fitted the beard which hee made of the Oxes tayle on his face, and did after intreat Sancho to guide them to the place where Don-Quixote was, and advertised him withall, that hee should in no wise take any notice of the Curate or Barber, or confesse in any sort that hee knew them, for therein consisted all the meanes of bringing Don-Quixote to the minde to become an Emperour. Yet Cardenio would not goe with them, fearing lest thereby Don-Quixote might call to minde their contention; and the Curate thinking also that his presence was not expedi­ent [...] remayned with him, letting the others goe before, and these followed a far off fayre and softlie on foote, and ere they departed, the Curate instructed Dorotea anew, what shee should say, who bid him to feare nothing for shee would dis­charge her part to his satisfaction, and as Bookes of Chivalrie required and laid downe.

They travelled about three quarters of a league, as they espied the Knight, and at last they discovered him among a number of intricate Rocks, all apparelled, but not armed, and as soone as Dorotea beheld him, shee struck her Palfrey, her well-bearded Barber following her; and as they approached Don-Quixote, the Barber leaped lightly downe from his Mule and ran towards Dorotea to take her downe betweene his armes, who alighting went with a very good grace towards Don-Quixote, and kneeled before him. And although hee strived to make her arise, yet shee remayning still on her knees, spake to him in this manner: I will not arise from hence, thrice valorous and appro­ved Knight, untill your bountie and courtesie shall grant unto mee one Boone, which shall much redound unto your honour and prize of your Person, and to the profit of the most disconsolate and wronged Damzell that the Sunne hath ever seene. And if it bee so, that the valour of your invincible Arme bee correspondent to the bruite of your immortall same, you are obliged to succour this comfortlesse Wight, that comes from lands so remote, to the sound of your famous name, searching you for to remedy her mis-haps.

I will not answere you a word, faire Lady, quoth Don-Quixote, nor heare a jot of your affaire, untill you arise from the ground. I will not get up from hence, my Lord, quoth the afflicted Lady, if first, of your wonted bountie, you doe not grant to my re­quest. I doe give and grant it, said Don-Quixote, so that it bee not a thing that may turn to the dammage or hindrance of my King, my Country, or of her that keeps the key of my Heart and Liberty. It shall not turn to the dammage or hindrance of those you have said, good Sir, replied the dolorous Damzel: and as shee was saying this Sancho Panca rounded his Lord in the eare, saying softly to him, Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh, for it is a matter of nothing, it is only to kill a mon­strous Gyant, and she that demands it is the mightie Princesse Micomicona Queen of the great Kingdome of Micomicon in Ethiopia. Let her bee what shee will, quoth Don-Quixote, for I will accomplish what I am bound, and my conscience shall inform me comformable to the State I have professed. And then turning to the Damzell, hee said, Let your great beauty arise; for I grant to you any boon which you shall please to ask of me. Why then, quoth the Damzell, that which I demand is, That your mag­nanimous person come presently away with me, to the place where I shall carry you; and doe likewise make me a promise, not to undertake any other Adventure or de­mand, untill you revenge me upon a Traytor, who hath, against all Laws both Divine and Humane, usurped my Kingdome. I say that I grant you all that, quoth Don-Quixote; and therefore, Lady, you may cast away from this day forward all the Me­lancholy that troubles you, and labour that your languishing and dismaied hopes may recover again new strength and courage; for by the help of God, and that of mine arme, you shall see your self shortly restored to your Kingdome, and enthronized in [Page 72] the Chair of your ancient and great Estate, in despite and maugre the Traytors that shall dare gainsay it: and therefore hands to the work; for they say that danger alwayes follows delay. The distressed Damzell strove with much adoe to kisse his hand. But Don-Quixote, who was a most accomplished Knight for courtesie, would never condescend thereunto; but making her arise, hee imbraced her with great kindnesse and respect; and commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante, and help him to Arme himself.

Sancho took down the Armes forthwith, which hung on a Tree like Trophies, and searching the Gyrts, armed his Lord in a moment; who seeing himself Armed, said, Let us in Gods name, depart from hence to assist this great Lady. The Barber kneeled all this while, and could with much adoe dissemble his laughter, or keep on his Beard that threatned still to fall off; with whose fall perhaps, they should all have remained with­out bringing their good purpose to passe: And seeing the boon was granted, and noted the dilligence wherewithall Don-Quixote made himself ready to depart and accom­plish the same: hee arose and took his Ladie by the hand; and both of them together holp her upon her Mule; and presently after Don-Quixote leaped on Rozinante, and the Barber got on his Beast, Sancho only remaining a foot; where he afresh renewed the me­mory of the losse of his gray Asse, with the want procured to him thereby. But all this hee bore with very great patience, because hee supposed that his Lord was now in the way, and next degree to bee an Emperour; for he made an infallible account that hee would marry that Princesse, and at least bee King of Micomicon: But yet it grieved him to think how that Kingdome was in the Country of black Moors; and that there­fore the Nation which should bee given to him for his Vassals should be all black: For which difficultie his imagination coyned presently a good remedie; and hee discoursed with himself in this manner. Why should I care though my Subjects be all black Moors? is there any more to be done then to load them in a Ship and bring them into Spain, where I may sell them, and receive the price of them in ready mony? and with that money may I buy some Title or Office, wherein I may after live at mine ease all the dayes of my life. No! but sleep, and have no wit nor abilitie to dispose of things; and to sell thirty or ten thousand Vassals in the space that one would say, give me those straws. I will dispatch them all; they shall [...]lie the little with the great, or as I can best con­trive the matter: And bee they ever so black, I will transform them into white or yellow ones: come neer and see whether I cannot suck well my fingers ends. And thus hee travailed so solicitous and glad, as hee quite forgot his pain of travailing a foot. Cardenio and the Curate stood in the mean timebeholding all that passed from behinde some Brambles, where they lay lu [...]king, and were in doubt what means to use to issue and joyn in company with them. But the Curate, who was an ingenious and prompt plotter, devised instantly what was to bee done, that they might attain their desire: Thus hee took out of his case a pair of Shears, and cut off Cardenio's Beard therewithall in a trice, and then gave unto him to wear a riding Capouch which hee himself had on, and a black Cloak; and himself walked in a Doublet and Hose: Car­denio, thus attired, looked so unlik that he was before, as he would not have known himself in a Looking-glasse. This being finished, and the others gone on before whilest they disguised themselves, they sallied out with facilitie to the high way before Don-Quixote or his company; for the Rocks and many other bad passages did not permit those that were a horse-back to make so speedie an end of their Journey, as they: and having thorowly past the Mountain, they expected at the foot [...]hereof for the Knight and his company, who when he appeared, the Curate looked on him very earnestly for a great space, with inkling that he began to know him: And after hee had a good while beheld him, hee ran towards him with his armes spread abroad, saying, In a good houre bee the mirrour of all Knighthood found, and my noble country man Don-Quixote of the Mancha; the flower and cream of Gentility; the shadow and remedie of the affli­cted; and the Quintescence of Knights Errant [...] and saying this, he held Don-Quixote his left thigh embraced. Who, admiring at that which hee heard that man to say and doe, did also review him with attention, and finally knew him; and all amazed to see [Page] him, made much adoe to alight; but the Curate would not permit him; wherefore Don-Quixote said, Good Master Licentiat permit me to alight; for it is in no sort decent that I bee a horse-back, and so reverend a person as you goe on foot. I will never consent thereunto, quoth the Curate, your highnesse must needs stay on horse-back, seeing that thereon you are accustomed to archieve the greatest feats of Chivalry and Adventures which were ever seen in our age. For it shall suffice me, who am an un­worthy Priest, to get up behinde some one of these other Gentlemen that ride in your company, if they will not take it in bad part; yes, and I will make account that I ride on Pegasas, or the Zebra [A strange Beast of Affirick that travails very swiftly] of the famous Moor Muzaraque, who lies yet inchanted in the steep Rock of Culema, neer unto Alcala of Henares.

Truely I did not think upon it, good Master Licentiat, answered Don-Quixote; yet I presume my Lady the Princesse will bee well appaid for my sake to command her Squire to lend you the use of his saddle, and to get up himself on the crupper, if so it bee that the Beast will bear double. Yes that it will, said the Princesse, for ought I know; and likewise I am sure it will not bee necessary to command my Squire to alight, for hee is of himself so courteous and courtly, as hee will in no wise con­descend that an Ecclesiasticall man should goe on foot, when hee may help him to a horse.

That is most certain, quoth the Barber: and saying so he alighted, and intreated the Curate to take the saddle; to which courtesie he did easily condescend. But by evill fortune, as the Barber thought to leap up behinde him, the Mule which was in effect a hired one (and that is sufficient to say it was unhappy) did lift a little her hinder quarters, and bestowed two or three flings on the aire, which had they hit on Master Nicholas his breast or p [...]te, hee would have bequeathed the quest of Don-Quixote upon the Divell: But notwithstanding the Barber was so affrighted, as hee fell on the ground with so little heed of his beard, as it fell quite off, and lay spread upon the ground; and perceiving himself without it, he ehad no other shift, but to cover his face with both his hands, and complain, that all his cheek-teeth were strucken out. Don-Quixote beholding such a great sheaf of a beard faln away, without jaw or blood, from the face, he said; I vow this is one of the greatest miracles that ever I saw in my life; it hath taken and pluckt away his beard as smoothly as if it were done of purpose. The Curate beholding the danger which their invention was like to incur, if it were de­tected, went forthwith, and taking up the beard, came to Master Nicholas that lay still playing, and with one push bringing his head towards his own breast, he set it on again, murmuring the while over him certain words, which he said were a certain prayer ap­propriated to the setting on of faln beards, as they should soon perceive: And so ha­ving set it on handsomely, the Squire remained as well bearded and whole as ever he was in his life: Whereat Don-Quixote rested marvellously admired, and requested the Curate to teach him that prayer when they were at leisure: For hee supposed that the virtue thereof extended it self farther then to the fastning on of beards, since it was manifest that the place whence the beard was torne must have remained without flesh, wounded and ill dight; and seeing it cured all, it must of force serve for more then the beard. It is true, replyed Master Curate; and then promised to instruct him with the secret, with the first oportunity that was presented.

Then they agreed that the Curate should ride first on the Mule, and after him the other two, each one by turns, untill they arived to the Inn, which was about some two leagues thence. Three being thus mounted, to wit, Don-Quixote, the Princesse, and Curate; and the other three on foot, Cardenio, the Barber, and Sancho Panca. Don-Quixote said to the Damzell; Madam! let me intreat your Highnesse to lead me the way that most pleaseth you. And before she could answer, the Licenciat said, To­wards what Kingdome would you travail? is it by fortune towards that of Mico­micon? I suppose it should be thitherwards, or else I know but little of Kingdoms. She, who knew very well the Curates meaning, and was her self no Babe, answered, saying, Yes Sir, my way lies towards that Kingdome. If it be so, quoth the Curate, [Page 73] you must passe through the Village where I dwell, and from thence direct your course twards Cartagena, where you may luckily embarke your selves. And if you have a prosperous winde, and a quiet and calme Sea, you may come within the space of nine yeeres to the sight of the Lake Meona, I meane Meolidas, which stands on this side of your highnesse Kingdome some hundred dayes journey or more. I take you to bee de­ceived good Sir quoth shee, for it is not yet fully two yeeres since I departed from thence, and truly I never almost had any faire weather, and yet notwithstanding I have arived and come to see that which I so much longed for, to wit, the presence of the worthie Don-Quixote of the Mancha, whose renowne came to my notice as soone as I touched the earth of Spayne with my foote, and moved mee to search for him, to commend my self to his courtesie, and commit the Justice of my cause to the valour of his invincible Arme.

No more quoth Don-Quixote, I cannot abide to heare my selfe praysed; for I am a sworne enemy of all adulation: And although this bee not such, yet notwithstanding the like Discourses doe offend my chaste eares. What I can say to you faire Princesse is; that whether I have valour or not, that which I have or have not shall bee imployed in your service, even to the very losse of my life. And so omitting that till this time, let me intreat good Master Licentiat to tell mee the occasion which hath brought him here to these quarters so alone, without attendants, and so sleightly attyred, as it strikes mee in no little admiration? To this I will answere with brevitic quoth the Curate; You shall understand that Master Nicolas the Barber, our very good friend, and my self, tra­velled towards Sivill, to recover certaine summes of money which a kinsman of mine, who hath dwelt these many yeeres in the Indies hath sent unto mee; the summe is not a little one, for it surmounted seventy thousand Rials of eight, all of good weight, see if it was not a rich gift; and passing yesterday through this way, wee were set upon by foure Robbers which dispoyled us of all, even to our very beards, and that in such sort, as the Barber was forced to set on a counterfeit one, and this young man that goeth here with us (meaning Cardenio) was transformed by them anew: & the best of it is, that it is publickly bruited about all this commark, that those which surprized us were Gally-slaves who were set at liberty, as is reported, much about this same place, by so valiant a Knight as in despight of the Commissary and the guard hee freed them all. And questionlesse hee either was wood, or else as great a knave as themselves, or some one that wanted both Soule and Conscience, seeing hee let slip the Wolves amidst the Sheepe, the Foxe among the Hens, and Files hard by Honey, and did frustrate Justice, rebell against his naturall Lord and King; for hee did so by oppugning his just commandements, and hath deprived the Gallies of their feet, and set all the Holy brotherhood in an uproare, which hath reposed these many yeeres past. And finally would doe an Act, by which hee should lose his Soule, and yet not gaine his Bodie. Sancho had rehearsed to the Curate and Barbar the Adventure of the Slaves, which his Lord had accomplished with such glorie; and therefore the Curate did use this vehemencie as hee repeated it, to see what Don-Quixote would say or doe, whose colour changed at every word, and durst not confesse that hee was himselfe the deliverer of that good People: and these quoth the Curate, were they that have robbed us: And God of his infinite Mercy pardon him who hindred their going to receive the punishment they had so well deserved.

CHAP. III.
Of many pleasant Discourses passed betweene Don-Quixote and those of his Companie, after hee had abandoned the rigorous place of his Penance.

SCARCE had the Curate finished his speech throughly, when Sancho said, By my faith, Master Licentiate, hee that did that feate, was my Lord, and that not for want of warning, for I told him beforehand, and advised him that hee should see well what hee did, and that it was a sinne to deliver them, because they were all sent to the Gallies for very great Villanies they had played.

You Bottlehead, replyed Don-Quixote, hearing him speak, it concerneth not Knights Errant to examine whether the afflicted, the inchained, and oppressed, which they encounter by the way, bee carried in that fashion, or are plunged in that distresse, through their owne default or disgrace, but only are oblieged to assist them as need [...]e and oppressed, setting their eyes upon their paines, and not on their crimes. I met with a Rosarie or beades of inserted People, sorrowfull and unfortunate, and I did for them that which my Religion exacts: as for the rest, let them verifie it elsewhere, and to whosoever else, the holy dignitie and honourable Person of Master Licentiat excep­ted, it shall seeme evill: I say hee knowes but sleightly what belongs to Chivalry; and hee lies like a Whores-son and a Villain borne, and this will I make him know with the broad side of my Sword. These words hee said, setling himselfe in his Stirrops, and addressing his Murrion (for the Barbers-Bason, which hee accounted to bee Mam­brin [...]es Helmet, hee carried hanging at the pummell of his saddle, untill hee might have it repayred of the crazings the Gally-slave had wrought in it.) Dorotea, who was very discreete and pleasant, and that was by this well acquainted with Don-Quixotes faultie humor, and saw all the rest make a jest of him, Sancho Panca excepted, would also shew her conceit to bee as good as some others, and therefore said unto him, Sir Knight remember you selfe of the Boone you have promised unto mee, whereunto conforming your selfe, you cannot intermeddle in any other Adventure, bee it ever so urgent. Therefore asswage your stomack, for if Master Licentiate had knowne that the Gally­slaves were delivered by your invincible Arme, hee would rather have given unto him­selfe three blowes on the mouth, and also bit his tongue thrice then have spoken any word whence might result your indignation. That I dare sweare, quoth the Curate, yea and besides torn away one of my Mustachoes.

Maddame said Don-Quixote, I will hold my peace, and suppresse the just Choler already inkindled in my brest, and will ride quietly and peaceably, untill I have accom­plished the thing I have promised; and I request you in recompence of this my good desire, if it bee not displeasing to you, to tell mee your grievance, and how many, which, and what the Persons bee, of whom I must take due, sufficient, and entyre re­venge? I will promptly performe your Will herein, answered Dorotea, if it will not bee irksome to you to listen to disasters. In no sort good Maddam said Don-Quixote. To which Dorotea answered thus, Bee then attentive to my Relation. Scarce had shee said so, when Cardenio and the Barbar came by her side, desirous to heare how the dis­creete Dorotea would faine her tale: and the same did Sancho, which was as much de­ceived in her person as his Lord Don-Quixote; and shee after dressing her selfe well in the Saddle, bethought and provided her selfe whil'st she coughed and used other ge­stures, and then began to speak on this manner.

First of all, good Sirs, I would have you note that I am called; And here shee stood [Page 74] uspended a while by reason shee had forgotten the name that the Curate had given unto her; but hee presently occur'd to her succour, understanding the cause, and said; it is no wonder great Lady, that you bee troubled and stagger whil'st you recount your misfortunes, seeing it is the ordinary custome of Disasters to deprive those whom they torment, and distract their memorie in such sort, as they cannot remember them­selves even of their owne very names; as now it proves done in your Highnesse, which forgets it selfe, that you are called the Princesse Micomicona, lawfull inheretrix of the great Kingdome of Micomicon: And with this Note, you may easily reduce into your dolefull Memory all that which you shall please to rehearse.

It is very true (quoth the Damzell) and from henceforth I thinke it will not bee needfull to prompt mee any more, for I will arive into a safe Port, with the Narra­tion of my authentique History: which is, that my father, who was called the wise I­macrio, was very expert in that which was called art Magick, and hee knew by his Sci­ence, that my Mother who was called Queene Xaramilla, should die before hee decea­sed, and that hee should also passe from this life within a while after, and leave mee an Orphan: but hee was wont to say, how that did not afflict his minde so much, as that hee was very certaine, that a huge Giant, Lord of a great Island neere unto my King­dome, called Pandafilando of the duskie sight; because, although his Eyes stood in their right places, yet doe they still looke a squint, which hee doth to terrifie the beholders: I say that my Father knew that this Giant, when hee should heare of his death, would passe with a maine power into my Land and deprive mee thereof, not leaving mee the least Village wherein I might hide my head. Yet might all this bee excused, it I would marry with him; but as hee found out by his Science, hee knew I would never condis­cend thereunto, or incline mine affection to so unequall a Marriage. And herein hee said nothing but truth: for it never past once my thought to espouse that Giant, nor with any other, were hee ever so unreasonable, and great and mighty. My Father like­wise added then, that after his death, I should see Land [...]filando usurpe my Kingdome, and that I should in no wise stand to my defence, for that would prove my destruction: but leaving to him the Kingdome freely without troubles, if I meant to excuse mine owne death, and the totall ruine of my good and loyall Subjects: for it would be im­possible to defend my self from the divellish force of the Gyant; I should presently direct my course towards Spain, where I should finde a redresse of my harmes, by in­countring with a Knight Errant, whose fame should extend it self much about that time thorowout that Kingdome, and his name should be, if I forget not my self, Don Acote or Don Gigote.

Ladie, you would say Don-Quixote, quoth Sancho Panca, or as he is called by ano­ther name, The Knight of the Ill-favoured face. You have reason, replyed Dorotea: hee said moreover, that he should be high of stature, have a withered face; and that on the right side, a little under the left shoulder or thereabouts, he should have a tawny spot with certain hairs like to bristles. Don-Quixote hearing this said to his Squire, Hold my horse here Sonne Sancho, and help me to take off mine apparrell; for I will see whether I be the Knight of whom the wise King hath prophesied. Why would you now put off your clothes, quoth Dorotea? To see whether I have that spot which your father mentioned, answered Don-Quixote. You need not undoe your apparrell for that purpose, said Sancho, for I know already that you have a spot with the tokens she named, on the very ridges of your back, and argues you to be a very strong man. That is sufficient, quoth Dorotea: for we must not look too neer, or be over-curious in our friends affairs; and whether it be on the shoulder or ridge of the back, it im­ports but little; for the substance consists only in having such a mark, and not, where­soever it shall be, seeing all is one and the self-same flesh; and doubtlesly my good father did aim well at all; and I likewise in commending my self to Don-Quixote: for surely he is the man of whom my father spoke, seeing the signes of his face agree with those of the great renown that is spread abroad of this Knight, not only in Spain, but also in Aethiopia: for I had no sooner landed in Osuna, when I heard so many of his prowesses recounted, as my minde gave me presently that he was the man in whose [Page] search I travailed. But how did you land in Osuna, good Madam, quoth Don-Quixote, seeing it is no Sea Town? Marrie, Sir, quoth the Curate, anticipating Dorotea's an­swer; the Princesse would say that after she had landed in Malaga, but the first place wherein she heard tidings of you was at Osuna. So I would have said, quoth Dorotea. And it may be very well, quoth the Curate; and I desire your Majestie to continue your discourse. There needs no farther continuation, quoth Dorotea, but that finally my Fortune hath been so favourable in finding of Don-Quixote, as I doe already hold and account my self for Queen and Lady of all mine Estate, seeing that he, of his wonted bountie and mignificence, hath promised me the boon, to accompanie me wheresoever I shall guide him, which shall be to none other place, then to set him before Pandafi­lando of the duskie fight, to the end you may slay him, and restore me to that which he hath so wrongfully usurped; for all will succeed in the twinkling of an eye, as the wise Tinacrio my good father hath already foretold; who said moreover, and also left it written in Chaldaicall or Greek charactars (for I cannot read them) that if the Knight of the Prophecie, after having beheaded the Gyant, would take me to wife, that I should in no sort refuse him, but instantly admit him for my Spouse, make him at once possessor of my self and my Kingdome.

What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, then, when he heard her say so? How likest thou this poynt? Did not I tell thee thus much before? See now, whether we have not a Kingdome to command, and a Queen whom we may marry, I swear as much, quoth Sancho, a pox on the knave that will not marry as soon as Master Pundahilado his winde-pipes are cut. Mount then, and see whether the Queen be ill or no: I would to God all the Fleas of my bed were turned to be such. And saying so, he gave two or three friskles in the air, with very great signes of con­tentment, and presently went to Dorotea; and taking her Mule by the bridle, he with­held it, and laying himself down on his knees before her, requested her very submissively to give him her hands to kisse them, in signe that he received her for his Queen and Ladie. Which of the beholders could abstain from laughter, perceiving the Masters madnesse and the Servants simplicity? To be brief, Dorotea must needs give them unto him, and promised to make him a great Lord in her Kingdome, when Heaven became so propitious to her, as to let her once recover and possesse it peaceably. And Sancho returned her thanks, with such words as made them all laugh anew.

This is my Historie, noble Sirs, quoth Dorotea, whereof only rests untold, That none of all the Train which I brought out of my Kingdome to attend on me, is now extant but this well-bearded Squire; for all of them were drowned in a great storm that over-took us in the very sight of Harbor, whence he and I escaped and came to land by the help of two planks, on which we laid hold almost by miracle, as also the whole discourse and mistery of my life seems none other then a miracle, as you might have noted: And if in any part of the relation I have exceeded, or not observed a due decorum, you must impute it to that which Master Licentiat said to the first of my History, that continuall pains and afflictions of minde deprives them that suffer the like of their memory. That shall not hinder me (O high and valourous Ladie) quoth Don-Quixote, from enduring as many as I shall suffer in your service, be they never so great or difficult: And therefore I doe now ratifie and confirm the promise I have made, and doe swear to goe with you to the end of the world, untill I finde out your fierce enemy, whose proud head I mean to slice off by the help of God and my valorous arme, with the edge of this (I will not say a good) Sword; thanks be to Gines of Passa­monte which took away mine own: this he said murmuring to himself, and then pro­secuted saying, And after I have cut it off, and left you peaceably in the possession of your state, it shall rest in your own will to dispose of your person as you like best. For as long as I shall have my memory possessed, and my will captived, and my understand­ing yeelded to her, I will say no more; it is not possible that ever I may induce my self to marry any other although she were a Phoenix.

That which Don-Quixote had said last of all, of not marrying, disliked Sancho so much, as lifting his voyce with great anger, he said; I vow and swear by my self, that [Page 75] you are not in your right wits, Sir Don-Quixote; for how is it possible that you can call the matter, of contracting so high a Princesse as this is, in doubt? Doe you think that Fortune will offer you at every corners end the like hap of this which is now proffer­ed? is my Lady Dulcinea perhaps more beautifull? No certainly! nor half so fair: nay I am rather about to say, that shee comes not to her shoe that is here present.

In an ill hour shall I arrive to possesse that unfortunate Earldome which I expect, if you goe thus seeking for Mushrubs at the bottome of the Sea: Marry, marry your self presently; the Divell take you for me, and take that Kingdome comes into your hands, and being a King, make me presently a Marquesse or Admirall, and instantly after let the Divell take all if hee pleaseth. Don-Quixote, who heard such blasphemies spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, could not bear them any longer: and therefore lift­ing up his Javeling without speaking any word to Sancho, gave him therewithall two such blows, as he over-threw him to the earth: and had not Dorotea cried to him, to hold his hand, he had doubtlesly slain him in the place.

Thinkest thou (quoth he after a while) base Peasant, that I shall have alwaies leisure and disposition to thrust my hand into my pouch, and that there be nothing else but thou erring, and I pardoning? And doest not thou think of it (excommunicated Rascall) for certainly thou art excommunicated, seeing thou hast talked so broadly of the peerlesse Dulcinea? And doest not thou know, base Slave, Vagabond, that if it were not for the valour shee infuseth into mine arme, that I should not have sufficient forces to kill a Flea? Say, scoffer with the Vipers tongue, who doest thou think hath gained this Kingdome, and cut the head of this Gyant, and made thee a Marquesse (for I give all this for done already, and for a matter ended and judged) but the worths and valour of Dulcinea, using mine arme as the instrument of her act? She fights under my person, and overcomes in me: And I live and breath in her, and from her I hold my life and being. O whorson Villain, how ungratefull art thou, that seest thy self ex­alted out from the dust of the earth, to be a Noble-man; and yet doest repay so great a benefit with detracting the person that bestowed it on thee?

Sancho was not so sore hurt, but that he could hear all his Masters reasons very well: wherefore arising somewhat hastily, hee ran behinde Doretea her Palfray, and from thence said to his Lord, Tell me Sir, if you be not determined to marry with this Prin­cesse, it is most cleer that the Kingdome shall not bee yours: and if it be not, what favours can you bee able to doe to me? it is of this that I complain me: Marrie your self one for one with this Princesse, now that we have her here, as it were rained to us down from Heaven, and you may after turn to my Ladie Dulcinea; for I think there bee Kings in the World that keep Lemmans. As for beauty, I will not intermeddle; for if I must say the truth, each of both is very fair, although I have never seen the Lady Dulcinea. How! hast thou not seen her blasphemous Traytor, quoth Don-Quixote, as if thou didest but even now bring me a message from her? I say, quoth Sancho, I have not seen her so leisurely, as I might particularly note her beautie and good parts one by one, but yet in a clap as I saw them, they liked me very well. I doe excuse thee now, said Don-Quixote, and pardon me the displeasure which I have given unto thee, for the first motions are not in our hands. I see that well, quoth Sancho, and that is the reason why talk is in me of one of those first motions: And I cannot omit to speake once at least, that which comes to my tongue. For all that Sancho, replyed Don-Quixote, see well what thou speakest; for, the earthen Pitcher goes so oft to the water. I will say no more.

Well then, answered Sancho, God is in heaven, who seeth all these guiles, and shall be one day Judge of him that sinns most; of me in not speaking well, or of you by not doing well. Let there be no more, quoth Dorotea, but run Sancho, and kisse your Lords hand, and ask him forgivenesse, and from henceforth take more heed how you praise or dispraise any body, and speak no ill of that Lady Toboso, whom I doe not know otherwise then to doe her service; and have confidence in God, for thou shalt not want a Lordship wherein thou mayest live like a King. Sancho went with his head [Page] hanging downeward, and demanded his Lords hand, which hee gave unto him with a grave countenance, and after hee hed kissed it, hee gave him his blessing and said to him, that hee had somwhat to say unto him, and therefore bad him to come somewhat for­ward that hee might speake unto him. Sancho obeyed, and both of them going a little aside, Don-Quixote said unto him, I have not had leisure after thy comming, to demand of thee in particular, concerning the Ambassage that thou carriedst, and the answere that thou broughtest back; and therefore now Fortune lends us some oportunitie and leisure, doe not denie mee the happiness which thou mayest give mee by thy good newes.

Demand what you please quoth Sancho, and I will answere you, and I request you good my Lord, that you bee not from henceforth so wrathfull. Why dost thou say so Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote? I say it replied Sancho, because that these blowes which you bestowed now, were rather given in revenge of the dissention which the Devill stir­red between us two the other night, then for any thing I said against my Lady Dulcinea, whom I doe honor and reverence as a relike, although she be none, only because shee is yours. I pray thee good Sancho, said Don-Quixote, fall not again into those discour­ses for they offend me. I did pardon thee then, and thou knowest that a new offence must have a new penance.

As they talked thus, they espied a Gallant coming towards them, riding on an Asse, and when hee drew neere, hee seemed to bee an AEgyptian; but Sancho Panca, who whensoever hee met any Asses, followed them with his eyes and his heart, as one that thought still on his owne; hee had scarce eyed him, when hee knew that it was Gines of Passamonte, and by the looke of the AEgyptian, found out the fleece of his Asse, as in truth it was; for Gines came riding on his gray Asse, who to the end hee might not bee knowne, and also have commodity to sell his beast, attyred himselfe like an AEgyptian, whose language and many others hee could speake as well as if they were his mother tongue. Sancho saw him and knew him; and scarce had hee seene and taken notice of him, when hee cryed out aloud. Ah theese Ginesillo, leave my goods behinde thee, set my life loose, and doe not intermeddle with my ease. Leave mine Asse, leave my com­fort; flie Villane, absent thy selfe thee [...]e, and abandon that which is none of thine. He needed not to have used so many words and frumps, for Gines leaped downe at the very first, and beginning a Trot that seemed rather to bee a Gallop, hee absented himselfe and fledde farre enough from them, in a moment. Sancho went then to his Asse, and imbracing him said, How hast thou done hitherto, my Darling and Treasure, gray Asse of mine Eyes, and my deerest Companion? and with that stroked and kissed him as if it were a reasonable creature. The Asse held his peace, and permitted San­cho to kisse and cherish him without answering a Word. All the rest arived, and congratulated with Sancho for the finding of his Asse, but chiefely Don-Quixote, who said unto him, that notwithstanding that hee found his Asse, yet would not hee therefore annull his Warrant for the three Colts, for which Sancho returned him very great thanks.

Whilest they two travelled together discoursing thus, the Curate said to Dorotea, that shee had very discreetly discharged her selfe, as well in the Historie, as in her bre­vitie and immitation thereof, to the phrase and conceits of Bookes of Knighthood: Shee answered, That shee did oft times reade bookes of that subject, but that shee knew not where the Provinces lay, nor Sea-ports, and therefore did only say at ran­dome that shee had landed in Osuna. I knew it was so quoth the Curate, and there­fore I said what you heard, wherewithall the matter was souldered. But is it not a marveilous thing to see with what facilitie the unfortunate Gentleman beleeves all these inventions and lies, only because they beare the stile and manner of the follies laid down in his bookes? It is quoth Cardenio, and that so rare and beyond all conceite, as I beleeve, if the like were to bee invented, scarce could the sharpest wits devise such another.

There is yet quoth the Curate, as marvellous a matter as that: for leaving apart the simplicities which this good Gentleman speakes concerning his frenzie, if you will com­mune [Page 76] with him of any other subject whatsoever, he will discourse on it with an excellent method, and shew himself to have a cleer and pleasing understanding: So that if he be not touched by matters of Chivalry, there is no man but will deem him to be of a sound and excellent Judgement.

Don-Quixote on the other side prosecuted his conversing with his Squire whilest the others talked together; and said to Sancho; Let us two, friend Pancha, forget old injuries, and say unto me now, without any rancour or anger, Where? how? and when didest thou finde my Ladie Dulcinea? What did shee when thou camest? What said'st thou to her? What answered she? What countenance shewed she as she read my Letter? And who writ it out fairly for thee? And every other thing that thou shalt think worthy of notice in this affair to be demanded or answered, without either addition or lying, or soothing adulation: and on the other side doe not abbreviate it, lest thou shouldest defraud me thereby of expected delight. Sir, answered Sancho, if I must say the truth, none copied out the Letter for me; for I carried no Letter at all.

Thou sayest true, quoth Don-Quixote; for I found the Tablets wherein it was written, with my self, two dayes after thy departure, which did grieve me exceedingly, because I knew not what thou wouldest doe, when thou didest perceive the want of the Letter; and I alwaies made full account, that thou wouldest return again from the place where thou shouldest first misse it. I had done so, quoth Sancho, if I had not borne it away in memory, when you read it to me, in such sort, as I said it to a Cleark of a Verstrie, who did copie it out of my understanding, so poynt by poynt, as he said that he never in all the dayes of his life, although he had read many a Letter of excommunication, read or seen so fine a Letter as it was. And doest thou hold it yet in memory Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote?

No Sir, said Sancho, for after I gave it, seeing it served for none other purpose, I did willingly forget it: And if I remember any thing, it is that of the mouldy, I would say Soveraign Ladie; and the end, Yours untill death, The Knight of the Ill-favoured face: and I put between these two things in the Letter three hundred Souls, and Lives, and Sweet-eyes.

CHAP. IV.
Of the pleasant discourses continued between Don-Quixote and his Squire Sancho Pança, with other Adventures.

AL [...] this liketh me well, said Don-Quixote; therefore say on; thou ar­rived'st; and what was that Queen of Beauty doing then? I dare say that thou foundest her threading of Pearls, or imbroydering some curious Device, with Venice gold, for me her captive Knight. No that I did not, quoth Sancho, but winnowing two bushels of Wheat in the yard of her house.

Why then, said Don-Quixote, thou mayest make account that each corne of that wheat was a grain of Pearl, seeing they were touched by her delicate hand. And friend, didest thou note well what the Wheat was, whether of the best or ordinarie? It was not but red, said Sancho. Well then, I assure thee, answered Don-Quixote, that being sifted by her hands, it must needs make very fair bread, and white. But passe forward: When thou didest deliver my Letter, did she kisse it? Did she set it on her head? Did she use any ceremony worthy of such a Letter? Or what did she? When I went to give it unto her, said Sancho, she was holding up of her armes with a good quantity of Wheat that shee had in her Sieve; and therefore said unto me; [Page] Friend, lay down that Letter there on the Sack; for I cannot read it untill I have win­nowed all that is here. O discreet Ladie, quoth Don-Quixote; she surely did that, because she might read it at leisure, and recreate her self therewithall. Forward, Sancho: And as long as she was thus busied, what discourses passed she with thee? What did she demand of thee concerning me? And thou, what didest thou answer? Say all, good Sancho, say all; recount to me every particularity, and let not the least immunity re­main in the Ink-horn.

Shee demanded nothing of mee quoth Sancho, but I recounted unto her the state I had left you in for her sake, doing of penance, all naked from the gyrdle upward among these Rocks, like a bruit Beast, sleeping on the ground, and eating your bread without Table-cloathes, and that you never combed your Beard, but was weeping and cursing your fortune. There thou saidst ill (quoth Don-Quixote) for I doe not curse my for­tune, but rather blesse it, and will blesse it as long as I shall live, seeing it hath made me worthy to merit the love of so high a Lady as Dulcinea of Toboso. Shee is in good faith so high answered Sancho, as shee surpasseth mee almost by a whole cubit. Why how now Sancho said the Knight, hast thou measured thy selfe with her? I did measure my selfe with her in this manner replyed Sancho; that comming over to helpe her to lift up a sack of Wheate on an Asse, wee joyned so neere, as I well perceived that shee was more then a great spanne higher then my selfe. That is true quoth Don-Quixote: but thinkest thou not that the talenesse of her extended stature is adorned with a thousand millions of graces and indowments of the soule? But Sancho, thou canst not denie me one thing, when thou didst thus approach her, didst thou not feele a most odoriferous smell, an aromaticall flagrancy, an—I cannot tell what, so pleasing, as I know not how to terme it? I say such a sent, as if thou wert in some curious Persumers shoppe? That which I know, quoth Sancho is, that I felt a little unfavorie sent, somwhat ramish and man-like, and I thinke the reason was, because shee had sweat a little, doing of that exercise. It was not so (quoth Don-Quixote) but either thou had'st the mur, or else didest smell thy self; for I know very well how that Rose among Thorns doth sent, that Lillie of the Field, and that chosen Amber. It may well be, said Sancho, as you have said; for I have had many times such a smell, as me thought the Ladie Dulcinea had then: and though shee smel'd too, it were no marvell; for one Divell is like another.

And well (quoth Don-Quixote) see here, she hath sifted her corne, and sent it to the Mill. What did shee after shee had read the Letter? The Letter, said Sancho: shee read it not; for she said she could neither read nor write; and therefore shee tore it into small pieces, and would have no man to read it, lest those of the Village should know her secrets, and said, that what I had told her by word of mouth of your love and extraordinary penance, which you remained doing for her sake, was sufficient. And finally, she concluded, commanding me to say unto you, that shee had her commended unto you, and that she remained with greater desire to see you then to write unto you: and therefore she requested and willed you, as you tendred her affection, that presently upon sight hereof you should abandon these shrubbie Groves, leave off your Frenzie, and take presently the way of Toboso, if some matter of greater importance did not occur; for she had very great desire to see and talk with you. She laughed heartily when I told her that you named your self The Knigh of the Ill-favoured face. I de­manded for her, whether the beaten Biscaine came there? and shee answered, that he did, and affirmed withall, that he was a very honest man. I asked also for the Gally-Slaves; but she told me, that shee had seen none of them as yet.

All goes well till this, said Don-Quixote: But tell me, I pray thee, What Jewell did she bestow on thee at thy departure, for reward of the news thou carried'st unto her of me? For it is an usuall and ancient custome among Knights and Ladies Errant, to bestow on Squires, Damzels, or Dwafs, which bring them any good tidings of their Ladies, or Servants, some rich Jewell as a reward and thanks of their welcome news.

It may well be, quoth Sancho, and I hold it for a very laudible custome; but I think [Page 77] it was only used in times past; for I think the manner of this our age is only to give a piece of bread and cheese; for this was all that my Lady Dulcinea bestowed on me, and that over the Yard walls when I took my leave with her: And in signe thereof (well fare all good tokens) the cheese was made of Sheeps Milk. She is marvellous liberall, quoth Don-Quixote; and if she gave thee not a Jewell of gold, it was, without doubt, because she had none then about her; But it is not lost that comes at last. I will see her, and then all things shall be amended. Knowest thou, Sancho, whereat I wonder? it is at this sodain return: for it seems to me thou wast gone, and hast come back again in the aire; for thou hast been away but a little more then three dayes, Toboso being more then thirty leagues from hence: And therefore I doe believe that the wise Inchanter who takes care of mine Affairs, and is my friend (for there is such a one of force, and there must be, under pain that I else should not be a good Knight Errant) I say, I verily think that wise man holp thee to trample unawares of thy self: for there are wise men of that condition which will take a Knight Errant sleeping in his bed; and without knowing how or in what manner, hee will wake the next day a thousand leagues from that place where hee fell asleep: And were it not for this, Knights Errant could not succour one another in their most dangerous exigents, as they doe now at every step. For it oft-times befalls, that a Knight is fighting in the Mountains of Armenia, with some divellish Fau [...]o, some dreadfull shaddow, or fierce Knight, where he is like to have the worst; and in this poynt of death, when he least expects it, there appears there on the top of a Cloud, or riding in a Chariot of fire, another Knight his friend, who was but even then in England, and helps him, and delivers him from death, and re­turns again that night to his own lodging, where he Sups with a very good appetite; and yet for all that, is there wont to bee two or three thousand leagues from the one to the other Countrey. All which is compassed by the industrie and wisedome of those skill­full Inchanters that take care of the said valorous Knights.

So that, friend Sancho, I am not hard of belief in giving thee credit, that thou hast gone and returned in so short a time from this place to Toboso, seeing, as I have said, some wise man my friend hath (belike) transported thee thither by stealth, and unaware of thy self. I easily think it, replyed Sancho; for Rozinante travailed, in good faith, as lustily as if he were an Aegyptians Asse, with Quick-silver in his ears. And thinkest thou not, quoth Don-Quixote, that he had not Quick-silver in his eares? yes, and a legion of Devills also to help it, who are folk that doe travail and make others goe as much as they list without any wearinesse.

But leaving all this apart, what is thine opinion that I should doe now, concerning my Ladies commandement, to goe and see her? for although I know that I am bound to obey her behests; yet doe I finde my self disabled at this time to accomplish them, by reason of the grant I have made to the Princesse that comes with us, and the Law of Armes doth compell me to accomplish my word rather then my will: on the one side I am assaulted and urged by a desire to goe and see my Ladie; on the other, my promised faith, and the glory I shall winne in this enterprize, doe incite and call me away. But that which I resolve to doe, is to travaill with all speed that I may quickly arive to the place where that Giant is, and will cut off his head at my coming: and when I have peaceably installed the Princesse in her Kingdome, will presently return to see the light that doth lighten my senses; to whom I will yield such forcible reasons of my so long absence, as she shall easily condescend to excuse my stay, seeing all doth redound to her glory and fame: For all that I have gained, doe win, or shall hereafter atchieve by force of Armes in this life, proceeds wholy from the gracious favour she pleaseth to bestow upon me, and my being hers.

O God! quoth Sancho, I perceive that you are greatly diseased in the pate. I pray you Sir, tell me whether you mean to goe this long voyage for nought, and let slip and lose so rich and so noble a preferment as this; where the dowrie is a Kingdome, which is in good faith, as I have heard say, twenty thousand leagues in compasse, and most plentifully stored with all things necessary for the susteining of humane life; and that it is greater then Portugall and Castile joyned together? Peace, for Gods love, and [Page] blush at your owne words, and take my councell, and marry presently in the first vil­lage that hath a Parish-Priest: and if you will not doe it there, can you wish a better commoditie then to have our own Master Licentiat, who will doe it most excellently; And note that I am old enough to give counsaile, and that this which I now deliver, is as fit for you, as if it were expresly cast for you in a mould. For a Sparrow in the fist, is worth more then a flying Bittor.

Why Sancho quoth Don-Quixote, if thou givest mee councell to marry, to the end I may become a King after I have slaine the Giant, and have commoditie thereby to pro­mote thee, and give thee what I have promised; I let thee to understand that I may doe all that most easily, without marrying my selfe. For before I enter into the battel, I will make this condition, that when I come away victor, although I marry not the Princesse, yet shall a part of the Kingdome bee at my disposition, to bestow upon whom I please; and when I receive it, upon whom wouldst thou have me bestowe it but on thy selfe? That is manifest said Sancho; but I pray you Sir, have care to choose that part you would reserve towards the Sea side, to the end that if the living doe not please me, I may imbarque my black vassails, and make the benefit of them which I have said. And likewise I pray you not to trouble your mind, thinking to goe and see my Lady Dulcinea at this time, but travaile towards the place where the Gyant is, and kill him, and conclude that businesse first; for I sweare unto you, that I am of opinion it will prove an Adventure of very great honor and profit. I assure thee Sancho quoth Don-Quixote,, thou art in the [...]ight, and I will follow thy counsaile in rather going first with the Princesse, then to visit Dulcinea, And I warne thee not to speake a word to any body, no, not to those that ride with us, of that which wee have here spoken and discoursed together; for since Dulcineae is so warie and secret, as shee would not have her thoughts discovered, it is no reason, that I eyther by my self or any other should detect them.

If that bee so quoth Sancho, why then doe you send all those which you vanquish by virtue of your arme, to present themselves to my Lady Dulcinea, seeing this is as good as subsignation of your hands-writing, that you wish her well, and are enamou­red on her? And seeing that those which goe to her, must forcibly lay them down on their knees before her presence, and say that they come from you to doe her homage, how then can the thoughts of you both bee hidden and concealed? O! how great a foole art thou, and how simple quoth Don-Quixote? Dost not thou perceive Sancho, how all this results to her greater glory? For thou oughtest to wit, that in our Knight­ly proceedings, it is great honour, that one Lady alone have many Knights Errant for her Servitors, without extending their thoughts any farther then to serve her, only for her high worths, without attending any other reward of their many and good desires, then that shee will deigne to accept them as her Servants and Knights. I have heard preach, said Sancho, that men should love our Saviour with that kinde of love, on­ly for his owne sake, without beeing mooved thereunto eyther by the hope of Glory, or the feare of Payne; although for my part I would love and serve him, for what hee is able to doe. The Devill take thee for a Clowne, quoth Don-Quixote, how sharpe and pertinently doest thou speake now and then, able to make a man ima­gine that thou hast studied? Now by mine honesty, quoth Sancho. I can neither reade nor write.

Master Nicholas perceiving them drowned thus in their Discourses, cryed out to them to stay and drinke of a little Fountaine that was by the way. Don-Quixote, re­sted to Sanchoes very great contentment, who was already tyred with telling him so many lies, and was afraid his Master would intrap him in his owne words. For although hee knew Dulcinea to bee of Toboso, yet had hee never seene her in his life. And Carde­nio had by this time put, on the apparell Doroten wore when they found her in the [Page 78] Mountaines, which though they were not very good, yet exceeded with great advan­tage those which hee had himselfe before; And alighting hard by the Fountaine, they satisfied with the provision the Curate had brought with him from the Inne, although it were but little, the great hunger that pressed them. And whilest they tooke their ease there, a certaine young stripling that travelled, passed by, who looking very ear­nestly on all those which sate about the Fountaine, hee ranne presently after to Don-Quixote, and imbracing his Legs, hee said, weeping downright: O my Lord, doe not you know mee? Looke well upon mee, for I am the youth Andrew, whom you unloosed from the Oake whereunto I was tyed. Don-Quixote presently knew him, and taking him by the hands, hee turned to those that were present and said, Because you may see of how great importance it is, that there bee Knights Errant in the World, to undoe wrongs and injuries that are committed in it by the insolent and bad men which live therein, you shall wit that a few daies past, as I rode through a Wood, I heard certaine lamentable screetches and cries, as of some needefull and afflicted person: I forthwith occur'd, borne away by my profession towards the place from whence the lamentable voyce founded, and I found tied to an Oaken tree, this boy whom you see here in our presence, for which I am marvelous glad, be [...]ause if I shall not say the truth, hee may check mee. I say that hee was tyed to the Oake starke naked form the middle upward, and a certaine Clowne was opening his flesh with cruell blowes that hee gave him with the reines of a bridle; which Clowne, as I after understood, was his Master. And so soone as I saw him, I demanded the cause of those cruell stripes. The rude fel­low answered, that hee beate him because hee was his servant, and that certaine negli­gences of his proceeded rather from being a theefe, then of simplicity. To which this childe answered; Sir, hee whips mee for no other cause, but by reason that I demand my wages of him. His Master replyed, I know not now what speeches and excuses, the which although I heard, yet were they not by mee admitted. In resolution, I caused him to bee loosed, and tooke the Clownes Oath, that hee would take him home, and pay him there his wages, one Riall upon another; I, and those also perfumed. Is it not true sonne Andrew? Didst not thou note with what a domaniering coun­tenance I commanded it, and with what humilitie hee promised to accomplish all that I imposed, Commanded and Desired? Answere mee, bee not ashamed, nor stagger at all, but tell what passed to these Gentlemen, to the end it may bee mani­festly seene how necessary it is, as I have said, to have Knights Errant up and down the high-wayes.

All that which you have said, quoth the boy, is very true; but the end of the matter succeeded altogether contrary to that which you imagined. How contrarie, quoth Don-Quixote? Why hath not the Peasant paid thee? He not only hath not paid me, answered the boy, but rather as soon as you were passed the wood, and that we re­mained both alone, he turned again and tyed me to the same tree, and gave me afresh so many blows, as I remained another S. Bartholomew all flayed; and at every blow he said some jest or other in derision of you: So that if I had not felt the pain of the stripes so much as I did, I could have found in my heart to have laughed very heartily. In fine, he left me in such pittifull case, as I have been ever since curing my selfe in an Ho­spitall, of the evill which the wicked Peasant did then unto me. And you are in the fault of all this; for if you had ridden on your way, and not come to the place where you were not sought for, nor intermedled your self in other mens affairs, perhaps my Ma­ster had contented himself with giving me a dozen or two of stroaks, and would pre­sently after have loosed, and payed me my wages: But by reason you dishonoured him so much without cause, and said to him so many Villains, his choler was inflamed; and seeing he could not revenge it on you, finding himself alone, he disburdened the showre on me so heavily, as I greatly fear that I shall never again be mine own man. ‘The hurt consisted in my departure (quoth Don-Quixote) for I should not have gone from thence, untill I had seen thee payed: For I might have very well known by many experiences, that there is no Clown that will keep his word, if he see the keeping of it can turn any way to his damage: But yet, Andrew, thou doest re­member [Page] member how I swoar, that if he paied thee not, I would return & seek him out, and like­wise finde him, although he conveyed himself into a Whales belly.’ That's true, quoth Andrew; but all avails not. Thou shalt see whether it avails or no presently, quoth Don-Quixote: and saying so, got up very hastily, & cōmanded Sancho to bridle Rozinante, who was feeding whilest they did eate. Dorotea demanded of him, what he meant to doe? He answered, that he would goe and finde out the Villain, and punish him for using such bad proceedings, and cause Andrew to be paid the last denier, in despite of as many Peasants as lived in the world. To which she answered, intreating him to remem­ber that hee could not deale with any other Adventure, according to his promise, untill hers were atchieved; and seeing that hee himself knew it to bee true, bet­ter then any other, that hee should pacifie himselfe, untill his returne from her Kingdome.

You have reason, said Don-Quixote; and therefore Andrew must have patience perforce, untill my return (as you have said, Madame) and when I shall turne again I doe swear unto him, and likewise renew my promise, never to rest, untill he be satis­fied and payed. I believe not in such Oaths, quoth Andrew; but would have as much money as might carry me to Sivill, rather then all the revenges in the world: Give me some meat to eate, and carry away with me, and God be with you and all other Knights Errant, and I pray God that they may prove as erring to themselves as they have been to me.

Sancho took out of his Bagg a piece of bread and cheese, and giving it to the Youth, said, Hold brother Andrew, for every one hath his part of your misfortune. I pray you what part thereof have you, said Andrew? This piece of bread and cheese that I bestow on thee, quoth Sancho; for God only knows whether I shall have neede of it again, or no: for thou must wit, friend, that we the Squires of Kinghts Errant are very subject to great hunger and evill luck, yea, and to other things which are better felt then told. Andrew laid hold on his bread and cheese; and seeing that no body gave him any other thing, he bowed his head and went on his way: True it is, that hee said to Don-Quixote, at his departure: For Gods love, good Sir Knight Errant, if you shall ever meet me again in the plight you have done, although you should see me [...]orne in pieces, yet doe not succour or help me, but leave me in my disgrace; for it cannot bee so great, but that a greater will result from your help, upon whom, and all the other Knights Errant that are borne in the world, I pray God his curse may alight. Don-Quixote thought to arise to chastise him; but he ran away so swiftly, as no man durst follow him; and our Knight remained marvellously ashamed at Andrews tale; where­fore the rest with much adoe supprest their desire to laugh, lest they should throughly confound him.

CHAP. V.
Treating of that which befell all Don-Quixote his Traine in the Inne.

THe Dinner being ended, they sadled and went to horse presently, and travailed all that day, and the next, without incountring any Ad­venture venture of price, untill they arived at the only bugg and scar-crow of Sancho Panca; & though he would full fain have excused his entry into it, yet could hee in no wise avoid it: The Inn-Keeper, the Hostesse, her Daughter, and Maritornes seeing Don-Quixote and Sancho return, went out to receive them with tokens of great love and joy, and he entertained them with grave countenance and applause, and bade them [Page 79] to make him ready a better Bed then the other which they had given unto him the time before. Sir, quoth the Hostesse, if you would pay us better then the last time, wee would give you one for a Prince, Don-Quixote answered, that he would: They pre­pared a reasonable good bed for him in the same wide room where he lay before; and he went presently to bed, by reason that he arived much tyred, and void of wit. And scarce was he gotten into his chamber, when the Hostesse leaping suddainly on the Bar­ber, and taking him by the beard, said, Now by my self blessed, thou shalt use my taile no more for a beard, and thou shalt turne me my taile; for my husbands combe goes thrown up and down the floor, that it is a shame to see it: I mean the combe that I was wont to hang up in my good taile. The Barber would not give it unto her for all her drawing, untill the Licentiat bade him to restore it, that they had now no more use thereof, but that he might now very well discover himself, and appear in his own shape, and say to Don-Quixote, that after the Gally-slaves had rob'd him, he fled to that Inne: And if Don-Quixote demanded by chance for the Princesse her Squire, that they should tell him, how she had sent him before to her Kingdome, to give intel­ligence to her Subjects, that she returned, bringing with her him that should free and give them all libertie. With this the Barber surrendred the taile willingly to the Hostesse, and likewise all the other borrowed wares which she had lent for Don-Qui­xotes deliverie. All those of the Inne rested wonderfull amazed at Doroteas beautie, and also at the comelinesse of the Sheepheard Cardenio. Then the Curate gave order to make readie for them such meat as the Inne could afford: and the Inn-keeper, in hope of better payment, did dresse very speedily for them, a reasonable good Dinner. Don-Quixote slept all this while, and they were of opinion to let him take his rest, seeing sleep was more requisite for his disease then meat. At the Table they discoursed (the Inn-keeper, his Wife, Daughter, and Marito [...]nes, and all the other Travailers being present) of Don-Quixotes strange Frenzie, and of the manner wherein they found him. The Hostesse eftsoons recounted what had hapned there between him and the Carrier; and looking to see whether Sancho were present, preceiving that he was away, she told likewise all the story of his canvasing, whereat they conceived no little content and pastime: And, as the Curate said, that the originall cause of Don-Quixotes madnesse proceeded from the reading of Books of Knighthood. The Inn-keeper answered;

I cannot conceive how that can bee, for (as I beleeve) there is no reading so de­lightfull in this world, and I my selfe have two or three bookes of that kinde with o­ther papers, which doe verily keepe mee alive, and not only mee but many other. For in the reaping times, many of the Reapers repayre to this place in the heates of mid day, and there is evermore some one or other among them that can reade, who takes one of these bookes in hand, and then some thirty or more of us doe compasse him about, and doe listen to him with such pleasure, as it hinders a thousand hoary haires; for I dare say at least of my selfe, that when I heard tell of those furious and terrible blowes that Knights Errant give, it inflames mee with a desire to become such a one my selfe, and could finde in my heart to bee hearing of them day and night. I am just of the same minde, no more, nor no lesse, said the Hostesse, for I never have any quiet houre in my house, but when thou art hearing those bookes whereon thou art so besotted, as then thou dost only forget to chide, which is thy ordinary exercise at other times. That is very true said Maritornes. And I in good sooth doe take great delight to heare those things, for they are very fine, and especially when they tell how such a Ladie lies embra­ced by her Knight under an Orange tree, and that a certaine Damzell keepeth Watch all the while, readie to burst for envie that shee hath not likewise her sweete-heart; and very much afraid. I say that all those things are as sweete as honey to mee. And you, quoth the Curate to the Inn-keepers daughter, what doe you thinke? I know not in good sooth, Sir quoth shee, but I doe likewise give eare, and in truth although I under­stand it not, yet doe I take some pleasure to heare them, but I mislike greatly those blows which please my father so much, and only delight in the lamentations that Knights make being absent from their Ladies; which in sooth doe now and then make mee weepe, [Page] through the compassion I take of them. Well then quoth Dorotea, belike, faire may­den you would remedie them, if such plaints were breathed for your owne sake? I know not what I would doe, answered the Gyrle, only this I know, that there are some of those Ladies so cruell, as their Knights call them Tygers and Lyons, and a thou­sand other wilde-Beasts. And good Iesus, I know not what un-Souled folke they bee, and so without Conscience, that because they will not once behold an honourable man, they suffer him eyther to die or run mad. And I know not to what end serves all that coynesse. For if they doe it for honesties sake, let them marry with them, for the Knights desire nothing more. Peace childe, quoth the Hostesse; for it seems that thou knowest too much of those matters, and it is not decent that Maidens should know or speak so much. I speak, quoth she, by reason that this good Sir made me the de­mand; and I could not in courtesie omit to answer him. Well, said the Curate, let me intreat you, good mine Host, to bring us here those Books; for I would fain see them.

I am pleased, said the Inn-keeper: And then entring into his Chamber, he brought forth a little old Malet shut up with a chain; and opening thereof, hee took out three great Books and certain Papers written with a very fair Letter. The first Book hee opened was that of Don Cirongilio of Thracia: The other Felixmarte of Hircania: And the third, The History of the great Captain, Goncalo Hernandez of Cordova, with the life of Diego Garcia of Paredes adjoyned. As soon as the Curate had read the Titles of the two Books, he said to the Barber, We have now great want of our friends, the old woman and Neece. Not so much as you think, quoth the Barber; for I know also the way to the yard or the chimney, and in good sooth, there is a fire in it good enough for that purpose. Would you then, quoth the Host, burn my Books? No more of them, quoth the Curate, but these first two of Don Cirongilio and Felixmarte, are my Books. Perhaps, quoth the Inn-keeper, Hereticall or Flegmaticall, that you would thus roughly handle them. Schismaticall thou wo [...]ldest have said, quoth the Barber, and not Flegmaticall. It is so, said the Inn-keeper; but if you will needs burn any, I pray you, rather let it be that of the great Captain, and of that Diego Garcia; for I would rather suffer one of my Sonnes to bee burned then any one of those other two. Good friend, these two Books are lying, and full of follies and vanities; but that of the great Captain is true, and containeth the arts of Goncalo Hernandez of Cordova, who for his sundrie and noble acts merited to be tearmed by all the world The great Captain, a name famous, illustrious, and only deserved by himself and this other Diego Garcia of Paredes was a noble Gentleman, born in the City of Truxillo in Estremadura, & was a most valourous Souldier; and of so surpassing force, as he would detain a Mill­wheele with one hand from turning in the midest of the speediest motion: And stand­ing once at the end of a Bridge with a two-handed Sword, defended the passage against a mighty Armie that attempted to passe over it; and did so many other things, that if another who were a stranger and unpassionate had written them, as he did himself who was the relater and Historiographer of his own Acts, and therefore recounted them with the modestie of a Gentleman and proper Chronicler, they would have drowned all the Hectors, Achillises and Rollands in oblivion.

There is a Jest, quoth the Inn-keeper, deale with my father, I pray you see at what you wonder: A wise tale at the with-holding of the wheele of a Mill. I swear you ought to read that which is read in Felixmarte of Hircania, who with one thwart blow cut five mighty Gyants in halfes, as if they were of Beans, like to the little Friers that Children make of Bean-cods: And set another time upon a great and most powerfull Army of more then a Million and six hundred thousand Souldiers, and overthrew and scattered them all like a Flock of Sheep. What then can you say to me of the good Don Cirongilio of Thracia, who was so animous and valiant as may bee seen in his Book; wherein is laid down, That as he sailed along a River, there issued out of the midest of the water a Serpent of fire, and he, as soon as he perceived it, leaped upon her, and hanging by her scalie shoulders, he wrung her throat so straitly between both his armes, that the Serpent perceiving her self to be well-nigh strangled, had no [Page 80] other way to save her self but by diving down into the deeps, carrying the Knight away with her, who would never let goe his gripe, and when they came to the bottom, hee found himself by a Palace in such faire and pleasant gardens, as it was a wonder; and presently the Serpent turned into an old man, which said to him such things as there is no more to be desired. Two figs for the Great Captain, and that Diego Garcia, of whom you speake.

Dorotea hearing him speake thus, said to Cardenio, Mee thinks our Host wants but little to make up a second part of Don-Quixote. So it seemes to mee likewise, replyed Cardenio, for as wee may conjecture by his words, hee certainly beleeves that every thing written in those bookes, passed just as it is laid downe, and barefooted-Friers would bee scarce able to perswade him the contary. Know friend (quoth the Curate to the In-keeper) that there was never any such man as Felixmarte of Hircania, or Don-Chirongilio of Thracia, nor other such Knights as bookes of Chivalry recount; for all is but a device and fiction of idle wits that composed them, to the end that thou sayest, to passe over the time, as your readers doe in reading of them: For I sinceerely sweare unto thee, that there were never such Knights in the world, nor such Adventures and ravings hapned in it. Cast that bone to another dog quoth the In-keeper, as though I knew not how many numbers are five, and where the shooe wrests mee now. I pray you Sir, goe not about to give mee pap, for by the Lord I am not so white. Is it not a good sport that you labour to perswade mee, that all that which these good bookes say are but ravings and fables, they being printed by Grace and Favour of the Lords of the Privie Councell; as if they were folke that would permit so many lies to bee printed at once, and so many Battells and Enchantments, as are able to make a man run out of his wits: I have told thee already friend (said the Curate) that this is done for the re­creation of our idle thoughts, and so even as in well governed Comonwealths, the playes at Chesse, Tennis and Trucks are tolerated for the pastime of some men which have none other occupation, and either ought not or cannot worke, even so such books are permitted to bee printed; presuming (as in truth they ought) that no man would be found so simple and ignorant, as to hold any of these bookes for a true Historie. And if my leisure permitted, and that it were a thing requisite for this Auditory, I could say many things concerning the subject of bookes of Knighthood, to the end that they should bee well contrived, and also bee pleasant and profitable to the Readers; but I hope somtime to have the commodity to communicate my conceit with those that may redresse it. And in the meane while you may beleeve good mine Host, what I have said, and take to you your books, and agree with their truths or leasings as you please, and much good may it doe you; and I pray God that you halt not in time on the foote that your guest Don-Quixote halteth. Not so quoth the In-keeper, for I will never bee so wood as to become a Knight Errant, for I see well, that what was used in the times of these famous Knights is now in no use nor request.

Sancho came in about the midst of this discourse, and rested much confounded and Pensative of that which hee heard them say, that Knights Errant were now in no re­quest, and that the bookes of Chivalry only conteined follies and lies, and purposed with himselfe to see the end of that voyage of his Lords, and that if it sorted not the wished successe which hee expected, hee resolved to leave him and return home to his wife and children and accustomed labour. The Inn-keeper thought to take away his bookes and budget, but the Curate withheld him saying. Stay a while, for I would see what papers are those which are written in so faire a Character. The Host tooke them out and gave them to him to read, being in number some eight sheetes with a title writ­ten in text letters, which said, The Historie of the curious Impertinent. The Curate read two or three lines softly to himselfe, and said after, Truly the title of this History doth not mislike mee, and therefore I am about to reade it through. The Inn-keeper hea­ring him said, Your reverence may very well doe it, for I [...] you that some guests which have read it here, as they travelled, dis [...]ommend it exceedingly, and have beg'd it of mee as earnestly, but I would never bestow it, hoping some day to restore it to the owner of this Malet, who forgot it here behinde him with those bookes and papers, for [Page] it may bee that hee will somtime return, and although I know that I shall have great want of the bookes, yet will I make to him restitution, for although I am an In-keeper, yet God be thanked I am a Christian therewithall. You have great reason my friend, quoth the Curate, but yet notwithstanding if the taste like me, thou must give me leave to take a copie thereof. With all my heart replyed the Host. And as they two talked, Cardenio taking the booke, began to reade a little of it, and it pleasing him as much as it had done the Curate, he requested him to reade it in such sort as they might all heare him. That I would willingly doe said the Curate, if the time were not now more fit for sleeping then reading. It were sufficient repose for me, said Dorotea, to passe away the time listening to some tale or other, for my spirit is not yet so well quieted as to a­ford me licence to sleepe, even then when nature exacteth it. If that bee so, quoth the Curate, I will reade it, if it were but for curiositie, perhaps it containeth some delight­full matter. Master Nicholas and Sancho intreated the same. The Curate seeing and knowing that he should therein doe them all a pleasure, and hee himselfe likewise receive as great, said, Seeing you will needes heare it, be all of you attentive, for the History be­gineth in this manner.

CHAP. VI.
Wherein is rehearsed the History of the Curious-Impertinent.

IN Florence, a rich and famous Citie of Italie, in the Province called Tuscane, there dwelled two rich and principall Gentlemen called Anselmo and Lothario, which two were so great friends, as they were named for excellency, and by Antonomasta, by all those that knew them, the Two friends: They were both Batchelers, and much of one age and manners; all which was of force to make them answer one another with reciprocall amity. True it is that Anselmo was somewhat more inclined to amorous dalliance then Lothario, who was altogether addicted to hunting: But when occasion exacted it Anselmo would omit his own pleasures, to satisfie his friends; and Lothario likewise his, to please Anselmo: And by this means both their wills were so correspondent, as no clock could be better ordered then were their desires. Anselmo being at last deeply enamoured of a principall and beautifull young Ladie of the same Citie, called Camila, being so worthily descended, and she her self of such merit therewithall, as he resolved (by the consent of his friend Lothario, without whom he did nothing) to demand her of her Parents for wife; and did put his purpose in execution; and Lo­thario himself was the messenger, and concluded the matter so to his friends satisfaction, as he was shortly after put in possession of his desires; and Camila so contented to have gotten Anselmo, as she ceased not to render Heaven and Lothario thanks, by whose means she had obtained so great a match. The first dayes, as all marriage dayes are wont to be merry, Lothario frequented, according to the custome, his frind An­selmo's house, endeavouring to honour, feast, and recreate him all the wayes he might possible: But after the Nuptials were finished, and the concourse of Strangers, Visita­tions, and Congratulations somewhat ceased, Lothario, also began to be somewhat more slack then he wor [...]ted in going to Anselmo his house, deeming it (as it is reason that all discreet men should) not so convenient to visit or haunt so often the house of his friend after marriage as he would, had he still remained a Batcheler. For although true amity neither should, nor ought to admit the least suspition: yet notwithstanding a married mans honour is so delicate and tender a thing, as it seems it may be some­times impaired, even by very Bretheren; and how much more by Friends? Anselmo [Page 81] noted the remission of Lothario, and did grievously complain thereof, saying; That if he had wist by marriage he should thus be deprived of his deered conversation, hee would never have married; and that since through the uniform correspondencie of them both being free, they had deserved the sweet title of the two friends, that he should not now permit (be [...]ause he would be noted circumspect without any other occasion) that so famous and pleasing a name should be lost: and therefore he requested him (if it were lawfull to use such a terme between them two) to return and be Master of his house, and come and goe as he had done before his marriage, assuring him that his Spouse Camila had no other pleasure and will, then that which himself pleased shee should have: and that she, after having known how great was both their frindships, was not a little amazed to see him become so strange.

To all these and many other reasons alledged by Anselmo, to perswade Lothario to frequent his house, he answered with so great prudence, discretion and warinesse, as Anselmo remained satisfied of his friends good intention herein: and they made an agreement between them two, that Lothario should dine at his house twice a week, and the Holy-dayes besides: And although this agreement had passed between them, yet Lothario purposed to doe that only which he should finde most expedient for his friends honour, whose reputation he tendered much more deerly then he did his own; and was wont to say very discreetly, that the married man, unto whom heaven had given a beautifull wife, ought to have as much heede of the friends which he brought to his house, as he should of the women friends that visited his wife; for that which is not done nor agreed upon in the Church or Market, nor in publique Feasts or Stations (being places that a man cannot lawfully hinder his wife from frequenting sometimes at least) are oft-times facilitated and contrived in a friends or kins-womans house, whom perhaps we never suspected. Anselmo on the other side affirmed, That therefore married men ought every one of them to have some friend who might ad­vertise them of the faults escaped in their manner of proceeding; for it befalls many times, that through the great love which the Husband bears to his Wife, either he doth not take notice, or else he doth not advertise her, because he would not offend her to doe or omit to doe certain things, the doing or omitting whereof might turn to his honour or obloquie; to which things, being advertised by his friend, he might easily apply some remedie: But where might a man finde a friend so discreet, loyall and trustie as Anselmo demands? I know not truly, if not Lothario; for he it was that with all sollicitude and care regarded the honour of his friend: and therefore endeavoured to clip and diminish the number of the dayes promised, lest he should give occasion to the idle vulgar, or to the eyes of vagabonds and malicious men to judge any sinister thing, viewing so rich, comely, noble, and qualified a young man as he was, to have so free accesse into the house of a woman so beautifull as Camila. For though his virtues and modest carriage were sufficiently able to set a bridle to any malignant tongue, yet notwithstanding he would not have his credit, nor that of his friends called into any question; and therefore would spend most of the dayes that he had agreed to visit his friend, in other places and exercises; yet feigning excuses so plausible, as his friend admitted them for very reasonable. And thus the time passed on in challenges of un­kindnesse of the one side, and lawfull excuses of the other.

It so fell out, that as both the friends walked on a day together in a field without the Citie, Anselmo said to Lothario these words ensuing, I know very well, friend Lothario, that among all the favours which God of his bountie hath bestowed upon me by making me the Sonne of such Parents, and giving to me with so liberall a hand, both the goods of Nature and Fortune: yet as I cannot answer him with sufficient grati­tude for the benefits already received, so doe I finde my self most highly bound unto him above all others, for having given me such a friend as thou art, and so beautifull a wife as Camila, being both of you such pawns, as if I esteem you not in the degree which I ought, yet doe I hold you as deer as I may: And yet possessing all those things which are wont to be the all and sum that are wont and may make a man happie, I live notwithstanding the most sullen and discontented life of the World; being troubled, I [Page] know not since when, and inwardly wrested with so strange a desire, and extravagant from the common use of others, as I marvell at my self, and doe condemn and rebuke my self when I am alone, and doe labour to conceale and cover mine own desires; all which hath served me to as little effect, as if I had proclaimed mine own errours purposely to the World: And seeing that it must finally break out, my will is, that it be only communicated to the treasury of thy secret; hoping by it and mine own industry, which (as my true friend) thou wilt use to help me, I shall bee quickly freed from the anguish it causeth, and by thy means my joy and contentment shall arive to the passe that my discontents have brought me through mine own folly.

Lothario stood suspended at Anselmo's Speech, as one that could not imagine to what so prolixe a prevention and preamble tended: And although he revolved and imagined sundry things in his minde which he deemed might afflict his friend, yet did hee ever shoot wide from the mark which in truth it was: and that he might quickly escape that agonie, wherein the suspention held him, he said, That his friend did notable injurie to their amity, in searching out wreathings and ambages in the discovery of his most hidden thoughts to him, seeing bee might assure himself certainly, either to receive counsells of him how to entertain, or else remedy and means how to accomplish them.

It is very true answered Anselmo, and with that confidence I let thee to understand, friend Lothario, That the desire which vexeth me, is a longing, to know whether my wife Camila be as good and perfect as I doe account her; and I cannot wholy rest satisfied of this truth, but by making tryall of her, in such sort, as it may give manifest argument of the degree of her goodnesse, as the fire doth shew the value of gold: For I am of opinion (O friend) that a woman is of no more worth or virtue, then that which is in her, after shee hath been solicited [Casta est quam nemo rogavit:] and that she alone is strong who cannot be bowed by the Promises, Gifts, Tears, and continuall importunities of importunate Lovers: For what thanks is it (quoth he) for a woman to be good, if no body say or teach her ill? What wonder that she be retired and ti­morous, if no occasion be ministred to her of dissolution, and chiefly she that knows she hath a husband ready to kill her for the least argument of lightnesse? So that she which is only good for fear or want of occasion, will I never hold in that estimation, that I would the other sollicited and pursued, who notwithstanding comes away crowned with the victory: And therefore being moved as well by these reasons as by many other which I could tell you, which accredit and fortifie mine opinion, I desire that my wife Camila doe also passe thorow the pikes of those proofs and difficulties, and purifie and refine her self in the fire of being requested, sollicited and pursued; and that by one whose worths and valour may deserve acceptance in her opinion: and if she bear away the Palme of the victory, as I believe shee will, I shall account my fortune matchlesse, and may brag that my desires are in their height; and will say that a strong woman hath faln to my lot, of whom the Wise man faith, who shall finde her? And when it shall succeed contrary to mine expection, I shall, with the pleasure that I will conceive to see how rightly it jumps with mine opinion, bear very indifferent the grief which in all reason this so costly a tryall must stir in me: And presupposing that nothing which thou shalt say to me shall be available to hinder my designe, or disswade me from putting my purpose in execution; I would have thy selfe, deer friend Lothario, to provide thee to be the instrument that shall labour this worke of my liking, and I will give thee oportunitie enough to performe the same, without omitting any thing that may further thee in the sollicitation of an Honest, Noble, Warie, Retired and Passionlesse woman.

And I am chiefly moved to commit this so hard an enterprize to thy trust; because I know that if Camila be vanquished by thee, yet shall not the victory arive to the last push and upshot, but only to that of accounting a thing to bee done, which shall not bee done for many good respects. So shall I remain nothing offended, and mine in­jury concealed in the virtue of thy silence; for I know thy care to be such in matters concerning me, as it shall bee eternall, like that of death. And therefore if thou desirest [Page 82] that I may lead a life deserving that name, thou must forthwith provide thy selfe to en­ter into this amorous conflict, and that not languishing or slothfully, but with that cou­rage and diligence which my desire expecteth, and the confidence I have in our amitie assureth mee.

These were the reasons used by Anselmo to Lothario, to all which hee was so atten­tive, as untill hee ended, hee did not once unfold his lips to speake a word save those which wee have above related, and seeing that hee spoke no more; after hee had beheld him a good while, as a thing that hee had never before, and did therefore strike him in­to admiration and amazement hee said, Friend Anselmo, I cannot perswade my selfe, that the words you have spoken be other then jests, for had I thought that thou wert in earnest, I would not have suffered thee to passe on so far, and by lending thee no eare would have excused this tedious Oration. I doe verily imagine that either thou dost not know mee, or I thee: but not so, for I know thee to bee Anselmo; and thou that I am Lothario; the dammage is, that I thinke thou art not the Anselma thou wast wont to bee, and perhaps thou deemest mee not to bee the accustomed Lothario that I ought to bee; for the things which thou hast spoken, are not of that Anselmo my friend, nor those which thou seekest ought to bee demanded of that Lothario, of whom thou hast notice; for true friends ought to prove and use their friends, as the Poet said, Vsque ad Aras, that is, that they should in no sort imploy them or implore their assistance in things offensive unto God, and if a Gentile was of this opinion in matters of friendship how much greater reason is it that a Christian should have that feeling, specially know­ing that the celestiall amitie is not to bee lost for any humane friendship whatsoever. And when the friend should throw the bars so wide, as to set heavenly respects apart, for to complement with his friend, it must not bee done on light grounds, or for things of small moment, but rather for those whereon his friends life and honour wholy depends. Then tell mee now Anselmo, in which of these two things art thou in danger, that I may adventure my Person to doe thee a pleasure, and attempt so dete [...]lable a thing as thou doest demand? None of them truly, but rather doest demand, as I may conje­cture, that I doe industriously labour to deprive thee of thine honour and life together, and in doing so, I likewise deprive my selfe of them both. For if I must labour to take away thy credit, it is most evident that I dispoyle thee of life, for a man without repu­tation, is worse then a dead man, and I being the instrument (as thou desirest that I should be) of so great harme unto thee, doe not I become, likewise thereby dishonou­red, and by the same consequence also without life? Heare mee friend Anselmo, and have patience not to answere mee untill I have said all that I think, concerning that which thy mind exacteth of thee; for we shall have after leisure enough, wherein thou maist reply, and I have patience to listen unto thy reasons.

I am pleased quoth Anselmo, say what thou likest. And Lothario prosecuted his speech in this manner; Mee thinks Anselmo, that thou art now of the Moores humors, which can by no meanes bee made to understand the error of their sect; neither by Ci­tations of the holy Scripture, nor by reasons which consist in speculations of the under­standing, or that are founded in the Articles of the Faith, but must bee won by palpa­ble examples, and those easie, intelligible, demonstrative and doubtlesse; by Mathema­ticall demonstrations, which cannot bee denied. Even as when wee say, If from two e­quall parts wee take away two parts equall, the parts that remaine are also equall. And when they cannot understand this, as in truth they doe not, wee must demonstrate it to them with our hands, and lay it before their eyes, and yet for all this nought can a­vaile to win them in the end to give credit to the verities of our Religion, which very termes and manner of proceeding I must use with thee, by reason that the desire which is sprung in thee, doth so wander and stray from all that which beares the shadow only of Reason, as I doubt much that I shall spend my time in vaine which I shall bestow to make thee understand thine owne simplicitie, for I will give it no other name at this pre­sent, and in good earnest I was almost perswaded to leave thee in thine humor, in pu­nishment of thine inordinate and unreasonable desire, but that the love which I beare towards thee doth not consent, I use to thee such rigour, or leave thee in so manifest a [Page] danger of thine owne perdition. And that tho [...] maist cleerely see it, tell mee Anselmo; hast not thou said unto mee that I must sollicite one that stands upon her reputation, perswade an honest woman, make proffers to one that is not passionate or engaged, and serve a discreete woman? Yes, thou hast said all this. Well then, if thou knowest al­ready that thou hast a retyred, honest, unpassionate and prudent wife, what seekest thou more? And if thou thinkest that shee will rest victorious after all mine assaults, as doubtlesse she will, what better titles wouldest thou after bestow upon her then those shee possesseth already? Either it proceedes because thou dost not thinke of her as thou sayest, or else because thou knowest not what thou demandest. If thou dost not account her such as thou praysest her; to what end wouldest thou prove her? But ra­ther as an evill person use her as thou likest best; but if shee bee as good as thou belee­vest, it were an impertinent thing to make tryall of truth it selfe: For after it is made, yet it will still rest only with the same reputation it had before. Wherefore it is a con­cluding reason; that to attempt things, whence rather harm may after result unto us then good, is the part of rash and discoursless braines, and principally when they deale with those things whereunto they are not compelled or driven, and that they see even a far off, how the attempting the like is manifest folly. Difficult things are undertaken for God, or the world, or both. Those that are done for God, are the workes of the Saints, en­devoring to leade Angels lives in fraile and mortall bodies. Those of the World, are the travells and toyles of such as cross such immense seas, travell through so adverse Re­gions, and converse with so many Nations, to acquire that which wee call the goods of Fortune. And the things acted for God and the world together, are the worthy ex­ploits of resolute and valorous Martiall men, which scarce perceive so great a breach in the adversatie wall, as the common bullet is wont to make, when leaving all fear apart, without making any discourse, or taking notice of the manifest danger that threatens them, born away by the wings of desire and honour to serve God, their Nation and Prince, doe throw themselves boldly into the throat of a thousand menacing deaths which expect them.

These are things wont to bee practised, and it is honour, glory and profit to attempt them, bee they never so full of inconveniences and danger; but that which thou sayest thou wilt trie and put in practise, shall never gaine thee Gods glorie, the goods of for­tune, or renoune among men; for suppose that thou bringest it to passe according to thine owne fantasie, thou shalt remaine nothing more contented, rich, or honourable then thou art already; and if thou dost not, then shalt thou see thy selfe in the greatest misery of any wretch living: for it will little availe thee then, to thinke that no man knowes the disgrace befaln thee, it being sufficient both to afflict and dissolve thee that thou knowest it thy self; and for greater confirmation of this truth, I will repeat unto thee a stanza of the famous Poet Lud [...]vice Tansil [...] in the end of his first part of saint Pe­ters teares, which is:

So that thou canst not excuse thy griefe with secrecie, bee it never so great, but rather shalt have continuall occasion to weepe, if not watry teares from thine eyes, at least teares of blood from thy heart, such as that simple Doctor wept, of whom our Poet makes mention, who made tryall of the Vessell, which the prudent Reynaldos upon ma­turer discourse refused to deale withall: and although it bee but a Poeticall fixion, yet [Page 83] doth it containe many hidden morals worthy to bee noted, understood and imitated: how much more, seeing that by what I mean to say now, I hope thou shalt begin to conceive the great error which thou wouldest wittingly commit.

Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or thy Fortunes had made thee Lord and lawfull possessor of a most precious Diamond, of whose goodnesse and qualitie all the Lapi­daries that had viewed the same would rest satisfied, and that all of them would joyntly and uniformly affirm that it arived in quality, goodnesse and finenesse to all that, to which the nature of such a stone might extend it self; and that thou thy self didest believe the same without witting any thing to the contrarie; would it be just that thou shouldest take an humour to set that Diamond between an Anvile and a hammar and to trie there by very force of blows whether it be so hard & so fine as they say? And farther; when thou didest put thy designe in execution, put the case that the stone made resistance to thy foolish tryall, yet wouldest thou add thereby no new valour or esteem to it: And if it did break, as it might befall; were not then all lost? Yes cer­tainly, and that leaving the Owner, in all mens opinion, for a very poor ignorant person. Then friend Anselmo, make account that Camila is a most precious Diamond as well in thine as in other mens estimation; and it is no reason to put her in contin­gent danger of breaking, seeing that although shee remain in her integrity, she cannot mount to more worth then she hath at the present; and if she faltred, or did not re­sist, consider even at this present, what state you would bee in then and how justly thou mightest then complain of thy self, for being cause of her perdition and thine own. See how there is no Jewell in the world comparable to the modest and chaste Woman; and that all Womens honour consists in the good opinion that's had of them: and seeing that of thy Spouse is so great, as it arrives to that sum of perfection which thou knowest; why wouldest thou call this verity in question? Know, friend, that a Woman is an imperfect Creature, and should therefore have nothing cast in her way to make her stumble & fall, but rather to cleer & doe all incumbrances away out of it, to the end shee may without impeachment run with a swift course to obtain the perfection shee wants, which only consists in being virtuous.

The Naturalists recount, that the Ermine is a little Beast that hath a most white skin; and that when the hunters would chase him, they use this art to take him: As soon as they finde out his haunt, and places where he hath recourse, they thwart them with mire and dirt, and after when they discrie the little Beast, they pursue him towards those places which are defiled; and the Ermine espying the mire, stands still, and per­mits himself to be taken and captived in exchange of not passing thorow the mire, or staining of his whitenesse, which it esteems more then either liberty or life. The honest and chaste Woman is an Ermine, and the virtue of chastity is whiter and purer then Snow; and he that would not lose it, but rather desires to keep and preserve it, must proceed with a different stile from that of the Ermine: For they must not propose and lay before her the mire of the passions, flatteries and services of importunate Lovers; for perhaps she shall not have the naturall impulse and force which commonly through proper debility is wont to stumble, to passe over those incumbrances safely: and therefore it is requisite to free the passage and take them away, and lay before her the cleernesse of virtue, and the beauty comprized in good fame. The good woman is also like unto a bright and cleer mirrour of Crystall; and therefore is subject to bee stained and dimmed by every breath that toucheth it. The honest woman is to bee used as reliques of Saints, to wit, shee must be honoured but not touched. The good wo­man is to be kept and prized like a fair Garden full of sweet Flowers and Roses, that is held in estimation, whose owner permits no man to enter and trample or touch his Flowers, but holds it to bee sufficient, that they standing a far off, without the rails, may joy at the delightfull sight and fragrancie thereof. Finally I will repeat certain Verses unto thee that have now come to my memorie, the which were repeated of late in a new Play, and seem to me very fit for the purpose of which wee treat. A prudent old man did give a neighbour of his that had a daughter counsell to keep and shut her up; and among many other reasons he used these.

All that which I have said to thee, Anselmo, untill this instant, hath been for that which may touch thy self: and it is now high time that somewhat bee heard concerning me: And if by chance I shall be somewhat prolixe, I pray thee to pardon me; for the Labyrinth wherein thou hast entred, and out of which thou wouldest have me to free thee, requires no lesse. Thou holdest me to bee thy friend, and yet goest about to dispoile me of mine honour, being a thing contrary to all amitie; and doest not only pretend this, but doest likewise indeavour that I should rob thee of the same, that thou wouldest deprive me of mine is evident; for when Camila shall perceive that I sollicite her as thou demandest, it is certain that shee will esteem of me as of one quite devoid of wit, and indiscreet, seeing I intend and doe a thing so repugnant to that, which the being that him I am and thine amitie doe binde me unto; that thou wouldest have me rob thee thereof is as manifest; for Camila seeing me thus to court her, must ima­gine that I have noted some lightnesse in her which [...]ent me boldnesse thus to discover unto her my depraved desires, and she holding her self to bee thereby injured and dishonoured, her disgrace must also concern thee as a principall part of her. And hence springs that which is commonly said, That the Husband of the Adulterous Wife, al­though hee know nothing of her lewdnesse, nor hath given any occasion to her to doe what shee ought not, nor was able any way to hinder by dilligence, care, or other means, his disgrace, yet is intituled with a vituperious and vile name, and is in a manner beheld by those that know his Wifes mallice with the eyes of contempt; whereas they should indeed regard him rather with those of compassion, seeing that he falls into that misfortune not so much through his own default, as through the light fantasie of his wicked Consort. But I will shew thee the reason why a bad Womans Husband is justly dishonoured and contemned, although hee bee ignorant and guiltlesse thereof, and cannot prevent, nor hath given to it any occasion: And bee not grieved to heare mee, seeing the benefit of the discourse shall redound unto thy selfe.

When God created our first Parent in the terrestriall Paradise, the holy Scripture saith, That God infused sleep into Adam, and that being asleep, hee took out a rib out of his left side, of which he formed our Mother Eve; and as soon as Adam awaked and beheld her, hee said, This is flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bones: And God said, For this cause shall a man leave his Father and his Mother, and they shall bee two in one flesh: And then was the Divine Ordinance of Matrimonie first instituted, with such indissoluble knots, as only may bee by death dissolved: And this marvellous Or­dinance is of such efficacie and force, as it makes two different persons to bee one very flesh; and yet operates farther in good married folk; For although they have two Souls, yet it makes them to have but one Will. And hence it proceeds, that by reason the Wifes flesh is one and the very same with her Husbands, the blemishes or defects that taint it; doe also redound into the Husbands, although hee (as wee have said) have ministred no occasion to receive that dammage. For as all the whol body feels any paine of the foot, head, or any other member, because it is all one flesh, & the head smarts at the grief of the Ankle, although it hath not caused it: So is the Husband participant of [Page 84] his Wifes dishonour, because he is one and the self-same with her. And by reason that all the Honours and Dishonours of the world are, and spring from Flesh and Blood; and those of the bad woman be of this kinde, it is forcible, that part of them fall to the Husbands share, and that hee bee accounted dishonourable, although he wholly bee ignorant of it. See then, Anselmo, to what perill thou doest thrust they self by seeking to disturb the quietnesse and repose wherein thy Wife lives, and for how vain and im­pertinent curiositie thou wouldest stir up the humours which are now quiet in thy chaste Spouses brest; note how the things thou doest adventure to gain are of small moment; but that which thou shalt lose so great, that I must leave it in his poynt, having no words sufficiently able to indeer it. But if all that I have said bee not able to move thee from thy bad purpose; thou mayest well seek out for some other in­strument of thy dishonour and mis-haps; for I mean not to be one, although I should therefore lose thine amitie, which is the greatest losse that might any way befall mee.

Here the prudent Lothario held his peace, and Anselmo remayned so confounded and Melancholy, as hee could not answere a word to him for a very great while. But in the end hee said; I have listned friend Lothario, to all that which thou hast said unto mee, with the attention which thou hast noted, and have perceived in thy reasons, examples, and similitudes, the great discretion wherewithall thou art endowed, and the perfecti­on of amitie that thou hast attained; and doe also confesse and see, that if I follow not thine advice, but should leane unto mine owne, I doe but shun the good, and pursue the evill. Yet oughtest thou likewise to consider, how herein I suffer the disease which some women are wont to have, that long to eate earth, lime, coles, and other far worse and lothsome things even to the very sight, and much more to the taste: So that it is behoovefull to use some art by which I may bee cured, and this might bee easily done by beginning only to sollic [...]te Camila although you did it but weake and feignedly; for I know shee will not bee so soft and pliable, as to dash her honestie about the ground, at the first encounters, and I will rest satisfied with this commencement alone: and thou shalt herein accomplish the obligation thou owest to our friendship, by not only resto­ring mee to life, but also by perswading me not to dispoyle my selfe of mine honour. And thou art bound to doe this, for one reason that I shall alledge, to wit, that I being resolved, as indeed I am, to make this experience, thou oughtest not to permit, being my friend, that I should bewray my defect herein to a stranger, whereby I might very much endanger my reputation, which thou labourest so much to preserve, and though thy credit may lose some degrees in Camilaes opinion, whil'st thou dost sollicite her, it matters not very much, or rather nothing; for very shortly, when we shall espie in her the integritie that wee expect, thou maist open unto her sinceerly the drift of our pra­ctise, by which thou shalt againe recover thine impayred reputation. Therefore seeing the Adventure is little, & the pleasure thou shalt doe me by the enterprizing thereof so, too great, I pray thee doe it, though ever so many incumbrances represent themselves to thee, for (as I have promised) with only thy begining, I will rest satisfied and account the cause concluded.

Lothario perceiving the firme resolution of Anselmo, and nothing else occurring for­cibly disswasive, nor knowing what other reasons to use that might hinder this his pre­cipitate resolution; and nothing withall, how hee threatned to breake the matter of this his indiscreete desires to a stranger; hee determined to avoide greater inconveniences, to give him satisfaction, and performe his demand, with purpose and resolution to guide the matter so discreetly, as without troubling Camilaes thoughts, Anselmo should rest contented, and therefore intreated him not to open his minde to any other, for he himselfe would undertake that enterprize, and begin it whensoever hee pleased. Ansel­mo imbraced him very tender and lovingly, and gratified him as much for that promise, as if hee had done him some very great favour, and there they accorded betweene them, that hee should begin the work the very next day ensuing; for hee would give him place and leisure to speake alone with Camila, and would likewise provide him of Money, Jewels, and other things to present unto her. Hee did also admonish him to bring mu­sick [Page] under her windowes by night, and write verses in her prayse, and if hee would not take the paines to make them, hee himselfe would compose them for him. Lothario pro­mised to performe all himselfe, yet with an intention far wide from Anselmoes; and with this agreement they returned to Anselmoes house, where they found Camila som­what sad and carefull, expecting her husbands returne, who had stayed longer abroad that day then his custome. Lothario leaving him at his house returned to his owne, as pensive as hee had left Anselmo contented, and knew not what plot to lay, to issue out of that impertinent affaire with prosperous successe: But that night hee bethought himselfe of a manner how to deceive Anselmo without offending Camila; and so the next day ensuing hee came to his friends house to dinner, where Camila knowing the great good will her husband bore towards him, did receive and entertayne him very kindly with the like; dinner being ended, and the table taken up, Anselmo requested Lothario to keepe Camila companie untill his returne, for hee must needs goe about an affaire that concerned him greatly, but would returne againe within an houre and an halfe. Camila intreated her husband to stay, and Lothario proffered to goe and keepe him company, but nothing could prevaile with Anselmo, but rather hee impor­tuned his friend Lothario to remayne and abide there till his returne, because hee must goe to treat of a matter of much consequence. Hee also commanded Camila not to leave Lothario alone untill hee came backe. And so hee departed, leaving Camila and Lothario together at the Table, by reason that all the attendants and servants were gone to dinner.

Here Lothario saw that hee was entred into the Lists which his friend so much desired, with his Adversary before him, who was with her beautie able to overcome a whole squadron of armed Knights; see then if Lothario had not reason to feare himselfe? but that which hee did at the first onset, was to lay his elbow on the arme of his chair and his hand on his cheek, and desiring Camila to bear with his respectlesnesse therein, he said he would repose a little whilest he attended Anselmo's comming. Camila an­swered that shee thought hee might take his ease better on the Cushions of State; and therefore prayed him hee would enter into the Parlour and lie on them: But hee ex­cused himself, and so remained asleep in the same place, untill Anselmo's return, who comming in, and finding his Wife in her Chamber and Lothario asleep, made full ac­count, that by reason of his long stay, they had time enough both to talk and repose; and therefore expected very greedily the houre wherein his friend should awake, to goe out with him and learn what successe he had. All succeeded as hee wished; for Lothario arose, and both of them went abroad; and then he demanded of him, what hee desired: And Lothario answered that it seemed not to him so good to discover all his meaning at the first; and therefore had done no other thing at that time, then speak a little of her Beauty and Discretion; for it seemed to him that this was the best pre­amble hee could use to gain by little and little some interest and possession in her ac­ceptance, to dispose her thereby the better to give eare again to his words more wil­lingly, imitating therein the Divells craft when hee means to deceive any one that is vigilant and carefull; for then he translates himself into an Angell of light, being one of darknesse, and laying before him apparent good, discovers what hee is in the end, and brings his intention to passe, if his guiles bee not at the beginning detected. All this did greatly like Anselmo, who said that hee would afford him every day as much lei­sure, although he did not goe abroad; for hee would spend the time so at home as Camila should never bee able to suspect his drift.

It therefore befell that many dayes passed which Lothario did willingly overslip, and said nothing to Camila; yet did hee ever sooth Anselmo, and told him, that he had spoken to her, but could never win her to give the least argument of flexibilitie, or make way for the feeblest hope that might bee; but rather affirmed that shee threatned him, that if hee did not repell his impertinent desires, shee would detect his indirect proceedings to her husband. It is well, quoth Anselmo: Hitherto Camila hath re­sisted words; it is therefore requisite to trie what resistance shee will make against works: I will give thee to morrow four thousand Crowns in gold, to the end thou [Page 85] mayest offer, and also bestow them on her; and thou shalt have as many more to buy Jewells wherewithall to bait her; for Women are naturally inclined, and specially if they bee fair (bee they ever so chaste) to goe brave and gorgeously attired; and if shee can overcome this temptation, I will remain pleased, and put thee to no more trouble. Lothario answered, That seeing hee had begun, hee would bear his enterprize on to an end, although hee made full account that hee should depart from the conflict both tyred and vanquished. Hee received the four thousand crowns the next day, and at once with them four thousand perplexities, for hee knew not what to invent to lie anew; but concluded finally to tell his friend, how Camila was as inflexible at Gifts and Promises as at words; and therefore it would bee in vaine to tra­vile any more in her pursuit, seeing hee should doe nothing else but spend the time in vain.

But Forturne, which guided these affairs in another manner, so disposed, that An­selmo having left Lothario and Camila alone, as hee was wont, entred secretly into a chamber, and thorow the cranies and chinks did listen and see what they would doe; where hee perceived that Lothario, in the space of half an hour, spoke not a word to Camila, not yet would hee have spoken, though hee had remained there a whole age; and thereupon surmised straight that all that which his friend had told him of Camila's answers and his own speech, were but fictions and untruths; and that hee might the more confirm himself and see whether it were so, hee came forth, and calling Lothario apart, hee demanded of him what Camila had said, and in what humour shee was at the present? Lothario answered, That hee meant not ever any more to found her in that matter; for shee replyed unto him so untowardly and sharply, as hee durst not attempt any more to speak unto her of such things.

Oh, quoth Anselmo, Lothario, Lothario! how evill doest thou answer to the affe­ction thou owest me, or to the confidence I did repose in thee? I have stood beholding thee all this while thorow the hole of that lock, and saw how thou never spokest one word to her: Whereby I doe also collect, that thou hast not yet once accosted her; and if it bee so, as doubtlesly it is, say, why doest thou deceive me? or why goest thou about fraudulently to deprive me of those means whereby I may obtain my desires? Anselmo said no more, yet what he said was sufficient to make Lothario confused and ashamed, who taking it to bee a blemish to his reputation to bee found in a lye, swore to Anselmo, That hee would from thence forward so indeavour to please his minde and tell him no more leasings, as hee himself might perceive the successe thereof, if hee did again curiously lye in watch for him; a thing which hee might well excuse, because him most serious labour to satisfie his desire should remove all shadow of suspi­cion. Anselmo believed him, and that hee might give him the greater commoditie, and lesse occasion of fear, hee resolved to absent himself from his house some eight dayes, and goe to visit a friend of his that dwelled in a Village not far from the Cittie; and therefore dealt with his friend that hee should send a Messenger to call for him very earnestly, that under that pretext, hee might finde an excuse to Camila for his departure.

O infortunate and inconsiderate Anselmo! what is that which thou doest? what doest thou contrive? or what is that thou goest about? behold, thou workest thine own ruine, laying plots of thine own dishonour, and giving order to thy proper per­dition. Thy wife Camila is good; thou doest possesse her in quiet and peaceable man­ner; no man surpriseth thy delights; her thoughts transgresse not the limits of her house: Thou art her Heaven on earth, and the goale to which her desires aspire: Thou art the accomplishment and summe of her delectation: Thou art the Square by which shee measureth and directeth her will, adjusting wholy with thine and with that of Heaven. Since then the Mines of her Honour, Beautie, Modestie and Recollection, bountifully afford thee, without any toyle, all the treasures contained in them, or thou canst desire, why wouldest thou dig the earth and seek out new vains and new seen treasures, exposing thy self to the danger, that thy labours may turn to wrack, seeing in fine, that they are only susteined by the weak supporters of her fraile nature? [Page] Remember how he that seeks the impossible, may justly be refused of that which is pos­sible, according to that which the Poet saith:

Anselmo departed the next day following to the Village, telling Camila at his depar­ture, that whil'st hee were absent, his friend Lothario would come and see to the affaires of his house, and to eate with her, and desired her therefore to make as much of him as shee would doe of his owne person. Camila, like a discreet and modest woman, was grieved at the order her husband did give to her, and requested him to render how indecent it was that any one should possesse the chayre of his Table, hee being absent, and if hee did it as doubting her sufficiency to manage his houshould affaires, that at least hee should make tryall of her that one time, and should cleerly perceive how shee was able to discharge matters of far greater consequence. Anselmo replyed, that what hee commanded was his pleasure, and therefore shee had nothing else to doe but hold downe her head and obey it. Camila answered that shee would doe so, although it were very much against her will. In fine her husband departed, and Lothario came the next day following to the house, where hee was entertayned by Camila very friendly, but would never treate with Lothario alone, but evermore was compassed by her ser­vants and waiting Maidens, but chiefly by one called Leonela, whom shee loved deerly, as one that had been brought up with her in her fathers house, even from their in­fancie, and when shee did marry Anselmo, shee brought her from thence in her com­pany.

The first three dayes Lothario spoke not a word, although hee might, when the Ta­bles were taken up, and that the folke of the house went hastily to dinner, for so Cami­la had commanded, and did give Leonela order besides to dine before her selfe, and that shee should still keepe by her side; but the gyrle which had her fancie otherwise imploy­ed in things more pleasing her humor, and needed those houres and times for the accom­plishing of them, did not alwaies accomplish so punctually her Ladies command, but now and then would leave her alone, as if that were her Ladies behest. But the honest presence of Camila, the gravitie of her face, and the modestie of her carriage was such, that it served as a bridle to restraine Lotharioes tongue. But the benefit of Camilaes many virtues, seting silence to Lotharioes speech, resulted afterward to both their harmes; for though the tongue spoke not, yet did his thoughts discourse, and had lei­sure afforded them to contemplate part by part, all the extremes of worth and beautie that were cumulated in Camila, potent to enflame a statue of frozen Marble, how much more a heart of flesh. Lothario did only behold her in the time and space hee should speake unto her, and did then consider how worthy shee was to be loved, And this consideration did by little and little give assaults to the respects which hee ought to have borne towards his friend Anselmo; a thousand times did hee determine to absent himselfe from the Citie, and goe where Anselmo should never see him, nor hee Camila; but the delight hee tooke in beholding her, did again withhold and hinder his resolutions. When hee was alone, hee would condemn himselfe of his madd designe, and term him­selfe a bad friend and worse Christian, hee made discourses and comparisons betweene himselfe and Anselmo, all which did finish in this point that Anselmoes foole-hardinesse, [Page 86] an [...] madnesse was greater, then his owne infidelitie, and that if hee might bee as asily excused before God, for that hee meant to doe, as hee would bee be­for men, hee needed not to fear any punishment should bee inflicted on him forthe crime. Finally Camilaes beautie and worths, assisted by the occasion whih the ignorant Husband had thrust into his fists, did wholy runine and overthrow Lot [...]ario his loyaltie; and therefore without regarding any other thing then that to whih his pleasure conducted him, about a three dayes after Anselmo's departure (w [...]ch time hee had spent in a continuall battell and resistance of his contending tho [...]ghts) he began to sollicite Camila with such trouble of the Spirits and so amorous wo [...]ds, as shee was strucken almost beside her self with wonder, and made him no other ansver, but arising from the Table, flung away in a furie into her chamber. But yet for ill this drynesse, Lothario his hope (which is wont evermore to bee borne at once wi [...] Love) was nothing dismayed, but rather accounted the more of Camila, who per [...]eiving that in Lothario which shee never durst before to imagine, knew not what she [...] might doe; but it seeming unto her to bee a thing neither secure nor honest, to giv [...] him occasion or leisure to speak unto him again, determined to send one unto her Husband Anselmo the very same night, as indeed shee did, with a Letter to recall him home to her house: The subject of her Letter was this.

CHAP. VII.
Wherein is prosecuted the Historie of the Curious-Im­pertinent.

Anselmo received the Letter, and by it understood that Lothario had begun the en­terprize, and that Camila had answered to him according as he had hoped: And mar­vellous glad at the news, hee answered his wife by word of mouth, That shee should not remove in any wise from her house; for hee would return with all speed. Camila was greatly admired at his answer, which struck her into a greater perplexitie then shee was at the first, being afraid to stay at home, and also to goe to her Father. For by staying shee indangers her honesty; by going shee should transgresse her Husbands command: At last shee resolved to doe that which was worst, which was to remain [Page] at home, and not to shun Lothario's presence, lest shee should give her Servants occa [...]ion of suspi [...]ion: and now shee was grieved to have written what shee did to her Husb [...]nd, fearfull lest hee should think that Lothario had noted in her some token of lightn [...]sse, which might have moved him to lose the respect which otherwise was due unto [...]er: But confident in her innocencie, shee cast her hopes in God and her good thou [...]hts, wherewithall shee thought to resist all Lothario's words, and by holding her silent [...]ith­out making him any answer, without giving any further account of the matter t [...] her Husband, lest thereby shee might plunge him in new difficulties and contention [...]ich his friend, and did therefore bethink her how shee might excuse Lothario to Ansel­mo, when hee should demand the occasion that moved her to write unto himthat Letter.

With these more honest then profitable or discreet resolutions, shee gave eare th [...] se­cond day to Lothario, who charged her with such resolution, as her constancie began to stagger, and her honesty had enough to doe recurring to her eyes to containe them, lest they should give any demonstration of the amorous compassion which Lotharioes words and teares had stirred in her brest. Lothario noted all this, and it inflamed him the more. Finally, hee thought that it was requisite the time and leisure which Ansel [...]oes absence afforded him, to lay closer siege to that Fortresse; and so hee assaulted her pre­sumptuously, with the prayses of her beautie, for there is nothing which with such faci­litie doth rend and raze to the ground the proudly-crested Turrets of womens vanitie, then the same vanitie being dilated on by the tongue of adulation and flatterie, To bee briefe, hee did with all diligence undermine the Rock of her integritie with so warlike Engines, as although Camila were made of brasse, yet would shee bee overthrown, for Lothario wept, intreated, promised, flattered, persisted and fained so feelingly, and with such tokens of truth, as traversing Cameliaes care of her honour, hee came in the end to triumph over that which was least suspected, and hee most desired; for she ren­dred her selfe, even Camelia rendred her selfe. But what wonder if Lotharioes amitie could not stand on foote? A cleere example, plainly demonstrating that the amorous passion is only vanquished by shuning it, and that no body ought to adventure to wre­stle with so strong an Adversarie; for heavenly forces are necessarie for him that would confront the violence of that passion, although humane. None but Leonela knew the weakenesse of her Ladie, for from her the two bad friends and new lovers could not conceale the matter; nor yet would Lothario discover to Camila her husbands pretence, or that he had given him wittingly the oportunity whereby he arived to that passe, be­cause she should not imagine that he had gotten her lightly, and by chance, and did not purposely sollicite her.

A few dayes after Anselmo arrived to his house, and did not perceive what wanted therein, to wit, that which it had lost, and he most esteemed. From thence he went to see his friend Lothario, whom he found at home, and embracing one another, he demanded of him the news of his life or of his death, The news which I can give thee, friend Anselmo, quoth Lothario, are, that thou hast a wife, who may deservedly be the example and garland of all good women. The words that I spoke unto her, were spent on the ayre, my proffers contemned, and my gifts repulsed, and besides, she hath mock't mee notably for certain fained teares that I did shead. In resolution, even as Camila is the pattern of all beauty, so is she a treasury wherein modesty resides, courtesie and warinesse dwell, and all the other vertues that may beautifie an ho­nourable woman, or make her fortunate. Therefore friend, take back thy money, for here it is ready, and I never had occasion to imploy it: for Camila's integrity cannot bee subdued with so base things as are gifts and promises. And Anselmo content thy selfe now with the proofes made already, without attempting to make any farther try­all. And seeing thou hast past over the Sea of difficulties and suspicions with a drie foot, which may and are wont to bee had of women; doe not eftsoones enter into the pro­found depths of new inconveniences, nor take thou any other Pilot to make experience of the goodnesse and strength of the Vessell that Heaven hath alotted to thee, to passe therein thorow the Seas of this world; but make account that thou art harboured in a [Page 87] safe Haven, and there hold thy selfe fast with the Anchor of good consideration, and so rest thee untill death come to demand his debt, from the payment whereof no No­bility or priviledge whatsoever can exempt us. Anselmo rested singularly satisfied at Lotharioes discourse, and did beleeve it as firmly as if it were delivered by an Oracle: but did intreate him notwithstanding to prosecute his attempt, although it were only done for curiositie, and to passe away the time; yet not to use so efficacious meanes as hee thitherto practised; and that hee only desired him to write some verses in her praise under the name of Clori, for hee would make Camila beleeve, that hee was enamoured on a certaine Lady, to whom hee did appropriate that name, that hee might celebrate her prayses with the respect due to her honour, and that if hee would not take the pains to invent them, that hee himselfe would willingly compose them. That is not needfull quoth Lothario, for the Muses are not so alienated from mee, but that they visite mee somtimes in the yeere. Tell you unto Camila what you have devised of my loves, and as for the verses, I will make them my selfe; if not so well as the subject deserves, yet at the least as artificially as I may devise them: The impertinent curious man and his trea­cherous friend having thus agreed, and Anselmo returned to his house, hee demanded of Camila that which shee marvelled hee had not asked before, that shee should tell un­to him the occasion why shee sent unto him the Letter? Camila made answer, Because it seemed unto her, that Lothario beheld her some what more immodest then when he was at home; but that now she did againe disswade her selfe, and be­leeved that it was but a light surmise, without any ground, because that shee perceived Lothario to loath her presence, or be by any meanes alone with her. Anselmo told her that she might very well live secure for him, for that he knew Lothario's affections were bestowed else-where, and that upon one of the noblest Damzels of the Citie, whose praises hee solemnized under the name of Clori, and that although hee were not, yet was there no cause to doubt of Lothario's virtue, or the amitie that was between them both. Here if Camila had not been premonished by Lothario, that the love of Clori was but fained, and that hee himself had told it to Anselmo to blinde him, that hee might with lesse difficultie celebrate her own praises under the name of Clori, shee had without doubt faln into the desperate toyles of jealousie; but being already advertised shee posted over that assault lightly. The day following they three sitting together at dinner, Anselmo requested Lothario to repeat some one of the Verses that hee had made to his beloved Clori; for seeing that Camila knew her not, hee might boldly say what hee pleased. Although shee knew her quoth Lothario, yet would I not therefore suppresse any part of her praises. For when any Lover praiseth his Ladie for her beauty, and doth withall taxe her of cruelty, her credit incurs no danger. But befall what it list, I composed yesterday a Sonnet of the ingratitude of Clori, and is this ensuing.

[Page] Camila liked the Sonnet very well, but Anselmo best of all; for hee praised it, and said, that the Lady must bee very cruell that would not answer such perspicuous truths with reciprocall affection. But then Camila answered, Why then (belike) all that which enamoured Poets say is true? In as much as Poets, quoth Lothario, they say not truth; but as they are inamoured, they remain as short as they are true. That is que­stionlesse, quoth Anselmo, all to underprop and give Lothario more credit with Camila, who was as carelesse of the cause (her Husband said so) as shee was inamoured of Lothario; and therefore with the delight shee took in his compositions, but chiefly knowing that his desires and labours were addrest to her self, who was the true Clori, shee intreated him to repeat some other Sonnet or Dittie, if hee remembred any. Yes that I doe, quoth Lothario; but I believe that it is not so good as the first, as you may well judge; for it is this.

Anselmo commended also this second Sonnet as hee had done the first, and added by that means one link to another in the chain, wherewith hee intangled himself, and forged his own dishonour; seeing when Lothario dishonoured him most of all, hee said unto him then that hee honoured him most. And herewithall Camila made all the links, that verily served only to abase her down to the Center of contempt, seem to mount her in her Husbands opinion up to the height of virtue and good fame.

It befell soon after, that Camila finding her self alone with her Maiden, said to her, I am ashamed, friend Leonela, to see how little I knew to value my self, seeing that I made not Lothario spend some time at least in the purchasing the whole possession of me, which I, with a prompt will, bestowed upon him so speedily: I fear me that hee will impute my hastinesse to lightnesse, without considering the force hee used towards me, which wholly hindred and disabled my resistance. Let not that afflict you Madam, quoth Leonela; for it is no sufficient cause to diminish estimation, that that bee given quickly which is to bee given, if that in effect be good that is given, and be in it self worthy of estimation; for it is an old proverb, That hee that gives quickly, gives twice. It is also said as well, quoth Camila, That that which costeth little, is lesse esteemed. That reason hath no place in you, quoth Leonela, for as much as Love, according as some have said of it, doth sometimes flie, other times it goes; it runs with this man, and goes leisurely with the other; it makes some key-cold, and inflames others; some it wounds, and some it kills; it begins the Career of his desires in an instant, and in the very same concludes it likewise: It is wont to lay siedge to the Fortresse in the mor­ning, and at night it makes it to yield, for there's no force able to resist it: which being so, what doe you wonder? or what is it that you fear, if the same hath befaln Lothario, seeing that Love made of my Lords absence an instrument to vanquish us? And it was [Page 88] forcible, that in it wee should conclude on it which Love had before determined, with­out giving time it self any time to lead Anselmo that hee might return, and with his presence leave the work imperfect: For Love hath none so officious or better a mini­ster to execute his desires then is occasion: It serves it self of occasion in all his act, but most of all at the beginning: And all this that I have said I know rather by ex­perience, then hear-say, as I will some day let you to understand: for, Madam, I am likewise made of flesh and lustie young blood: And as for you, Ladie Camila, you did not give up and yeeld your self presently, but stayed untill you had first seen in Lo­thorio's eyes, his sighs in his discourses, in his promises, and gifts all his soul, in which and in his perfections, you might read how worthy hee is to bee loved. And seeing this is so, let not these scruples and nice thoughts assault or further disturb your minde, but perswade your self that Lothario esteems you as much as you doe him, and lives with content and satisfaction, seeing that it was your Fortune to fall into the amorous Snare, that it was his good luck to catch you with his valour and deserts; who not only hath the four S. S. which they say every good Lover ought to have, but also the whole A. A. C. which if you will not credit, doe but listen to me a while, and I will repeat it to you by roate. He is, as it seems, and as far as I can judge, Amiable, Bounti­full, Courteous, Dutifull, Enamoured, Firm, Gallant, Honourable, Illustrious, Loyall, Milde, Noble, Honest, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, and the S. S. which they say; and besides True, Valourous: the X. doth not quader well with him, because it sounds harshly: Y. hee is Young; and the Z. hee is Zealous of thine honour. Camila laughed at her Maydens A. B. C. and accounted her to bee more practick in Love-matters then she her self had confessed, as indeed shee was; for then shee revealed to her Mistrisse, how she and a certain young man, well born, of the Citie, did treat of Love one with another. Hereat her Mistrisse was not a little troubled in minde, fearing that her honour might bee greatly indangered by that means; shee demanded whether her affection had passed farther then words? And the Maid answered very shamelesly and freely, that they did: for it is most certain, that this kinde of wretchlesse Mistrisses doe also make their Maydens carelesse and impudent; who when they perceive their Ladies to faulter, are commonly wont to hault likewise themselves, and care not that the World doe know it.

Camila seeing that errour past remedie, could doe no more but intreate Leonela, not to reveale any thing of their affaires to him shee said was her sweet heart, and that shee should handle her matters discreetly and secretly, lest they might come to Anselmo or Lotharioes notice. Leonela promised to performe her will; but did accomplish her pro­mise in such sort, as shee did confirme Camilaes feares, that shee should lose her credit by her meanes. For the dishonest and bold Gyrle, after shee had perceived that her Mistrisses proceedings were not such as they were wont, grew so hardy, as shee gave entrance and brought her Lover into her Masters house, presuming that although her Ladie knew it, yet would shee not dare to discover it. For this among other harmes follow the sinns of Mistrisses, that it makes them slaves to their own servants, and doth oblige them to them to conceale their dishonest and base proceedings, as it fel out in Camila, who, although she espied Leonela, not once only, but sundry times together with her Lover in a certain chamber of the house, she not onely dared not to rebuke her for it, but rather gave her opportunity to hide him, and would remoove all occasion out of her husbands way, whereby he might suspect any such thing.

But all could not hinder Lothario from espying him once, as he departed out of the house at the break of the day: who not knowing him, thought at the first it was a spi­rit, but when he saw him post away, and cast his cloke over his face, lest he should be known, he abandoning his simple surmise, fel into a new suspition which had overthrown them all, were it not that Camila did remedie it. For Lothario though, that he whom he had seen issue out of Anselmo's house at so unreasonable an hour, had not en­tred into it for Leonela's sake, nor did he remember then that there was such a one as Leonela in the world, but onely thought, that as Camila was lightly gotten by him, so belike she was wonn by some other. For the wickednesse of a bad woman bringeth [Page] usually all these additions, that she loseth her reputation even with him, to whom pray­ed and perswaded shee yeeldeth her self: and he beleeveth that shee will as easily, or with more facility consent to others, and doth infallibly credit the least suspition which thereof may be offered.

And it seems that Lothario in this instant was wholly deprived of all reasonable dis­course, and quite dispoyled of his understanding; for without pondering of the matter, impatient and kindled by the jealous rage that inwardly gnawed his bowels, fretting with desire to be revenged on Camila, who had never offended him, he came to Ansel­mo before he was up, and said to him, Know, Anselmo, that I have had these many dayes a civill conflict within my self whether I should speak or no, and I have used as much vi­olence as I might, to my selfe, not to discover a thing unto you, which now it is neither just nor reasonable I should conceale. Know that Camila's fortresse is rendred, and subject to all that I please to command, and if I have been somewhat slow to inform the this of truth: it was because I would first see, whether it proceeded of some light appetite in her: or whether she did it to trie me, and see whether that love was still con­stantly continued, which I first began to make unto her by thy order and licence. I did also beleeve, that if she had been such as she ought to be, and her that we both esteemed her, she would have by this time acquainted you with my importunacy: but seeing that she lingers therein, I presume that her promises made unto me are true, that when you did again absent your self out of town, she would speak with me in the Ward­robe (and it was true: for there Camila was accustomed to talke with him) yet would not I have thee runne rashly to take revenge, seeing the sinne is not yet otherwise com­mitted then in thought, and perhaps between this and the oportunity shee might hope to put it in execution, her minde would bee changed, and shee repent her self of her folly: And therefore seeing thou hast ever followed mine advice partly or wholly, follow and keep one counsell that I will give unto thee now, to the end that thou mayest after, with carefull assurance, and without fraud, satisfie thine own will as thou likest best; faine thy self to bee absent two or three dayes as thou art wont, and then convey thy self cunningly into the Wardrobe, where thou mayest very well hide thy self behinde the Tapestry, and then thou shalt see with thine own eyes, and I with mine, what Camila will doe; and if it bee that wickednesse which rather ought to bee feared then hoped for, thou mayest with wisedome, silence, and discretion, bee the proper executio­ner of so injurious a wrong.

Anselmo remained amazed, and almost besides himself, hearing his friend Lothario so unexpectedly to acquaint him with those things in a time whereing hee least expe­cted them; for now hee esteemed Camila to have escaped victresse from the forged assaults of Lothario, and did himself triumph for glorie of her victorie. Suspended thus and troubled, hee stood silent a great while looking on the earth, without once removing his eye from it; and finally, turning towards his friend, hee said; Lothario, thou hast done all that which I could expect from so intire amitie, and I doe therefore mean to follow thine advice in all things precisely: Doe therefore what thou pleasest, and keep that secret which is requisite in so weighty and unexpected an event. All that I doe promise, quoth Lothario: and so departed wholly repented for that hee had told to Anselmo, seeing how foolishly hee had proceeded, since hee might have revenged himself on Camila very well, without taking a way so cruell and dishonourable. There did hee curse his little wit, and abased his light resolution, and knew not what means to use to destroy what hee had done, or give it some reasonable and contrary issue. In the end hee resolved to acquaint Camila with the whole matter, and by reason that hee never missed of oportunity to speake unto her, hee found her alone the very same day; and shee seeing likewise that shee had fit time to speak unto him, said, Know, friend Lo­thario, that a certain thing doth pinch my heart in such manner, as it seems ready to burst in my brest, as doublesly I fear me that in time it will, if wee cannot set a remedie to it: For such is the immodesty of Leonela, as shee shuts up a Lover of hers every night in this house and remains with him untill day-light, which so much concernes my credit, as it leaves open a spacious field to him that sees the other goe out of my house at so [Page 89] unseasonable times, to judge of me what hee pleaseth; and that which most grieves me is, that I dare not punish or rebuke her for it: For shee being privie to our proceedings, sets a bridle on me, and constrains me to conceale hers; and hence I fear will bad suc­cesse befall us. Lothario at the first suspected that Camila did speak thus, to make him believe that the man whom hee had espied was Leonelaes friend, and none of hers: but seeing her to weep indeed, and bee greatly afflicted in minde, hee began at last to give credit unto the truth, and believing it, was greatly confounded and grieved for that hee had done: And yet notwithstand hee answered Camila, that shee should not trou­ble or vexe her self any more; for hee would take such order, as Leonelaes impudencies should bee easily crost and suppressed: And then did recount unto her all that hee had said to Anselmo, spur'd on by th [...] furious rage of jealous indignation, and how her Husband had agreed to hide himself behinde the Tapestry of the Wardrobe, that hee might from thence cleerly perceive the little Loyalty shee kept towards him, and demanded pardon of her for that folly and counsell to redresse it, and come safely out of the intricate Labyrinth whereinto his weake-eyed discourse had conducted him.

Camila having heard Lothario's discourse, was afraid and amazed, and with great anger and many and discrect reasons, did rebuke him, reviling the basenesse of his thoughts, and the simple and little consideration that hee had. But as women have naturally a suddain with for good or bad, much more prompt then men; although when indeed they would make discourses, it proves defective: So Camila found in an instant a remedy for an affair in appearance so irremediable and helplesse; and therefore bade Lothario to induce his friend Anselmo to hide himself the next day ensuing, for shee hoped to take commodity out of his being there for them both to enjoy one another with more security then ever they had before: and without wholy manifesting her proverb to him, shee only advertised him to have care, that after Anselmo were hidden hee should presently come when Leonela called for him, and that hee should answer her as directly to every question she proposed, as if Anselmo were not in place. Lothario did urge her importunately to declare her designe unto him, to the end hee might with more security and advice obscure all that was necessarie. I say, quoth Camila, there is no other observance to bee had, then only to answer me directly to what I shall de­mand: For shee would not give him account before-hand of her determination, fearfull that hee would not conform himself to her opinion which shee took to bee so good; or else lest hee would follow or seek any other, that would not prove after so well. Thus departed Lothario and Anselmo, under pretext that hee would visit his friend, out of Town departed, and returned convertly back again to hide himself, which hee could doe the more commodiously, because Camila and Leonela did purposely afford him oportunity. Anselmo having hidden himself with the grief that may bee imagined one would conceive, who did expect to see with his own eyes an Anatomie made of the bowels of his honour, and was in danger to lose the highest felicitie that hee accounted himself to possesse in his beloved Camila. Camila and Leonela being certain that hee was hidden within the Wardrobe, entred into it, wherein scarce had Camila set her foot, when breathing forth of a deep sigh, shee spoke in this manner.

Ah friend Leonela! were it not better, that before I put in execution, that which I would not have thee to know, lest thou shouldest indeavour to hinder it, that thou takest Anselmo's Ponyard that I have sought of thee, and passe this infamous brest of mine thorow and thorow? but doe it not, for it is no reason that I should suffer for other mens faults: I will know first of all, what the bold and dishonest eyes of Lo­thario noted in me, that should stir in him the presumption to discover unto me so un­lawfull a desire as that which hee hath revealed, so much in contempt of his friend, and to my dishonour: Stand at that Window Leonela, and call him to me; for I doe infallibly believe, that hee stands in the street awaiting to effect his wicked pur­pose: But first my cruell, yet honourable minde shall bee performed. Alas, dear Madame (quoth the wise and craftie Leonela) what is it you mean to doe with that [Page] Ponyard? Meane you perhaps to deprive either your owne or Lotherioes life therewith­all? for which soever of these things you doe, shall redound to the losse of your credit and fame. It is much better that you dissemble your wrong, and give no occasion to the bad man now to enter into this house, and finde us here in it alone: Consider good Madame, how wee are but weake women, and hee is a Man, and one resolute, and by reason that hee comes blinded by his bad and passionate intent, hee may peradventure before you bee able to put yours in execution, doe somwhat that would bee worse for you, then to deprive you of your life. Evill befall my master Anselmo, that ministers so great occasion to impudencie, thus to discover her visage in our house; and if you should kill him by chance Madam, as I suspect you meane to doe, what shall wee doe after with the dead carcasse? What said Camila? Wee would leave him here that An­selmo might bury him. For hee must in all equity esteeme that labour for ease, which he shall passe, in the interring of his owne infamie. Make an end then and call him, for mee [...] thinkes that all the time which I spend untakeing due revenge of my just Disdaine, turnes into the prejudice of the Loyaltie which I owe unto my Spouse.

Anselmo listened very attentively all the while, and at every word that Camila said, his thoughts changed. But when hee understood that shee was resolved to kill Lothario, hee was about to come out and discover himselfe, to the end that such a thing should not bee done; but the desire that hee had to see wherein so brave and honest a resoluti­on would end, with-held him, determining then to sallie out, when his presence should bee needfull to hinder it. Camila about this time began to bee very weake and dismai'd, and casting her selfe, as if shee had faln into a trance upon a bed that was in the roome, Leonela began to lament very bitterly and to say, Alas, wretch that I am, how unfor­tunate should I bee, if the flowre of the worlds honesty, the crown of good women, and the patterne of chastitie should die here betweene my hands? Those and such other things shee said so dolefully, as no one could heare her, that would not deeme her to bee one of the most esteemed and loyall Damzels of the world; and take her Ladie for another new and persecuted Penelope. Soone after Camila returned to her selfe, and said presently. Why goest thou not Leonela, to call the most disloyall friend of a friend that ever the Sun beheld, or the night concealed? Make an end, runne, make haste, and let not the fire of my choller bee through thy stay consumed and spent, nor the just revenge, which I hope to take, passe over in threats or maledictions. I goe to call him Madam, quoth Leonela, but first of all you must give mee that Ponyard, lest you should doe with it in mine absence somewhat, that would minister occasion to us your friends to deplore you all the daies of our lives. Goe away boldly, friend Leonela, said Ca­mela, for I shall doe nothing in thine absence; for although I bee in thine opinion both simple and bold enough to turne for mine honour, yet meane I not to bee so much as the celebrated Lucretia, of whom it is recorded that shee slew her selfe, without having committed any errour or slaine him first who was the principall cause of her disgrace: I will die if I must needes die; but I will bee satisfied and revenged on him that hath given mee occasion to come into this place to lament his boldnesse, sprung without my default.

Leonela could scarcely be intreated to goe and call Lothario, but at last she went out, and in the mean time Camila remained, speaking to her self these words: Good God, had not it been more discretion to have dissmised Lothario, as I did many time before, then thus to possesse him as I have done, with an opinion that I am an evill and disho­nest woman, at least all the while that passeth, untill mine acts shal undeceive him, and teach him the contrary? It had been doubtlesly better: but then should not I be re­venged, nor my husbands honour satisfied, if hee were permitted to beare away so cleer­ly his malignitie, or escape out of the snare wherein his wicked thoughts involved him. Let the Traytor pay with his lifes defrayment, that which hee attempted with so lasci­uious a desire. Let the world know (if it by chance shall come to know it) that Ca­mila did not only conserve the loyaltie due to her Lord, but also tooke revenge of the intended spoyle thereof: But yet I beleeve that it were best to give Anselmo first notice [Page 90] thereof; but I did already touch it to him in the Letter which I wrote to him to the Village; and I believe his not concurring to take order in this so manifest an abuse pro­ceeds of his too sincere and good meaning, which would not, nor cannot beleive that the like kinde of thought could ever finde entertainment in the brest of so firm a friend, tending so much to his dishonour: and what marvell if I my self could not credit it for a great many dayes together? nor would I ever have thought it if his insolencie had not arived to that passe which the manifest Gifts, large Promises, and continuall tears hee shed doe give testimony. But why doe I make now these discourses? Hath a gal­lant resolution perhaps any need of advice? No verily; therefore avaunt treacherous thoughts, here wee must use revenge: Let the false man come in; arive; die and end, and let after befall what can befall. I entered pure and untouched to his possession whom Heaven bestowd on me for mine, and I will depart from him purely: And if the worst befall, I shall only be defiled by mine own chaste blood, and the impure gore of the falsest friend that ever amitie saw in this World. And saying of this, shee pranced up and down the Room with the Ponyard naked in her hand, with such long and un­measurable strides, and making withall such gestures, as shee rather seemed defective of wit, and a desperate Russian then a delicate woman.

All this Anselmo perceived very well from behinde the Arras that covered him, which did not a little admire him; and hee thought that what he had seen and heard was a sufficient satisfaction of farre greater suspicions then he had, and could have wished with all his heart that the triall of Lothario's comming might bee excused, fearing greatly some suddain bad successe: and as hee was ready to manifest himself, and to come out and imbrace and disswade his wife, hee withdrew himself, be­cause hee saw Leonela return, bringing Lothario in by the hand: And as soon as Camila beheld him, shee drew a great stroke with the poynt of the Ponyard athwart the Ward­robe, saying; Lothario, note well what I mean to say unto thee; for if by chance thou beest so hardy as to passe over this line which thou seest, e're I come as farre as it, I will in the very same instant stab my self into the heart with this Ponyard which I hold in my hand: and before thou doest speak or answer me any word, I would first have thee to listen to a few of mine; for after thou mayest say what thou pleasest.

First of all I would have thee, O Lothario! to say whether thou knowest my Hus­band Anselmo, and what opinion thou hast of him? And next I would have thee to tell me if thou knowest my self? answer to this without delay, nor doe not stand long thinking on what thou art to answer, seeing they are no deep questions which I pro­pose unto thee. Lothario was not so ignorant, but that from the very beginning when Camila requested him to perswade her Husband to hide himself behinde the Tapistrey, hee had not fallen on the drift of her invention; and therefore did answer her inten­tion so aptly and discreetly as they made that untruth passe between them for a more then manifest verity: and so hee answered to Camila in this forme. I did never con­jecture, Beautifull Camila, that thou wouldest have called me here to demand of me things so wide from the purpose for which I come: if thou doest it to defer yet the promised favour, thou mightest have entertained it yet farther off, for the good de­sired afflicteth so much the more, by how much the hope to possesse it is neer. But be­cause thou mayest not accuse me for not answering to thy demands, I say that I know thy Husband Anselmo, and both of us know one another even from our tender in­fancie, and I will not omit to say that which thou also knowest of our amity, to make me thereby a witnesse against my self of the wrong which Love compells me to doe unto him, yet Love is a sufficient excuse and excuse of greater errous then are mine. Thee doe I likewise know and hold in the same possession that hee doth; for were it not so, I should never have been won by lesse perfections then thine, to transgresse so much that which I owe to my self and to the holy Laws of true Amity, now broken and violated by the tyrannie of so powerfull an Adversary as Love hath proved. If thou doest acknowledge that, replyed Camila, O mortall enemie of all that which justly deserveth Love! with what face darest thou then appear before that which thou know­est to bee the Mirrour wherein hee looks, in whom thou also oughtest to behold thy­selfe, [Page] to the end thou mightest perceive upon how little occasion thou dost wrong him? But unfortunate that I am, I fall now in the reason which hath moved thee to make so little account of thine owne duty, which was perhaps some negligent or light behavi­our of mine, which I will not call dishonesty, seeing that as I presume, it hath not pro­ceeded from mee deliberately, but rather through the carelessnesse that women which thinke they are not noted, doe sometimes unwittingly commit. If not, say Traytor, when did I ever answere thy Prayers with any world or token that might awake in thee the least shadow of hope to accomplish thine infamous desires? When were not thine a­morous intreaties reprehended and dispersed by the roughnesse and rigour of mine an­sweres? When were thy many promises and lager gifts ever beleeved or admitted? But for as much as I am perswaded that no man can persevere long time in the amorous contention, who hath not beene susteined by some hope, I will attribute the fault of thine impertinence to my selfe; for doubtlesly some carelesnesse of mine hath hitherto susteined thy care, and therefore I will chastise and give to my selfe the punishment which thy fault deserveth. And because thou mightest see that I being so inhumane to­wards my selfe, could not possibly bee other then cruell to thee, I thought fit to call thee to bee a witnesse of the Sacrifice which I meane to make to the offended honour of my most honourable husband, tainted by thee, with the blackest note that thy malice could devise, and by me, through the negligence that I used, to shun the occasion, if I gave thee any, thus to nourish and canonize thy wicked intentions. I say againe, that the suspicion I have, that my little regard hath ingendred in thee these distracted thoughts, is that which afflicteth mee most, and that which I meane to chastise most with mine owne hands; for if another executioner punished mee, then should my crime become more notorious. but before I doe this, I dying, will kill, and carie him away with mee, that shall end and satisfie the greedie desire of revenge which I hope for, and I have; seeing before mine eyes wheresoever I shall goe, the punishment which disingaged justice shall inflict, it still remayning unbowed or suborned by him, which hath brought me to so desperate termes.

And having said these words, shee flew upon Lothario with incredible force and lightnesse, and her Ponyard naked, giving such arguments and tokens that shee meant to stab him, as hee himselfe was in doubt whether her demonstrations were false or true; wherefore hee was driven to helpe himselfe by his wit and strength, for to hinder Cami­la from striking of him, who did so lively act her strange guile and fiction, as to give it colour, shee would give it a blush of her owne blood: for perceiving, or else feighning that shee could not hurt Lothario, shee said, Seeing that adverse fortune will not satis­fie throughly my just desires, yet at least it shall not bee potent wholly to crosse my de­signes: and then striving to free the dagger hand, which Lothario held fast, shee snatch­ed it away, and directing the point to some place of her body, which might hurt her, but not very grievously, shee stab'd her selfe, and hid it in her apparell neere unto the left shoulder, and fell forthwith to the ground, as if shee were in a trance, Lothario and Leonela stood amazed at the unexpected event, and still rested doubtfull of the truth of the matter, seeing Camila to lye on the ground bathed in her blood: Lotha­rio ranne all wanne and pale, very hastily to her, to take out the Ponyard, and seeing how little blood followed, hee lost the feare that hee had conceived of her greater hurt, and began a new to admire the cunning wit and discretion of the beautifull Camila; but yet that hee might play the part of a friend, hee began a long and dolefull lamenta­tion over Camila's body, even as she were dead, and began to breathe forth many cur­ses and execrations not onely against himself, but also against him that had imployed him in that unfortunate affaire. And knowing that his friend Anselmo did listen unto him, he said such things as would move a man to take more compassion of him then of Camila her selfe, although they accounted her dead. Leonela tooke her up betweene her armes, and laid her on the Bed, and intreated Lothario to goe out, and finde some one that would undertake to cure her secretly. Shee also demanded of him his advice, touching the excuse they might make to Anselmo concerning her Mistresse her wound, if hee came to towne before it were fully cured.

[Page 91]Hee answered, that they might say what they pleased, for hee was not in an humour of giving any counsell worth the following; and only said this, that shee should labour to stanch her Ladies blood; for he meant to goe there whence they should hear no news of him ever after: And so departed out of the house with very great tokens of grief and feeling; and when hee was alone in place where no body perceived him, hee blest him­self a thousand times to think of Camilaes art, and the gestures so proper and accom­modated to the purpose, used by her Maid Leonela. Hee considered how assured An­selmo would remain that hee had a second Portia to wife, and desired to meet him, that they might celebrate together the fiction, and the best dissembled truth that could bee ever imagined. Leonela, as is said, stanched her Ladies blood, which was just as much as might serve to colour her invention and no more; and washing the would with some Wine, shee tyed it up the best that shee could, saying such words whilest shee cured her as were able, though nothing had been done before, to make Anselmo be­lieve that hee had an Image of honestly in Camila to the plants of Leonela: Camila added others, terming her self a Coward of base Spirit since shee wanted time (being a thing so necessary) to deprive her life which shee hated so mortally; shee demanded counsell of her Maiden, whether shee would tell or conceal all that successe to her be­loved Spouse: And shee answered, That it was best to conceal it, lest shee should in­gage her Husband to bee revenged on Lothario, which would not bee done without his very great perill, and that every good Wife was bound, not to give occasion to her Husband of quarrelling, but rather to remove from him as many as was possible. Camila answered, That shee allowed of her opinion, and would follow it; and that in any sort they must studie some device to cloak the occasion of her hurt from An­selmo, who could not chuse but espye it. To this Leonela answered, That shee her self knew not how to lye, no, not in very jest it self. Well friend, quoth Camila, and I, what doe I know? for I dare not to forge or report an untruth if my life lay on it: And if wee know not how to give it a better issue, it will bee better to report the naked truth then to bee overtaken in a leasing. Doe not trouble your self Madame, quoth Leonela; for I will bethink my self of somewhat between this and to morrow morn­ing, and perhaps the wound may be concealed from him [...] by reason that it is in the place where it is; and Heaven perhaps may bee pleased to favour our so just and honourable thoughts. Bee quiet, good Madam, and labour to appease your alteration of minde, that my Lord at his return may not finde you perplexed; and leave all the rest to Gods and my charge, who doth allwaies assist the just.

With highest attention stood Anselmo listening and beholding the Tragedy of his dying honours, which the personages thereof had acted with so strange and forceable effects, as it verily seemed that they were transformed into the opposite truth of their well contrived fiction: Hee longed greatly for the night and leisure to get out of his house, that hee might goe and congratulate with his good friend Lothario, for the pre­cious Jewell that hee had found in this last tryall of his Wife. The Mistrisse and Maiden had as great care to give him the oportunity to depart; and hee fearing to lose it, issued out in a trice, and went presently to finde Lothario, who being found, it is not possible to recount the imbracements hee gave unto him, the secrets of his contentment that hee revealed, or the attributes and praises that hee gave to Camila. All which Lothario heard, without giving the least argument of Love; having represented to his minde at that very time, how greatly deceived his friend lived, and how injustly hee himself injuried him. And although that Anselmo noted that Lothario took no delight at his relation, yet did hee believe that the cause of his sorrow proceeded from having left Camila wounded, and hee himself given the occasion thereof: And therefore among many other words, said unto him, That there was no occasion to grieve at Ca­milaes hurt, it doubtlesly being but light, seeing shee and her Maid had agreed to hide it from him; and that according unto this there was no great cause of fear, but that from thence forward hee should live merrily and contentedly with him, seeing that by his industry and means, hee found himself raised to the highest felicitie that might bee desired; and therefore would from thenceforth spend his idle times in writing of [Page] Verses in Camila's praise, that hee might eternize her name, and make it famous in insuing ages. Lothario commended his resolution therein, and said that hee for his part would also help to raise up so noble an edefice; and herewithall Anselmo rested the most soothingly and contentedly deceived that could be found in the World: And then himself took by the hand to his house (believing that hee bore the instrument of his glory) the utter perdition of his fame. Camila entertained him with a frowning countenance, but a cheerfull minde: the fraud rested unknown a while, untill at the end of certain moneths, Fortune turned the wheel, and the wickednesse that was so ar­tificially cloaked, issued to the publique notice of the World; and Anselmo his imper­tinent-curiosity cost him his life.

CHAP. VIII.
Wherein is ended the History of the Curious-Impertinent: And like­wise recounted the rough Incounter and Conflict passed betweene Don-Quixote and certain baggs of red Wine.

A Little more of the novell did rest unread, when Sancho Panca all per­plexed ranne out of the Chamber where his Lord reposed, crying as loud as he could, Come, good Sirs, speedily, and assist my Lord, who is ingaged in one of the most terrible battails that ever mine eyes have seen: I swear that hee hath given such a blow to the Giant, my Lady the Princesse Micomicona her enemie, as hee hath cut his head quite off as round as a Turnep.

What sayest thou friend, quoth the Curate (leaving off at that word to prosecute the reading of his novell) art thou in thy wits Sancho? What a Divill man, how can that bee, seeing the Giant dwels at least two thousand leagues from hence? By this they heard a marvellous great noyse within the Chamber, and that Don-Quixote cried out aloud, Stay false Thiefe, Robber, stay; for since thou art here, thy Semiter shall but little availe thee: and therewithall it seemed that hee struck a number of mighty blows on the walls. And Sancho said, There is no need tostand thus listening abroad, but rather that you goe in and part the fray, or else assist my Lord; although I think it bee not very necessary: for the Gyant is questionlesse dead by this, and giving account for the ill life hee led: For I saw his blood runne all about the house, and his head cut off, which is as great as a great Wine-bagge. I am content to bee hewn in pieces, quoth the Inn-keeper, hearing of this, if Don-Quixote or Don-Divell have not given some blow to one of the Wine-baggs that stood filled at his Beds-head, and the shed Wine must needs bee that which seems blood to this good man: And saying so, hee entred into the Room, and all the rest followed him, where they found Don-Quixote in the strangest guise that may bee imagined: Hee was in his Shirt, the which was not long enough before to cover his Thighs, and it was six fingers shorter behinde: His Leggs were very long and lean, full of hair, and horrible dirty: Hee wore on his Head a little red, but very greazie night Cap, which belonged to the Inn-keeper: Hee had wreathed on his left Arme the Coverlet of his Bead; on which Sancho looked very often and angerly, as one that knew well the cause of his own malice to it: and in his right hand hee griped his naked Sword, wherewithall hee laid round about him many a thwack; and withall spake as if hee were in battail with some Gyant: And the best of all was, that hee held not his eyes open; for hee was indeed asleep and dreaming that he was in fight with the Gyant: For the imagination of the Adventure which hee had undertaken to finish, was so bent upon it, as it made him to dream that hee was already [Page 92] arived at the kingdom of Micomicon, and that he was then in combat with his enemy, and he had given so many blowes on the wine bags, supposing them to be Giants, as all the whol chamber flowed with wine: Which being perceived by the Host, all infla­med with rage, hee set upon Don-Quixote with drie sists, and gave unto him so many blowes, that if Cardenio and the Curate had not taken him away, he would doubtlesly have finished the war of the Gyant, and yet with all this did not the poor Knight awake untill the Barber brought in a great kettle full of cold water from the Well, and threw it all at a clap upon him, and therewithall Don-Quixote awaked, but not in such sort as he perceived the manner wherein he was. Dorotea seeing how short and how thin her Champion was arayed, would not goe in to see the conflict of her combatant and his Adversarie.

Sancho went up and downe the floore searching for the Gyants head, and seeing that hee could not finde it hee said, Now I doe see very well, that all the things of this house are inchantments, for the last time that I was here, in this very same roome, I got many blowes and buffets, and knew not who did strike mee, nor could I see any body; and now the head appeares not, which I saw cut off with mine owne eyes, and yet the blood ran as swiftly from the body, as water would from a Fountaine. What blood, or what Fountaine doest thou tattle of here, thou enemy of God and his Saints? quoth the In-keeper, thou Theefe, dost not thou see that the blood and the fountaine is no other thing then these wine-bags which are slashed here, and the wine red that swims up and down this Chamber (and I wish that I may see his Soule swimming in hell which did bore them. I know nothing replyed Sancho but this, that if I cannot find the Giants head, I shall become so unfortunate, as mine Earledome will dissolve like Salt cast into water. And certes Sancho awake, was in worse case then his Master sleeping, so much had his Lords promises distracted him. The In-keeper on the other side was at his wits end, to see the humor of the Squire, and unhappinesse of his Lord, and swore that it should not succeede with them now as it had done the other time, when they went away without payment: and that now the priviledges of Chi­valrie should not any whit availe him, but hee should surely pay both the one and the other, yea even for the very patches that were to bee set on the bored Wine­bagges.

The Curate held fast Don-Quixote by the hands, who beleeving that hee had a [...]chie­ved the Adventure, and was after it come into the Princesse Micomicona her presence, hee laid himselfe on his knees before the Curate saying, ‘Well may your greatnesse high and famous Ladie, live from henceforth secure from any danger, that this unfor­tunate wretch may doe unto you; and I am also freed from this day forward from the promise that I made unto you, seeing I have, by the assistance of the heavens, and through her favour by whom I live and breathe, so happily accomplished it.’ Did not I say so quoth Sancho, hearing of his Master? yea, I was not drunke; see if my Master hath not powdred the Gyant by this? the matter is questionlesse, and the Earle­dome is mine owne. Who would not laugh at these raving fits of the Master and man? all of them laughed save the In-keeper, who gave himself for anger to the Devill more then a hundred times. And the Barber, Cardenio and the Curate got Don-Quixote to bed againe, not without much adoe, who presently fell a sleepe with tokens of marvei­lous wearinesse, They left him sleeping and went out to comfort Sancho Panca for the griefe hee had, because he could not finde the Giants head; but yet had more adoe to pacifie the In-keeper, who was almost out of his wits for the unexpected and suddaine death of his wine-bags.

The Oast [...]sse on the other side went up and down whining and saying, in an ill season and an unlucky houre did this Knight errant enter into my house, alas; and I would that mine eyes had never seene him seeing hee costs mee so deere. The last time that hee was here, hee went away scot-free for his Supper, Bed, Straw and Barley, both for himselfe and his man, h [...]s Horse and his Asse, saying that hee was a Knight Adventu­rous (and God give to him ill venture, and to all the other Adventurers of the world) and was not therefore bound to pay any thing, for so it was written in the Statutes of [Page] Chivalry. And now for his cause came the other Gentleman, and tooke away my good tayle, and hath returned it mee backe, with two quarters of dammage, for all the haire is falln off, and it cannot stand my husband any more in stead for the purpose hee had it; and for an end and conclusion of all, to breake my wine-bags and shed my wine; I wish I may see as much of his blood shed: And doe not thinke otherwise, for by my fathers old bones, and the life of my mother, they shall pay mee every doit, one quart upon another, or else I will never bee called as I am, nor bee mine owne fathers daughter.

These and such like words spake the Inn-keepers Wife with very great furie, and was seconded by her good Servant Maritornes. The Daughter held her peace, and would now and then smile a little: But Master Parson did quiet and pacifie all, by promi­sing to satisfie them for the dammages as well as hee might, as well for the Wine as for the Baggs, but chiefly for her tail, the which was so much accounted of and valued so highly. Dorotea did comfort Sancho, saying to him, that whensoever it should bee verified that his Lord had slain the Gyant, and established her quietly in her Kingdome, shee would bestow upon him the best Earldome thereof. With this hee took courage and assured the Princesse, that hee himself had seen the Gyants head cut off; and for a more certain token thereof, hee said, That hee had a beard that reached him down to his girdle; and that if the Head could not now bee found, it was by reason that all the Affairs of that house were guided by inchantment, as hee had made experience to his cost the last time that hee was lodged therein. Dorotea replyed, That shee was of the same opinion, and bade him to bee of good cheer, for all would bee well ended to his hearts desire. All parties being quiet, the Curate resolved to finish the end of his novell because hee perceived that there rested but a little unread thereof. Car­denio, Dorotea, and all the rest intreated him earnestly to finish it. And hee de­siring to delight them all herein and recreate himself, did prosecute the Tale in this manner.

It after befell, That Anselmo grew so satisfied of his Wifes Honestie, as hee led a most contented and secure life: And Camila did for the nonce look sowrely upon Lothario, to the end Anselmo might construe her minde amisse: And for a greater confirmation thereof Lothario requested Anselmo to excuse his comming any more to his house, seeing that hee cleerly perceived how Camila could neither brook his company nor presence. But the hood-wink'd Anselmo answered him, That hee would in no wise consent thereunto; and in this manner did weave his own dishonour a thousand waies, thinking to work his contentment. In this season such was the delight that Leonela took also in her affections, as shee suffered her self to bee borne away by them head­longly, without any care or regard confident because her Lady did cover it, yea, and sometimes instructed her how shee might put her desires in practice without any fear or danger. But finally Anselmo heard on a night some body walk in Leonelaes Cham­ber, and being desirous to know who it was, as hee thought to enter, hee felt the door to bee held fast against him, which gave him a greater desire to open it; and therefore hee strugled so long, and used such violence, as hee threw open the door and entred just at the time that another leaped out at the Window; and therefore hee ran out to overtake him, or see wherein hee might know him; but could neither compasse the one or the other, by reason that Leonela embracing him hardly, with-held him and said, Pacifie your self, good Sir, and bee not troubled, nor follow him that was here; for hee is one that belongs to me, and that so much, as hee is my Spouse. Anselmo would not believe her, but rather blinde with rage, hee drew out his Ponyard and would have wounded her, saying, That shee should presently tell him the truth, or else hee would kill her. Shee distracted with fear, said, without nothing her own words, Kill me not Sir, and I will acquaint you with things which concern you more then you can imagine. Say quickly then, quoth Anselmo, or else thou shalt die. It will bee impossible, replied Leonela, for me to speak any thing now I am so affrighted; but give respit till morn­ing and I will recount unto you things that will marvellously astonish you; and in the mean time rest secure, that hee which leaped out of the Window is a young man of this [Page 93] Citie, betwixt whom and me hath passed a promise of marriage. Anselmo was some­what satisfied by these words; and therefore resolved to expect the terme which shee had demanded to open her minde; for hee did not suspect that hee should hear any thing of Camila, by reason hee was already so assured of her Virtue: and so depart­ing out of the Chamber, and shutting up Leonela therein, threatning her withall, That shee should never depart thence, untill shee had said all that shee promised to reveal unto him. Hee went presently to Camila, to tell unto her all that which his Mayden had said and the promise shee had passed, to disclose greater and more important things. Whether Camila hearing this were perplexed or no, I leave to the discreet Readers judgement: for such was the fear which shee conceived, believing certainly (as it was to be doubted) that Leonela would tell to Anselmo all that shee knew of her disloy­alty, as shee had not the courage to expect and see whether her su [...]mise would become false or no: But the very same night, as soon as shee perceived Anselmo to bee asleep, gathering together her best Jewels and some Money, shee departed out of her House unperceived of any, and went to Lothario's lodging, to whom shee recounted all that had past, and requested him either to leave her in some safe place, or both of them to depart to some place where they might live secure out of Anselmo's reach. The con­fusion that Cimila struck into Lothario, was such as he knew not what to say, and much less how to resolve himself what he might do. But at last he determined to carry Camila to a Monastery wherein his sister was Prioresse; to which shee easily coudescended; and therefore Lothario departed and left her there with all the speed that the case re­quired, and did also absent himself presently from the Citie, without acquainting any body with his departure.

Anselmo, as soon as it was day, without heeding the absence of his Wife, arose and went to the place where hee had shut up Leonela, with desire to know of her what shee had promised to acquaint him withall: Hee opened the Chamber door and entred, but could finde no body therein but some certain sheets knit together and tied to the window as a certain signe how Leonela had made an escape by that way: Wherefore hee returned very sad to tell to Camila the adventure; but when hee could neither finde her at bed nor in the whole house, hee remained astonied, and demanded, for her of his Servants, but none of them could tell him any thing. And as hee searched for her, hee hapned to see her Coffers lye open and most of her Jewels wanting; and herewithall fell into the true account of his disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of his misfor­tune, and so departed out of his house sad and pensive, even as hee was, half ready and unapparrelled, to his friend Lothario to recount unto him his disaster: but when hee found him to bee likewise absented, and that the Servants told him how their Ma­ster was departed the very same night and had borne away with him all his Money, hee was ready to runne out of his wits. And to conclude, hee returned to his own house again, wherein he found no ceature, man or woman, for all his folk were departed, and had left the house alone and desart: Hee knew not what hee might think, say, or doe; and then his judgement began to faile him. There hee did contemplate and behold himself in an instant without a Wife, a Friend, and Servants; abandoned (to his seem­ing) of Heaven that covered him, and chiefly without honour; for hee cleerly noted his own perdition in Camilaes crime. In the end hee resolved, after hee had bethought himself a great while, to goe to his friends Village wherein hee had been all the while that hee afforded the leisure to contrive that disaster: And so shutting up his house hee mounted a horseback, and rode away in languishing and dolefull wise: And scarce had hee ridden the half way when hee was so fiercely assaulted by his thoughts, as hee was constrained to alight, and tying his Horse to a Tree, hee leaned himself to the trunck thereof and breathed out a thousand pittifull and dolorous sighs; and there hee abode untill it was almost night, about which hour espyed a man to come from the Citie a Horse-back by the same way, and having saluted him, hee demanded of him what news hee brought from Florence? The Citizen replyed, The strangest that had hapned there many a day: For it is there reported publiquely, That Lothario the great friend of the rich man, hath carried away the said Anselmo's Wife Camila this night; [Page] for shee is also missing: all which a Waiting-maid of Camilaes hath confest, whom the Governour apprehended yesternight as shee slipt down at a window by a pair of sheets out of the said Anselmo's house. I know not particularly the truth of the Affair, but well I wot that all the Citie is amazed at the accident; for such a fact would not bee as much as surmized from the great and familiar amitie of them two, which was so much as they were called The two friends. Is it perhaps yet known, replyed Anselmo, which way Lothario and Camila have taken? In no wise, quoth the Citizen, although the Governour hath used all possible diligence to finde them out. Farewell then, good Sir, said Anselmo. And with you Sir, said the Traveller: And so departed.

With these so unfortunate news poore Anselmo arived, not only to termes of losing his wits, but also well nigh of losing his life; and therefore arising as well as hee might, hee came to his friends house, who had heard nothing yet of his disgrace; but percei­ving him to arive so wan, pined and dried up, hee presently conjectured that some grie­vous evill afflicted him. Anselmo requested him presently that hee might bee caried to his Chamber, and provided of paper and inke to write withall: all was done, and hee left in bed, and alone, for so hee desired them; and also that the dore should bee fast locked: And being alone, the imagination of his misfortune gave him such a terrible charge, as hee cleerely perceived that his life would shortly faile him, and therefore re­solved to leave notice of the cause of his suddaine and unexpected death; and therefore hee began to write it; but before hee could set an end to his discourse, his breath fayled, and hee yeelded up his life into the hands of sorrow, which his impertinent curiositie had stirred up in him. The Gentleman of the house seeing that it grew late, and that Anselmo had not called, determined to enter, and know whether his indisposition pas­sed forward, and hee found him lying on his face, with halfe of his body in the bed, and the other half leaning on the table whereon he lay, with a written paper unfolded, and held the pen also yet in his hand. His Oast drew neere unto him, and first of all, having called him he took him by the hand; and seeing that he answered not, and that it was cold, he knew that he was dead; and greatly perplexed and grieved thereat, he called in his people, that they might also be witnesses of the disastrous successe of Anselmo, and after all he took the paper and read it, which he knew to be written with his own hand the substance whereof was this:

Hitherto did Anselmo write, by which it appeared that his life ended in that point, ere he could set an end to the Reason he was to give. The next day ensuing, the Gen­tleman his friend acquainted Anselmoes kinsfolke with his death; the which had already knowledge of his misfortune, and also of the Monastery wherein Camila had retyred her self, being almost in terms to accompany her husband in that forcible voyage; not for the newes of his death, but for grief of others which she had received of her absent friend. It is said, that although she was a widow, yet would she neither depart out of the Monastery, nor become a Religious woman, untill she had received within a few daies after, news how Lothario was slaine in a battell given by Monsieur de Lau [...]re [...], to the great Captain Goncalo Fernandez of Cordova, in the kingdom of Naples; and that was the end of the late repentant friend, the which being known to Camila, she made a profession, and shortly after deceased between the rigorous hands of sorrow and [Page 94] Melanchollie: and this was the end of them all, sprung from a rash and inconsiderate beginning.

This Novell quoth the Curate, having read it, is a pretty one; but yet I cannot per­swade my self that it is true, and if it be a fiction, the Author erred therein; for it can­not be imagined that any husband would be so foolish, as to make so costly an experience as did Anselmo: but if this accident had been devised betwixt a Gentleman and his love, then were it possible; but being between Man and Wife, it containes somewhat that is impossible and unlikely, but yet I can take no exception against the manner of recount­ing thereof.

CHAP. IX.
Which treates of many rare Successes befaln in the Inne.

WHIL'ST they discoursed thus, the In-keeper, who stood all the while at the dore, said, Here comes a faire troope of Guests, and if they will here alight, wee may sing Gaudeamus. What folke is it, quoth Cardenio? Foure men on Horseback quoth the Hoast, and ride Gennet-wise, with Lances and Targets, and Maskes on their faces; and with them comes likewise a woman apparelled in white, in a side-Saddle, and her face also masked, and two Lacquies that run with them a foote. Are they neere quoth the Curate? So neere replyed the Inn­keeper, as they doe now arive. Dorotea hearing him say so, covered her face, and Car­denio entred into Don-Quixotes chamber; and scarce had they leisure to doe it, when the others of whom the Oast spake, entred into the Inne, and the foure Horsemen a­lighting, which were all of very comely and gallant disposition; they went to helpe downe the Lady that rode in the side-Saddle, and one of them taking her downe in his armes did seat her in a chair that stood at the Chamber door, into which Cardenio had entred: and all this while neither shee nor they took off their Ma [...]ks, or spake a word, only the Gentlewoman at her sitting down in the chair breathed forth a very deep sigh, and let fall her armes like a sick and dismayed person: The Lacquies carried away their Horses to the Stable. Master Curate seeing and nothing all this, and curious to know what they were that came to the Inn in so unwonted an attire, and kept such profound silence therein, went to the Lacquies and demanded of one of them that which hee desired to know, Who answered, In good faith Sir, I cannot tell you what folk this is; only this I know, that they seem to bee very Noble, but chiefly hee that went and took down the Lady in his armes that you see there; and this I say, because all the others doe respect him very much, and nothing is done but what hee ordains and com­mands. And the Lady, what is shee quoth the Curate? I can as hardly informe you, quoth the Lacquie; for I have not once seen her face in all this Journey; yet I have heard her often groan and breath out so profound sighs, as it seems shee would give up the ghost at every one of them: And it is no marvell, that wee should know no more then wee have said; for my Companion and my self have been in their companie but two dayes; for they incountred us on the way, and prayed and perswaded us to goe with them unto Andalusia, promising that they would recompence our pains largely. And hast thou heard them name one another, said the Curate? No truely, answered the Lacquie; for they all travail with such silence, as it is a wonder: for you shall not hear a word among, but the sighs and throbs of the poor Ladie, which doe move in us very great compassion: And we doe questionlesse perswade our selves that shee is forced wheresoever shee goes: and as it may bee collected by her attire, shee is a Nunne, or, as is most probable, goes to bee one; and perhaps shee goeth so sorrowfull as it seems, [Page] because shee hath no desire to become Religious. It may very well bee so, quoth the Curate: And so leaving them, hee returned to the place where hee had left Dorotea; who hearing the disguised Lady to sigh so often moved by the native compassion of that Sex, drew neer her and said, What ayles you, good Madame? I pray you think if it bee any of those inconveniences to which Women bee subject, and whereof they m [...]y have use and experience to cure them: I doe offer unto you my Service, Assistance, and good-Will to help you, as much as lyes in my power. To all those complements the dolefull Ladie answered nothing; and although Dorotea made her again larger offers of her Service, yet stood shee ever silent, untill the bemasked Gentleman (whom the Lacquie said the rest did obey) came over and said to Dorotea; Ladie, doe not trouble your self to offer any thing to that woman, for shee is of a most ingratefull nature, and is never wont to gratifie any courtesie, nor doe you seek her to answer unto your demands, if you would not heare some lie from her mouth. I never said any (quoth the silent Ladie) but rather because I am so true and sincere without guiles; I am now drowned here in those misfortunes; and of this I would have thy self bear witnesse, seeing my pure truth makes thee to bee so false and disloyall.

Cardenio over-heard those words very cleere and distinctly, as one that stood so neer unto her that said them, as only Don-Quixotes chamber door stood between them: And instantly when hee heard them, hee said with a very loud voyce; Good God! what is this that I heare? What voyce is this that hath touched mine eare? The Ladie moved with a sodain passion, turned her head at those out-cries, and seeing shee could not perceive him that gave them, shee got up, and would have entred into the Roome, which the Gentleman espying with-held her, and would not let her stir out of the place: and with the alteration and sodain motion the Mask fell off her face, & she discovered an incomparable beautie, and an Angellicall countenance, although it was somewhat wan and pale, and turned here and [...]here with her eyes to every place so earnestly as shee seemed to bee distracted: which motions without knowing the rea­son why they were made, struck Dorotea and the rest that beheld her into very great compassion. The Gentleman holding her very strongly fast by the shoulders, the Mask he wore on his own face was falling; and he being so busied could not hold it up, but in the end fell wholy. Dorotea, who had likewise imbraced the Ladie, lifting up her eyes by chance, saw that hee, which did also imbrace the Ladie, was her Spouse Don Fernando: and scarce had shee known him, when breathing out a long and most pittifull Alas from the bottome of her heart, shee fell backward in a Traunce: And if the Barber had not been by good hap at hand, shee would have faln on the ground with all the weight of her body. The Curate presently repaired to take off the vaile of her face and cast water thereon: and as soon as hee did discover it, Don Fernando, who was hee indeed that held fast the other, knew her, and looked like a dead man as soon as hee viewed her; but did not all this while let goe Luscinda, who was the other whom hee held so fast, and that laboured so much to escape out of his hands. Cardenio likewise heard the Alas that Dorotea said when shee fell into a Trance, and believing that it was his Luscinda, issued out of the chamber greatly altered, and the first hee espied was Don Fernando which held Luscinda fast, who forthwith knew him. And all the three, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorotea, stood dumbe and amazed, as folk that knew not what had befaln unto them. All of them held their peace and beheld one another: Dorotea looked on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Cardenio on Lu­scinda, and Luscinda again on Cardenio: but Luscinda was the first that broke silence, speaking to Don Fernando in this manner; Leave me off, Lord Fernando, I conjure thee, by that thou shouldest be, for that which thou art: and if thou wilt not doe it for any other respect; Let me cleave to the wall whose Ivie I am; to the supporter, from whom, neither thy importunitie nor threats, promises or gifts, could once deflect me. Note how Hea­ven, by unusuall, unfrequented, and from us concealed waies, hath set my true Spouse before mine eyes: and thou doest know well by a thousand costly experiences, that only death is potent to blot forth his remembrance out of my memorie: Let then so manifest truths bee of power (if thou must doe none other) to convert thine affliction [Page 95] into rage, and thy good will into despight, and therewithall end my life: for if I may render up the Ghost in the presence of my deer Spouse, I shall account it fortunately lost. Perhaps by my death hee will remain satisfied of the faith which I ever kept sincere towards him, untill the last period of my life. By this time Dorotea was come to her self, and listened to most of Luscindaes reasons, and by them came to the knowledge of her self: But seeing Don Fernando did not yet let [...]er depart from between his armes, nor answer any thing to her words, encouraging her self the best that shee might, shee arose and kneeling at his feet, and shedding a number of Cristall and penetrating T [...]ares, she spoke to him thus.

If it bee not so my Lord, that the beames of that Sunne which thou holdest eclyp­sed betweene thine armes, doe darken and deprive those of thine eyes, thou mightest have by this perceived, how shee that is prostrated at thy feete, is the unfortunate (un­till thou shalt please) and the disastrous Dorotea. I am that poore humble country-wo­man, whom thou eyther through thy bountie, or for thy pleasure didst daigne to rayse to that height that shee might call thee her owne. I am shee which sometime immured within the limits of honestie, did lead a most contented life, untill it opened the gates of her recollection and wearinesse to thine importunity, and seeming just, and amorous requests, and rendred up to thee the keyes of her libertie; a griefe by thee so ill recom­penced, as the finding my selfe in so remote a place as this wherein you have met with mee, and I seene you, may cleerely testifie; but yet for all this, I would not have you to imagine that I come here guided by dishonourable steps, being only hitherto condu­cted by the tracts of dolour and feeling, to see my selfe thus forgotten by thee. It was thy will that I should bee thine owne, and thou didst desire it in such a manner, as al­though now thou wouldst not have it so, yet canst not thou possibly leave off to be mine. Know my deere Lord, that the matchlesse affections that I doe beare towards thee, may recompence and be equivalent to her beautie and nobilitie for whom thou dost aban­don mee.

Thou canst not bee the beautifull L [...]scindaes because thou art mine; nor shee thine, for as much as shee belongs to Cardenio, and it will bee more easie, if you will note it well, to reduce thy will to love her that adores thee, then to addresse hers, that hates thee, to beare thee affection: Thou diddest sollicite my wretchlessenesse, thou prayedst to mine integritie, and wast not ignorant of my qualitie; thou knowest also very well upon what termes I subjected my selfe to thy will, so as there remaines no place nor co­lour to term it a fraud or deceit; and all this being so, as in veritie it is, & that thou beest as Christian as thou art noble, why dost thou with these so many untoward wreathings dilate the making of mine end happy, whose cōmencement thou didst illustrate so much? and if thou wilt not have mee for what I am, who am thy true and lawfull Spouse; yet at least take and admit mee for thy slave, for so that I may bee in thy possession, I will account my selfe happy and fortunate. Doe not permit that by leaving and abandoning mee, meetings may bee made to discourse of my dishonour. Doe not vexe thus the de­clining yeeres of my Parents, seeing that the loyall services which they ever have done as Vassals to thine, deserve not so dishonest a recompence: And if thou esteemest that thy blood by medling with mine shall bee stayned or embased, consider how few noble houses, or rather none at all, are there in the world, which have not runne the same way; and that the womans side is not essentially requisite for the illustrating of noble discents: how much more, seeing that true Nobilitie consists in virtue, which if it shall want in thee, by refusing that which thou owest mee so justly, I shall remain with many more degrees of Nobilitie then thou shalt. And in conclusion, that which I will lastly say is, that whether thou wilt or no, I am thy wife; the witnesses are thine owne words, which neither should nor ought to lie, if thou dost pri [...]e thy selfe of that for whose want thou despisest mee. Witnesse shall also bee thine owne hand writing. Wit­nesse Heaven, which thou didst invoke to beare witnesse of that which thou didst pro­mise unto mee; and when all this shall faile, thy very Conscience shall never faile from using clamors, being silent in thy myrth and turning, for this truth which I have said to thee now, shall trouble thy greatest pleasure and delight.

[Page] These and many other like reasons did the sweetly grieved Dorotea use with such fee­ling and abundance of teares, as all those that were present, as well such as accompani­ed Don Fernando, as all the others that did accompany her. Don Fernando listned unto her without replying a word, untill shee had ended her speech, and given beginning to so many sighs and sobs, as the heart that could indure to behold them without moving, were harder then brasse. Luscinda did also regard her, no lesse compassionate of her sorrow, then admired at her discretion and beautie, and although shee would have ap­proached to her, and used some consolatorie words, yet was shee hindred by Don Fer­nandoes armes, which held her still embraced; who full of confusion and marvell, after hee had stood very attentively beholding Dorotea a good while, opening his armes, and leaving Luscynda free said, Thou hast vanquished, O beautifull Dorotea, thou hast van­quished me; for it is not possible to resist or denie so many united truths. Luscinda through her former trance and weakenesse, as Don Fernando left her, was like to fall, if Cardenio who stood behind Don Fernando all the while lest hee should bee known, shak­ing off all feare and in indangering his person, had not started forward to stay her from falling; and clasping her sweetly betweene his armes hee said. If pittifull Heaven bee pleased, and would have thee now at last take some ease, my loyall, constant and beau­tifull Ladie, I presume that thou canst not possesse it more securely then betweene these armes which doe now receive thee, as whilom they did when fortune was pleased that I might call thee mine owne. And then Luscinda first severing her eye lids beheld Car­denio, and having first taken notice of him by his voyce, and confirmed it againe by her sight, like one quite distracted, without farther regarding modest respects, shee cast both her armes about his neck, and joyning her face to his said, Yea, thou indeede art my Lord; thou the true owne of this poore Captive, howsoever adverse fortune shall thwart it, or this life, which is only sustayned and lives by thine, bee ever so much threat­ned. This was a marvelous spectacle to Don Fernando, and all the rest of the beholders, which did universally admire at this so unexpected an event: and Dorotea perceiving Don Fernando to change colour, as one resolving to take revenge on Cardenio, for hee had set hand to his Sword, which shee conjecturing, did with marvelous expedition kneele, and catching hold on his legs, kissing them, shee strained them with so loving embracements, as hee could not stir out of the place, and then with her eyes overflown with teeres, said unto him, What meanest thou to doe, my only refuge in this unexpe­cted trance? Thou hast here thine own Spouse at thy feete, and her whom thou wouldst faine possesse is betweene her owne husbands armes: Judge then whether it become thee, or is a thing possible to dissolve that which Heaven hath knit, or whether it bee a­ny wise laudable to endeavor to raise and equall to thy selfe her, who contemning all dangers and inconveniences, and confirmed in faith and constancy, doth in thy presence bathe her eyes with amorous liquor of her true Loves face and bosome. I desire thee for Gods sake, and by thine owne worths; I request thee, that this so notorious a ve­ritie may not only asswage thy choller, b [...]t also diminish it in such sort, as thou maiest quietly and peaceably permit those two Lovers to enjoy their desires without any en­cumbrance, all the time that Heaven shall grant it to them; and herein thou shalt shew the generositie of thy magnanimous and noble brest, and give the world to understand how reason prevaileth in thee, and domaniereth over passion. All the time that Doro­tea spoke thus to Don Fernando, although Cardenio held Luscinda betweene his armes, yet did hee never take his eye off Don Fernando, with resolution, that if hee did see him once stir in his prejudice, hee would labor both to defend himself and offend his adver­sary & all those should joyn with him to do him any harm, as much as he could, although it were with the rest of his life: but Don Fernandoes friends, the Curat and Barber that were present and saw all that was past, repayred in the meane season, without omitting the good Sancho Panca, and all of them together compassed Don Fernando, intreating him to have regard of the beautifull Doroteas teares, and it being true (as they beleeved it was) that she had said, he should not permit her to remain defrauded of her so just and lawfull hopes, assuring him that it was not by chance, but rather by the parti­cular providence and disposition of the Heavens, that they had all met together so un­expectedly: [Page 96] And that hee should remember, as Master Curate said very well, that only death could sever Luscinda from her Cardenio: And that although the edge of a Sword might divide and part them asunder, yet in that case they would account their death most happy, and that in irremedilesse events, it was highest prudence, by strain­ing and overcoming himself, to shew a generous minde, permitting that hee might conquer his own will, they two should joy that good which Heaven had already grant­ed to them, and that hee should convert his eyes to behold the beautie of Dorotea, and hee should see that few or none could for feature paragon with her; and much lesse excell her; and that hee should conferre her humilitie and extreame love which shee bore to him with her other indowments; and principally that if hee gloried in the titles of Nobility or Christianity, hee could not doe any other then accomplish the promise that hee had past to her; and that by fulfilling it hee should please God and satisfie discreet persons, which know very well how it is a speciall prerogative of beautie though it bee in an humble and mean subject, if it bee consorted with Modestie and Virtue, to exalt and equall it self to any dignitie, without disparagement of him which doth help to raise or unite it to himself. And when the strong laws of delight are ac­complished (so that there intercurre no sinne in the acting thereof) hee is not to bee condemned which doth follow them. Finally, they added to these reasons others so many and forcible, that the valorous brest of Don Fernando (as commonly all those that are warmed and nourished by Noble Blood are wont) was mollified, and permitted it self to bee vanquished by that truth which hee could not denye though hee would: And the token that hee gave of his being overcome, was to stoop down and imbrace Dorotea, saying unto her, A [...]ise Ladie; for it is not just that shee bee prostrate at my feet, whose image I have erected in my minde: And if I have not hitherto given de­monstrations of what I now averr, it hath perhaps befaln through the disposition of Heaven, to the end I might by noting the constancie and faith wherewithall thou doest affect me, know after how to value and esteeme thee according unto thy merits: and that which in recompence thereof I doe intreat of thee is, that thou wilt excuse in mee mine ill manner of proceeding and exceeding carelessenesse in repaying thy good will: For the very occasion and violent passions that made me to accept thee as mine, the very same did also impell me again not to be thine: & for the more verifying of mine assertion, doe but once behold the eyes of the now contented Luscinda and thou mayest read in them a thousand excuses for mine errour: & seeing shee hath found and obtained her hearts desire, and I have in thee also gotten what is most convenient: for I wish shee may live securely and joyfully many and happie yeers with her Cardenio; for I will pray the same, that it will licence me to enjoy my beloved Dorotea: And saying so, hee embraced her again, and joyned his face to hers with so lovely moti­on, as it constrained him to hold watch over his Teares, lest violently bursting forth, they should give doubtlesse arguments of his servent Love, and re­morse.

Cardenio Luscinda and almost all the rest could not doe so, for the greater number of them shed so many teares, some for their private contentment, and others for their friends, as it seemed that some grievous and heavie misfortune had betided them all; even very Sancho Panca wept, although hee excused it afterward, saying, That he wept only because that hee saw that Dorotea was not the Queene Micomicona, as hee had imagined, of whom hee hoped to have received so great gifts and favours. The admira­tion and teares joyned, indured in them all for a pretty space, and presently after Car­denio and Luscinda went and kneeled to Don Fernando, yeelding him thanks for the fa­vour that hee had done to them, with so courteous complements, as hee knew not what to answere, and therefore lifted them up, and embraced them with very great a­fection and kindnesse, and presently after he demanded of Dorotea how she came to that place, so far from her own dwelling? and shee recounted unto him all that shee had told to Cardenio; wherea [...] Don Fernando and those which came with him took so great delight, as they could have wished that her story had continued a longer time in the telling then it did; so great was Doroteaes grace in setting out her misfortunes. And [Page] as soon as shee had ended, Don Fernando told all that had befaln him in the Citie, after that hee had found the scroule in Luscindaes bosome, wherein shee declared Cardenio to bee her Husband; and that hee therefore could not marrie her; And also how hee attempted to kill her, and would have done it, were it not that her Parents hindred him; And that hee therefore departed out of the house full of shame and despight, with resolution to revenge himself more commodiously: And how hee understood the next day following, how Luscinda was secretly departed from her fathers house, and gone no body knew where; but that hee finally learned within a few moneths after, that shee had entred into a certain Monastery, with intention to re­main there all the daies of her life, if shee could not passe them with Cardenio: And that as soon as hee had learned that, choosing those three Gentlemen for his Associates, hee came to the place where shee was, but would not speake to her, fearing lest that as soon as they knew of his being there, they would increase the guards of the Mona­stery; and therefore expected untill he found on a day the gates of the Monastery open, and leaving two of his fellows to keep the doore, hee with the other entred into the Abby in Luscindaes search, whom they found talking with a Nunne in the Cloyster; and snatching her away e're shee could retire her self, they brought her to a certain Village, where they disguised themselves in that sort they were; for so it was requisite for to bring her away: All which they did with the more facilitie, that the Monastery was seated abroad in the Fields, a good way from any Village. Hee like­wise told, That as soon as Luscinda saw her self in his power, shee fell into a Swone; and that after shee had returned to her self, shee never did any other thing but weep and sigh, without speaking a word; And that in that manner, accompanied with silence and tears, they had arrived to that Inne, which was to him as gratefull as an arrivall to Heaven, wherein all earthly mis-haps are concluded and finished.

CHAP. X.
Wherein is prosecuted the History of the famous Princesse Micomi­cona, with other delightfull Adventures.

SANCHO gave eare to all this with no small grief of minde, seeing that all the hopes of his Lordship vanished away like smoak, and that the fair Princesse Micomicona was turned into Dorotea, and the Gyant into Don Fernando, and that his Master slept so souldly and carelesse of all that had hapned. Dorotea could not yet assure her self whether the happinesse that shee possest was a dream or no. Cardenio was in the very same taking, and also Luscindaes thoughts run the same race.

Don Fernando yielded many thanks to Heaven for having dealt with him so propi­tiously and unwinding him out of the intricate Labyrinth, wherein straying, hee was at the poynt to have at once lost his soul and credit: and finally as many as were in the Inne were very glad and joyfull of the successe of so thwart, intricate, and desperate affairs. The Curate compounded and ordered all things through his discetion, and con­gratulated every one of the good hee obtained: But shee that kept greatest Jubilee and Joy was the Hostesse, for the promise that Cardenio and the Curate had made, to pay her the damages and harms committed by Don-Quixote; only Sancho, as wee have said, was afflicted, unfortunate and sorrowfull. And thus hee entred with melancholy semblance to his Lord, who did but then awake, and said unto him;

Well and securely may you sleep, Sir Knight of the heavy countenance, as long as it shall [Page 97] please your self, without troubling your self with any care of killing any Gyant, or of restoring the Queen to her Kingdome; for all is concluded and done already. I be­lieve thee very easily, replyed Don-Quixote; for I have had the monstrousest and most terrible battail with that Gyant that ever I think to have all the dayes of my life with any; and yet with one thwart blow-thwack, I overthrew his head to the ground; and there issued so much blood as the streams thereof ranne along the earth as if they were of water. As if they were of red Wine you might better have said, replyed Sancho Panca: for I would let you to understand, if you know it not already, That the dead Gyant is a bored Wine-bagg; and the blood six & thirty gallons of red Wine, which it contained in it's belly: the head that was slash'd off so neatly, is the Whore my Mother; and let the Devill take all away for me. And what is this thou sayest, mad man (quoth Don-Quixote?) Art thou in thy right wits? Get up Sir (quoth Sancho) and you your self shall see the fair stuffe you have made, and what wee have to pay; and you shall behold the Queen transformed into a particular Lady, called Dorotea, with other suc­cesses; which if you may once conceive them aright, will strike you into admiration. I would marvell at nothing, quoth Don-Quixote; for if thou beest well remembred, I told thee the other time that wee were here, how all that succeded in this place was done by inchantment; And what wonder then if now the like should eftsoons befall? I could easily bee induced to believe all, replyed Sancho, if my canvassing in the Co­verlet were of that nature: But indeed it was not, but most reall and certain: And I saw well how the Inn-keeper that is here yet this very day alive, held one end of the Coverlet, and did tosse me up towards Heaven with very good grace and strength, no lesse merily then lightly: And where the notice of parties intercurs, I doe believe, although I am a simple man and a sinner, that there is no kinde of inchantment, but rather much trouble, brusing, and misfortune. Well, God will remedie all, said Don-Quixote; and give me mine apparell; for I will get up and goe forth, and see those successes and transformations which thou speakest of. Sancho gave him his clothes; and whilest hee was a making of him ready, the Curate recounted to Don Fernando and to the rest Don-Quixotes mad pranks, and the guile hee had used to bring him away out of the poor Rock, wherein hee imagined that hee lived exiled through the disdain of his Lady. Hee told them moreover all the other Adventures which Sancho had discovered, whereat they did not laugh a little and wonder withall, because it seemed to them all to be one of the extravagantest kinds of madnesse that ever befell a distracted brain. The Curate also added, That seeing the good successe of the Lady Dorotea did impeach the farther prosecuting of their designe, that it was requisite to invent and finde some other way, how to carrie him home to his own Village. Cardenio offered himself to prosecute the Adventure, and Luscinda should represent Doroteaes person. No, quoth Don Fernando, it shall not bee so; for I will have Dorotea to prosecute her own invention: For so that the Village of this good Gentleman bee not very farre off from hence, I will bee very glad to procure his remedy. It is no more then two dayes journey from hence, said the Curate. Well though it were more, replyed Don Fer­nando, I would bee pleased to travail them, in exchange of doing so good a work. Don-Quixote sallied out at this time compleatly armed with Mambrino's Helmet (although with a great hole in it) on his head, his Target on his arme, and leaned on his Trunk or Javelin. His strange countenance and gate amazed Don Fernando and his Companions very much, seeing his ill-favoured visage so withered and yellow, the in­equalitie and insutabilitie of his Armes, and his grave manner of proceeding; and stood all silent to see what hee would; who casting his eyes on the Bautifull Dorotea, with very great gravity and staidnesse said.

I am informed (beautifull Lady) by this my Squire, that your greatnesse is annihi­lated, and your being destroyed: For of a Queen and mighty Princesse which you were wont to bee, you are now become a particular Damzell: which if it hath been done by particular orde of the Magicall King your Father, dreading that I would not bee able to give you the necessarie and requisite help for your restitution; I say that hee neither knew nor doth know the one half of the enterprize, and that hee was [Page] very little acquainted with Histories of Chivalrie: For if hee had read them, or pas­sed them over with so great attention and leisure as I have done, and read them, hee should have found at every other steppe, how other Knights of a great deale lesse fame then my selfe, have ended more desperate Adventures; seeing it is not so great a matter to kill a Gyant, bee hee ever so arrogant; for it is not many houres since I my selfe fought with one, and what insued I will not say, lest they should tell mee that I doe lye; but time the detector of all things will disclose it, when we doe least think thereof.

Thou foughtest with two wine-bags and not with a Gyant quoth the Oast at this season: But Don Fernando commanded him to bee silent and not interrupt Don-Qui­xote in any wise, who prosecuted his speech saying. In fine I say, high and disinherited Lady, that if your Father hath made this M [...]tam [...]rphosis in your person for the causes related, give him no credit; for there is no perill so great on earth but my Sword shall open a way through it, wherewithall I overthrowing your enemies head to the ground will set your Crowne on your owne head within a few dayes. Here Don-Quixote held his peace, and awaited the Princesse her Answere, who knowing Don Fernandoes determination and will, that shee should continue the commenced guile untill Don-Quixote were caried home againe, answered with a very good grace and countenance in this manner: Whosoever informed you valorous Knight of the illfavoured face, that I have altered and changed my being, hath not told you the truth; for I am the very same to day that I was yesterday; true it is, that some unexpected, yet fortunate suc­cesses have wrought some alteration in mee, by bestowing on mee better hap then I ho­ped for, or could wish my self; but yet for all that I have not left off to be that which before, or to have the very same thoughts which I ever had, to helpe my selfe by the va­lour of your most valorous and invincible arme. And therfore I request you, good my Lord, of your accustomed bountie, to return my father his honor again, and account of him as of a very discreet and prudent man, seeing that he found by this skill, so easy and so infallible a way to redresse my disgraces; for I doe certainly beleeve, that if it had not been by your meanes, I should never have hapned to attain to the good fortune which now I possesse, as all those Noblemen present may witnesse; what therefore rests is, that to morrow morning we doe set forward, for to day is now already so overgone, as we should not be able to travell very far from hence; as for the conclusion of the good successe that I doe hourly expect, I refer that to God and the valour of your invinci­ble Arme.

Thus much the discreete Dorotea said, and Don-Quixote having heard her, he turned him to Sancho with very manifest tokens of indignation and said, Now I say unto thee little Sancho, that thou art the veriest Rascall that is in all Spayne: tell mee theefe and vagabond, didst not thou but even very now say unto mee that this Princesse was tur­ned into a Damzell, and that, called Dorotea? and that the head which I thought I had slashed from a Gyants shoulders, was the whore that bore thee? with a thousand o­ther follies, which did plunge me into the greatest confusion that ever I was in in my life? I vow (and then hee looked upon heaven, and did crash his teeth together) that I am about to make such a wrack on thee, as shall beate wit into the pates of all the lying Squires that shall ever hereafter serve Knights errant in this world. I pray you have pa­tience good my Lord, answered Sancho, for it may very well befall mee to bee decei­ved in that which toucheth the transmutation of the Lady and Princesse Micomicona; but in that which concerneth the Gyants head, or at least the boring of the wine-bags, and that the blood was but red-wine, I am not deceived I sweare; for the bags lie yet wounded there within at your owne beds head; and the red-wine hath made a Lake in the Chamber, and if it bee not so, it shall bee perceived at the frying of the Egges, I meane that you shall see it when master In-keepers worship, who is here present, shall demand the losse and dammage. I say then Sancho quoth Don-Quixote, that thou art a mad cap; pardon mee, and so it is enough. It is enough indeede quoth Don Fernan­do, and therefore let mee intreate you to say no more of this, and seeing my Lady the Princesse sayes shee will goe away to morrow, seeing it is now too late to depart to day, [Page 98] let it bee so agreed on, and wee will spend this night in pleasant discourses, until the ap­proach of the ensuing day, wherein wee will all accompany and attend on the worthy Knight Sir Don-Quixote, because wee would bee eye-witnesses of the valorous and un­matchable feats of arms which he shal do in the pursuit of this weighty enterprize which he hath taken upon him. I am he that will serve and accompany you, good my Lord, re­plyed Don-Quixote, and I doe highly gratifie the honor that is done me, and the goo [...] opinion that is held of me, the which I will endeavor to verifie and approve, or it shall cost me my life, or more, if more it might cost me.

Many other words of complement and gratification past between Don-Quixote and Don Fernando, but a certaine passenger imposed silence to them all, by his arivall to the Inne in that very season, who by his attyre shewed that hee was a Christian newly re­turned from among the Moores, for hee was apparelled with a short skyrted Caslock of blue cloth, sleeves reaching downe halfe the Arme, and without a coller; his breeches were likewise of blue linnen, and hee wore a bonnet of the same colour, a payre of Date coloured Buskins, and a Turkish Semiter hanging at his neck in a Scarfe, which went athwart his brest; there entred after him, riding on an Asle, a woman clad like a Moore, and her face covered with a peece of the Vaile of her head, shee wore on her head a little cap of cloth of gold, and was covered with a little turkish Mantle from the shoulders downe to the feete; the man was of strong and comely making of the age of forty yeeres or thereabouts, his face was somewhat tanned, hee had long Mustachoes and a very handsome Beard; to conclude, his making was such, as if hee were well at­tyred, men would take him to bee a person of qualitie and good byrth; hee demanded a Chamber as soone as hee had entred, and being answered that there was no one va­cant in the Inne, hee seemed to bee grieved, and comming to her which in her attyre de­noted her selfe to bee a Moore, hee tooke her downe from her Asle. Luscinda, Doro­tea, the Oastesse, her daughter and Maritornes, allured to behold the new and strange attyre of the Moore, compassed her about; and Dorotea, who was alwaies most graci­ous, courteous and discreete, deeming that both shee and hee that had brought her, were discontented for the want of a lodging shee said Ladie, bee not grieved for the trouble you are here like to endure for want of meanes to refresh your selfe, seeing it is an universall vice of all Innes to bee defective herein; yet notwithstanding if it shall please you to passe away the time among us (pointing to Luscinda) perhaps you have met in the discourse of your travells, other worse places of entertainment then this shall prove. The disguised Lady made none answere, nor other thing then arising from the place wherein shee sate, and setting both her armes a crosse on her bosome, shee in­clined her head and bowed her bodie, in signe that shee rendred them thanks; by her si­lence they doubtlesly conjectured her to bee a Moore, and that shee could not speake the Castilian tongue. In this the captive arived, who was otherwise imployed untill then, and seeing that they all had invironed her that came with him, and that she made no answere to their speech hee said; Ladies, this Maiden scarce understands my tongue yet, nor doth shee know any other then that of her owne Countrey, and therefore she hath not, nor can make any answere to your demands. Wee demand nothing of her quoth Luscinda, but only doe make her an offer of our companies for this night, and part of the Roome where wee our selves are shall bee accomodated, where shee shall bee cherished up as much as the commodity of this place, and the Obligation wherein wee bee tyed to shew courtesies to strangers that may want it doe binde us; especially shee being a woman to whom wee may doe this service. Sweet Lady, I kisse your hands both for her and my selfe, replyed the captive, and I doe highly prize, as it deser­veth, the favour you have proffered, which in such an occasion, and offered by such Persons as you seeme to bee, doth very plainly shew how great it is. Tell mee good Sir, quoth Dorotea, whether is this Lady a Christian or a Moore? for by her attyre and silence shee makes us suspect that shee is that wee would not wish shee were. A Moore shee is in attyre and body, answered the captive; but in minde shee is a very fervent Christian, for shee hath very expresly desired to become one. Then shee is not yet bap­tized, said Luscinda? there hath beene no oportunitie offered to us, quoth the captive, [Page] to christen her, since shee departed from Argell, which is her Town and Countrey; and since that time shee was not in any so eminent a danger of death as might obliege her to bee baptized, before shee were first instructed in all the Ceremonies which our holy Mother the Church commandeth: but I hope shortly (if it shall please God) to see her baptized with that decencie which her quality and calling deserves, which is greater then her attire or mine makes shew of.

These words inflamed all the hearers with a great desire to know who the Moor and and her Captive were; yet none of them would at that time intreat him to satisfie their longing, because the season rather invited them to take some order how they might rest after their travails, then to demand of them the discourse of their lives. Dorotea then taking her by the hand, caused her to sit down by her self, and prayed her to take off the veile from her face. She instantly beheld the Captive, as if shee de­manded of him what they said; and hee in the Arabicall language told her, how they desired her to discover her face, and bade her to doe it; which presently shee did, and discovered so beautifull a visage, as Dorotea esteemed her to bee fairer then Luscinda, and Luscinda prized her to excell Dorotea: and all the beholders perceived that if any one could surpasse them both in Beautie, it was the Moor; and there were some that thought shee excelled them both in some respects, And as Beautie hath evermore the prerogative and grace to reconcile mens mindes and attract their wills to it; so all of them forthwith dedicated their desires to serve and make much of the lovely Moor. Don Fernando demanded of the Captive how shee was called; and hee answered that her name was Lela Zoraida: and as soon as shee heard him, and understood what they had demanded, shee suddainly answered with anguish, but yet with a very good grace, No, not Zoraida, but Maria, Maria; giving them to understand that shee was called Maria, and not Zoraida.

These words, and the great affect and vehemenci [...] wherewithall the Moor delivered them, extorted more then one tear from the hearers, especially from the women who are naturally tender-hearted and compassive. Luscinda embraced her then with great love, and said, I, I, Maria, Maria. To which shee answered, I, I, Maria; Zoraida [...]ancanga; that is and not Zoraida. By this it was grown some four of the clock in the afternoon; and by order of those which were Don Fernando's Companions, the Inn-keeper had provided for them as good a Beaver as the Inne could in any wise afford unto them: Therefore it being the houre, they sate down all together at a long Table (for there was never a square or round one in all the house) and they gave the first and principall end (although hee refused it as much as hee could) to Don-Quixote, who commanded that the Ladie Micomicona should sit at his elbow, seeing hee was her Champion: Presently were placed Luscinda, and Zoraida, and Don Fernando, and Cardenio right over against them, and after the Captive and other Gentlemen, and on the other side the Curate and Barber: And thus they made their drinking with very great recreation, which was the more augmented to see Don-Quixote, leaving of his meat, and moved by the like spirit of that which had made him once before talk so much to the Goat-heards, beginne to offer them an occasion of Speech in this manner.

Truely, good Sirs, if it bee well considered, those which professe the Order of Knight-hood, doe see many great and unexpected things. If it bee not so, say, what mortall man alive is there, that entring in at this Castle gate, and seeing of us all in the manner wee bee now present here, can judge or believe that wee are those which wee bee? Who is it that can say, that this Ladie which sits here at my sleeve, is the great Queen that wee all know her to bee; and that I am that Knight of the Heavie Coun­tenance, that am so much blab'd of abroad by the mouth of Fame? therefore it cannot bee now doubted, but that this Art and Exercise excelleth all the others which ever hu­man wit, the underminer of Nature, invented; and it is the more to be prized, by how much it exposeth it self, more then other Trades, to dangers and inconveniences. Away with those that shall affirm learning to surpasse Armes; for I will say unto them, bee they what they list, that they know not what they say: For the reason which such [Page 99] men doe most urge, and to which they doe most relye, is, That the travails of the Spirit doe farre exceed those of the Body: And that the use of Armes are only Exercised by the Body, as if it were an Office fit for Porters, for which nothing were requisite but Bodily forces; or as if in that which wee that professe it doe call Armes, were not included the acts of Fortitude which require deep understanding to execute them; or as if the Warriours Minde did not labour as well as his Body, who had a great Army to lead and command, or the defence of a besiged Citie: If not, see if hee can arrive by his corporall strength to know or sound the intent of his Enemie, the Designes, Stratagems, and Difficulties, how to prevent imminent Dangers, all these being opera­tions of the understanding, wherein the body hath no medling at all: It being there­fore so, that the Exercise of Armes require Spirit as well as those of Learning; let us now examine which of the two Spirits, that of the Scholler or Souldier, doe take most pains: And this may bee best understood by the end, to which both of them are ad­dressed; for that intention is most to bee esteemed, which hath for object the most noble end. The end and conclusion of Learning is; I speak not now of Divinitie, whose scope is to lead and addresse souls to Heaven; for to an end so much without end as this, no other may bee compared; I mean of humane Sciences or Arts to maintaine distributive justice in his perfection, and give to every one that which is is his own: to indeavour and cause good Laws to bee religiously observed; an end most certainly generous, high and worthy of great praise: but not of so much as that, to which the Exercise of Armes is annext, which hath for his object and end Peace; which is the great­est good men can desire in this life: and therefore the first good news that ever the World had or Men received, were those which the Angels brought on that night which was our day, when they sung in the skies, Glorie bee in the heights, and Peace on earth to men of good mindes. And the Salvation which the best Master that ever was on Earth or in Heaven taught to his Disciples and Favorites was, That when they entrd into any house, they should say, Peace bee to this house: and many other times hee said, I give unto you my Peace; I leave my Peace unto you: Peace bee amongst you. It is a good, as precious as a Jewell, and a Gift given, and left by such a hand: a Jewel, without which neither on Earth or in Heaven can there bee any perfect good. This Peace is the true end of Warre; for Armes and Warre are one and the selfe same things. This truth being therefore presupposed, that the end of Warre is Peace, and that herein it doth excell the end of Learning: let us descend to the corporall labours of the Scholler, and to those of him which professeth Armes, and consider which of them are more toylsome.

Don-Quixote did prosecute his discourse in such sort, and with so pleasing terms, as hee had almost induced his Audients to esteem him to hee at that time at least ex­empt from his frenzie: and thereforeby reason that the greater number of them were Gentlemen, to whom the use of Armes is in a manner essentiall and proper, they did willingly listen to him; a [...]d therefore hee continued on with his discourse in this manner.

I say then, that the pains of the Student are commonly these: Principally povertie (not that I would maintain that all Students are poor, but that I may put the case in greatest extreamitie it can have) and by saying that hee may bee poor, me thinks there may bee no greater aggravation of his misery: For hee that is poor hath no perfection: and this poverty is suffered by him sundrie waies; sometimes by hunger, other times by cold or nakednesse, and many times by all of them together: Yet it is never so extream but that hee doth eate, although it bee somewhat later then the custome, or of the Scraps and Reversion of the rich man: and the greatest miserie of the Student is that which they terme, to live by sops and pottage: and though they want fire of their own, yet may they have recourse to their neighbours Chimney, which if it doe not warm, yet will it weaken the cold: And finally, they sleep at night under a Roof. I will not descend to other trifles, to wit, the want of Shirts and Shoes, the barenesse of their clothes, or the over-loading of their stomacks with meat when good fortune lends them as good a meale: For by this way which I have decyphered so rough and [Page] difficult, stumbling here, falling there; getting up again on the other side, and refalling on this; they attained the degree which they have desired so much; which many having compassed as wee have seen, which having passed thorow these difficulties, and sailed by Scylla and Charibdis (borne away flying in a manner by favourable fortune) they command and govern all the World from a Chair, turning their hunger into sacietie, their nakednesse into pompe, and their sleeping on a Matt into a sweet repose among Hollands and Damask; a reward justly merited by their Virtue: But their labours confronted and compared to those of the militant Souldier, remain very farre behinde as I will presently declare.

CHAP. XI.
Treating of the curious discourse made by Don-Quixote upon the Exercises of Armes and Letters.

Don-Quixote continuing his discourse, said, Seeing wee begin in the Student with Povertie and her parts, let us examine whether the Souldier bee Richer? Certainly wee shall finde, that no man can exceed the Souldier in Poverty it self: For hee is tyed to his wretch­ed Pay which comes either late or never: Or else to his own shifts with notable danger of his life and conscience; And his nakednesse is oft times so much, as many times a leather Jerkin gashed, serves him at once for a shirt and ornament: And in the midest of Winter hee hath sundry times no other defence or help to resist the inclemencies of the aire in the midest of the open fields, then the breath of his mouth; which I verily believe doth against Nature come out cold, by reason it sallies from an emptie place; expect there till the night fall, that hee may repaire all these discommodities by the easinesse of his Bed, the which, if it bee not through his own default, shall never offend in narrownesse; for hee may measure out for it on the earth as many foot as hee pleaseth, and tumble him­self up and down it without indangering the wrinkling of his sheets. Let after all this the day and hour arrive, wherein hee is to receive the degree of his profession. Let, I say, a day of Battail arrive; for there they will set on his head the Cap of his dignitie, made of lints to cure the wound of some bullet that hath past thorow and thorow his Temples, or hath maimed an arme or a leg. And when this doth not befall, but that Heaven doth piously keep and preserve him whole and sound, hee shall perhaps abide still in the same povertie wherein hee was at the first; and that it bee requisite that one and another Battail do succeed, and he come off ever a Victor, to the end that he may prosper and bee at the last advanced. But such miracles are but few times wrought; and say, good Sirs, if you have noted it, how few are those which the Warres reward, in respect of the others that it hath destroyed? You must answer without question, that there can bee no comparison made between them, nor can the dead bee reduced to any number; but all the living, and such as are advanced, may bee counted easily with three Arithmeticall figures; all which falls out contrary in Learned men, for all of them have wherewithall to entertain and maintain themselves by skirts; I will say nothing of sleeves: So that although the Souldiers labour is greater, yet is his reward much lesse. But to this may bee answered, That it is easier to reward two hundred thousand Learned men, then thirty thousand Souldiers; for they may bee advanced by giving unto them Offices, which must of necessity bee bestowed on men of their pro­fession: But Souldiers cannot bee recompenced otherwise then by the Lords substance and wealth whom they serve: and yet this objection and impossibilitie doth fortifie much more my assertion.

[Page 100] But leaving this apart which is a Labyrinth of very difficult issue, let us return to the preeminencie of Armes over Learning, which is a matter hitherto depending; so many are the reasons that every one alleageth for himself: and among those which I my self have repeated, then Learning doth argue thus for it self, That Armes without it cannot bee long maintained, for as much as the Warre hath also Laws, and is subject to them, and that the Laws are contained under the Title of Learning, and belong to Learned men.

To this objection Armes doe make answere; That the Lawes cannot bee sustained without them, for Commonwealths are defended by Armes, and Kingdomes preser­ved, Cities fenced, High-waies made safe, the Seas freed from Pyrats; and to bee briefe, if it were not for them, Commonwealths, Kingdomes, Monarchies, Cities, and wayes by Sea and Land, would bee subject to the rigour and confusion which attendeth on the warre all the time that it endureth, and is licensed to practise his Prerogatives and violence; and it is a known truth, That it which cost most, is or ought to bee most accounted of; that one may become eminent in Learning, it costs him time, watchings, hunger, nakednesse, head-aches, rewnesse of Stomack, and other such inconveniences, as I have partly mentioned already: But that one may arive by true termes to bee a good Souldier, it costs him all that it costs the Student, in so exceeding a degree, as admits no comparison, for hee is at every step in jeapordie to lose his life. And what feare of necessitie or povertie may befall or molest a Student so fiercely as it doth a Souldier, who seeing himselfe at the s [...]ege of some impregnable place, and standing Cen­tinel in some Raveline or half Moone, feeles the enemies undermining neere to the place where he is, and yet dares not to depart or abandon his stand, upon any occasion whatsoever, or shun the danger which so neerly threatens him? but that which he onely may doe, is to advise his Captain of that which passeth, to the end hee may remedy it by some countermine, whilest he must stand still fearing and expecting when he shall sud­denly fly up to the clowds without wings, and after descend to the depths against his will [...] and if this appeare to be but a small danger, let us weigh whether the grapling of two Gallies, the one with the other in the midst of the spacious Maine, may be com­pared, or doe surpasse it, the which nailed and grapled fast the one to the other, the Souldier hath no more room in them, then two footbroad of a planke on the battellings and notwithstanding, although he clearly see laid before him so many ministers of death, for all the Peaces of Artillery that are planted on the adverse side, doe threaten him, and are not distant from his body the length of a Lance; and seeing that if he slipt ever so little aside, he should fall into the deepes; doth yet neverthelesse with undaunted heart, borne away on the wings of honour, which spurreth him onward, oppose himself as a worke to all their shot, and strives to passe by that so narrow a way into the enemies vessell: And what is most to bee admired, is to behold how scarce is one falne into that place; from whence hee shall never after arise untill the worlds end, when an­other takes possession of the same place: and if hee doe likewise tumble into the Sea, which gapes like an enemy for him also, another and another will succeed unto him, without giving any respite to the times of their death, valour, and boldnesse, which is the greatest that may bee found among all the trances of war-fare. Those blessed ages were fortunate, which wanted the dreadfull furie of the devillish and murdering Peeces of Ordnance, to whose inventor I am verily perswaded that they render in hell an eternal guerdon for his Diabolicall invention; by which hee hath given power to an infamous, base, vile and dastardly arme, to bereave the most valorous Knight of life; and that without knowing how or from whence, in the midst of the stomack and courage that inflames and animates valorous mindes, there arives a wandring bullet (shot off per­haps by him that was afraid, and fled at the very blaze of the powder, as he discharged the accursed Engine) and cuts off and finisheth in a moment the thoughts and life of him who merited to enjoy it many ages,

And whilest I consider this, I am about to say, That it grieves mee to have ever under­taken the exercise of a Knight Errant in this our detestable age; for although no danger can affright mee, yet notwithstanding I live in jealousie, to thinke how powder and [Page] Lead might deprive mee of the Power to make my self famous and renowned by the strength of mine Arme and the edge of my Sword throughout the face of the Earth, But let Heaven dispose as it pleaseth; for so much the more shall I bee esteemed, if I can compasse my pretentions, by how much the dangers were greater to which I opposed my self, then those a [...]chieved in foregoing times by Knights Adven­turous.

Don-Quixote made all this prolixe Speech whilest the rest of his Companie did eate, wholly forgetting to taste one bit, although Sancho Panca did now and then put him in remembrance of his Victuales, saying, That hee should have leisure enough after to speak as much as he could desire. In those that heard was again renewed a kind of com­passion, to see a man of so good a wit as hee seemed to bee, and of so good discourse in all the other matters which hee took in hand, to remain so cleerly devoid of it, when any occasion of speech were offered, treating of his accursed Chivalrie. The Curate applauded his discourse, affirming that hee produced very good reasons for all that hee had spoken in the favour of Armes; and that hee himself (although hee was learned and Graduated) was likewise of his opinion.

The Beaver being ended, and the Table-clothes taken away, whilest Maritornes did help her Mistris [...]e and her Daughter to make ready the Room where Don-Quixote had slept, for the Gentlewomen, wherein they alone might retire themselves that night. Don Fernando intreated the Captive to recount unto them the History of his life, for as much as hee suspected that it must have been rare and delightfull, as he gathered by the tokens hee gave, by coming into the lovely Zoraida's company. To which the Captive re­plyed, That hee would accomplish his desire with a very good will, and that only hee feared that the discourse would not prove so savory as they expected: But yet for all that hee would tell it, because hee would not disobey him. The Curate and all the rest thanked him for his promise, and turned to request him again to beginne his discourse: and hee perceiving so many to sollicite him, said, That prayers were not requisite when commandements were of force: and therefore I desire you, quoth hee, to bee atten­tive, and you shall hear a true discourse, to which perhaps no feigned invention may bee compared for variety or delight. The rest animated by these his words did ac­commodate themselves with very great silence, and hee beholding their silence and expectation of his Historie, with a modest and pleasing voyce, began in this manner.

CHAP. XII.
Wherein the Captive recounteth his Life, and other Accidents.

IN a certain Village of the Mountains of Lion my linage had begin­ning, wherewithall Nature dealt much more liberally then For­tune, although my Father had the opinion amid'st the penury and poverty of that People, to bee a rich man, as indeed hee might have been, had hee but used as much care to hoord up his wealth, as prodigalitie to spend it. And this his liberall disposition pro­ceeded from his being a Souldier in his youthfull yeers; for War is the School wherein the Miser is made Frank, and the Frank man Prodigall: and if among Souldiers wee finde some Wretches and Nig­gards, they are accounted Monsters which are seldome seen. My Father passed the bounds of Liberalitie, and touched very neerly the confines of Prodigalitie; a thing nothing profitable for a married man, who had children that should succeed him in his name and being. My Father had three Sonnes, all men, and of yeers sufficient to [Page 101] make an election of the state of life they meaned to leade: wherefore hee perceiving as hee himself was wont to say, that hee could not bridle his nature in that condition of spending, he resolved to deprive himself of the instrument and cause which made him such a spender and so liberall, to wit, of his Goods; without which Alexander the great himself would bee accounted a Miser; and therefore calling us all three toge­ther on a day into his Chamber, hee used these or such like reasons to us.

Sonnes, to affirm that I love you well, may bee presumed, seeing I terme you my Sonnes: and yet it may bee suspected that I hate you seeing I doe not govern my self so well as I might in the Husbanding and increasing of your stock. But to the end that you may hence forth perceive that I affect you with a Fatherly love, and that I mean not to overthrow you like a step-Father, I will doe one thing to you which I have pondered, and with mature deliberation purposed these many dayes: You are all of age to ac­cept an estate, or at least to make choice of some such exercise as may turn to your honour and profit at riper yeers: and therefore that which I have thought upon, is to divide my goods into four parts; the three I will bestow upon you, to every one that which appertains to him, without exceeding a jot; and I my self will reserve the fourth to live and maintain me with as long as it shall please Heaven to lend me breath. Yet I doe greatly desire that after every one of you is possest of his portion, hee would take one of the courses which I mean to propose. There is an old proverb in this our Spain, in mine own opinion very true (as ordinarily all proverbs are, being certain brief sentences collected out of long and discreet experiences) and it is this, The Church the Sea, or the Court: the meaning is, That whosoever would become wealthy, or worthy, must either follow the Church, haunt the Seas by exercising the Trade of Merchandizes, or get him a place of Service and entertainment in the Kings house; for men say, that A Kings Crumme is more worth then a Lords Loaf. This I say because I desire, and it is my will, that one of you doe follow his Book, another Merchandize, and the third the Warre, seeing that the service of his own house is a difficult thing to compasse. And although the Warre is not wont to inrich a man, yet it adds unto him great worth and renown. Within these eight dayes I doe mean to give you all your portions in money without defrauding you of a mite, as you shall see in effect: Therefore tell me now whether you mean to follow mine opinion and device in this which I have pro­posed? And then hee commanded me by reason that I was the eldest, to make him an answer.

I, after I had intreated him not to make away his goods, but to spend and dispose of them as hee listed, seeing wee were both young and able enough to gain more; at last I concluded that I would accomplish his will, and that mine was to follow the Warres, therein serving God and my King together. The second brother made the same offer, and imploying his portion in Commodities would venture to the Indias. The youngest, and as I deeme the discreetest, said, That either hee would follow the Church, or goe at the least to Salamanca to finish his already commenced Studies. And as soon as wee had ended the agreement and election of our vocations my Father embraced us all, and afterwards performed unto us, in as short a time as hee had mentioned, all that hee promised; giving unto each of us a portion, amounting, if I doe well remember, to three thousand Duckets apeece in money; for an Uncle of ours bought all the goods and paid ready money, because hee would not have them made away from our own Family and Lineage. Wee all took our leaves of our good Father in one day, and in that instant it seeming to mee a great inhumanity to leave my Father so old and with so little means; I dealt so with him, as I constrained him to take back again two thousand Duckets of the three hee had given me, for as much as the rest was sufficient to furnish me in very good sort with all things requisite for a Souldier: My brothers, moved by mine example, did each of them give him a thousand Crowns; so that my Father re­mained with four thousand Crowns in money, and three in Goods, as they were valued, which Goods hee would not sell, but keep them still in Stock. Finally, wee bade him (and our said Uncle) farewell, not without much feeling and many Tears on both sides: and they charged us that wee would from time to time acquaint them with [Page] our successes, whether prosperous or adverse. Wee promised to performe it: and then embraceing us, and giving us his [...]lessing, one departed towards Salamanca, a­nother to Sivill, and my self to Alicante.

I arrived prosperously at Genova, and from thence went to Milaine, where I did ac­commodate my selfe with armes, and other braveries used by souldiers, and departed from thence to settle my selfe in Piemonte, and being in my way towards the Citty of Alexandria de la Paglia, I heard newes that the great Duke of Alva did passe to­wards Flanders. Wherefore changing my purpose, I went with him, and served him in all the expeditions hee made: I was present at the beheading of the Earles of Egm [...]nt and Hornes, and obtained at last to be Ensigne to a famous Captaine of Guada­lasara, called Diego de Vrbina. Within a while after mine arrivall to Flanders, the news were divulged of the league that Pius Quintus the Pope, of famous memory, had made with the Venetians, and the King of Spaine, against our common enemy the Turk, who had gained by force the famous Island of Cypres, much about the same time, which Island belonged to the State of Venice, and was an unfortunate and lamentable losse. It was also certainly known, that the most noble Don Iohn of Austria, our good King Don Philips naturall Brother, did come downe for generall of this League, and the great provision that was made for the war was published every where.

All this did incite and stir on my minde and desire to be present at the expedition so much expected: and therefore although I had conjectures, and half promises to bee made a Captaine in the first occasion that should bee offerred, yet I resolved to leave all those hopes, & to go into Italy, as in effect I did. And my good fortune so disposed, as the Lord Don Iohn of Austria arrived just at the same time at Genova, and went towards Na­ples, to joyn himself with the Venetian Navy, as he did after at Mess [...]na. In this most for­tunate journey I was present, being by this made a Captain of Foot: to which honourable charge, I was mounted rather by my good fortune, then by my deserts. And that very day which was so fortunate to all Christendome; for therein the whole world was un­deceived, and all the Nations thereof freed of all the errour they held, and beliefe they had, that the T [...]rk was invinciable at Sea: in that very day I say, wherein the swelling Stomack, and Ottomanicall pride was broken among so many happy men as were there (for the Christians that were slaine were much more happy then those which they left victorious alive) I alone was unfortunate, seeing that in exchange of some Naval Crowne, which I might expect, had I lived in the times of the ancient Romanes, I found my selfe the night ensuing that so famous a day, with my legges chained, and my hands manacled, which befell in this manner: Vchali King of Argiers, a bold and ventrous Pirate, hav [...]ng invested and distressed the Admirall of Malta (for onely three Knights remained alive, and those very sore wounded) Iohn Andrea's chiefe Gallie came to her succour wherein I went with my company: and doing what was requisite in such an oc­casion, I leapt into the enemies vessel, the which falling off from that which had assaulted her, hindred my souldiers from following me; by which means I saw my selfe alone a­midst mine enemies, against whom I could make no long resistance, they were so many. In fine, I was taken, full of wounds. Now as you may have heard, Vchali saved him­selfe and all his squadron, whereby I became captive in his power, and onely remained sorrowfull among so many joyfull, and captive among so many freed: for that day fifteen thousand Christians, which came slaves and inchained in the Turkish Gallies, re­covered their desired liberty. I was carried to Constantinople, where the great Turk Selim, made my Lord Generall of the sea, by reason that he had so well performed his duty in the battell, having brought away, for a witnesse of his valour, the Stan­dard of the Order of Malta, I was the yeer insuing of 1572. in Navarino, rowing in the Admirall of the three Lanth [...]rn [...]s, and saw and noted there the oportunity that was lost, of taking all the Turkish Navy within the haven: for all the Ienisaries and o­ther souldiers that were in it, made full account, that they should be set upon, even with­in the very Port, and therefore trussed up all their baggage, and made ready their shoo's, to flie away presently to the land, being in no wise minded to expect the assault, our Navy did strike such terrour into them. But God disposed otherwise of the matter, not [Page 102] through the fault or negligence of the Generall that governed our men, but for the sinnes of Christendome, and because God permits and wills that wee have alwaies some executioners to chastise us. In summe, Vchali got into Modon, which is an Island neer to Navarino, and landing his Men there, hee fortified the mouth of the Haven, and there remained untill Don Iohn departed. In this Voyage was taken the Gally called Presa, whereof the famous Pirate Barbarossas his sonne was Captain; it was surprized by the head Gally of Naples called the Shee-Wolfe, that was com­manded by the Thunderbolt of Warre, the Father of Souldiers, that fortunate and never overthrown Don Alvaro de Bacan the Marquesse of Sancta Cruez. And here I will not forget to recount what befell at the taking of the Presa: this sonne of Bar­barossas was so cruell, and used his Slaves so ill, that as soon as they that were rowing perceived the Shee-Wolfe to approach them, and that shee had overtaken them, they cast away their Oares all at one time, and laying hands on their Captain that stood on the Poop [Estanderil. p 44 [...]] crying to them to row with more speed, and pas­sing him from one bank to another, from the Poope to the Prow, they took so many bits out of him, as hee h [...]d scarce passed beyond the Mast, when his soul was already wasted to Hell; such was the cruelty wherewithall hee intreated them, and so great the hate they also bore towards him. Wee returned the next yeer after to Constanti­nople, being that of seventie three, and there wee learned how Don Iohn had gained Tunez, and taking that Kingdome away from the Turks, had by installing Muley Hamet therein, cut away all Muley Hameda's hopes to raign again there, who was the most cruell and valiant Moor that ever lived.

The great Turk was very much grieved for this losse; and therefore using the sa­gacitie wherewithall all his race were indued, hee made Peace with the Venetians which wished for it much more then hee did himself: And the yeer after of seventie and four he assaulted the Fortresse of Goleta, and the other Fortresse that Don Iohn had raised neer unto Tunez: And in all these occasions I was present, tyed to the Oare, without any hope of liberty; at least wise by ransome, being resolved never to signi­fie by Letter my misfortunes to my Father. The Goleta was lost in fine, and also the Fortresse, before which two places lay in siege seventy five thousand Turks, and more then four hundred thousand Moors, and other Sarasins of all the other parts of Affrica, being furnished with such aboundance of Munition and Warlike Engines, and so many Pioneers as were able to cover Goleta and the Fortresse if every one did cast but his handfull of earth upon them. Thus was Goleta accounted untill then impregnable, first lost, the which did not happen through default of valour in the Defendants, who in defence thereof did all they could or ought to have done; but because experience shewed the facility wherewithall Trenches might bee raised in that desart sand; for though water had been found in it within two spans depth, the Turks could not finde it in the depth of two yards; and therefore filling many Sacks full of Sand, they raised their Trenches so high as they did surmount the walls of the Sconce, and did so gall the Defendants from them with their shot, as no one could stand to make any defence: It was a common report, that our men would not immure them­selves within Goleta, but expect the enemie in the champain at their disembarquing: but those that gave this out spake widely, as men very little acquainted with the like Affairs: For if in Goleta and the Fortresse there were scarce seven thousand Souldiers, how could so few a number, were they ever so resolute, make a sallie, and remain in the Forts against so great a number of enemies? or how is it possible that the forces which are not seconded and supplied should not bee overcome, specially being besieged by many and obstinate enemies, and those in their own Countrey? But many others esteemed, and so did I likewise among the rest, that almighty God did a particular grace and favour unto Spain in that manner permitting to bee destroyed the stop and cloak of all wickednesse, and the Spundge and Moth of innumerable summes of money spent there unprofitably, without serving to any other end, then to preserve the memory of being gained by the Emperour Charles the fift, as if it had been requisite for the keeping of it eternall (as it is and shall be ever) that those stones should sustain it. The [Page] Fortresse was also wonne; but the Turks were constrained to gain it span by span; for the Souldiers which defended it fought so manfully and resolutely, as the number of the enemies slain in two and twenty generall assaults which they gave unto it, did passe five and twenty thousand. Never a one was taken Prisoner but three hundred which survived their fellows; a certain and manifest token of their valour and strength, and how well they had defended themselves and kept their Fortresses with great magna­nimity. A little Fort or Turret that stood in the mid'st of the place, under the com­mand of Don Iohn Zonaguera a Valentian Gentleman, and famous Souldier, was yield­ed upon composition, and Don Pedro de Puerto carrero, Generall of Goleta, was taken Prisoner who omitted no diligence possible to defend the place; but yet was so grieved to have lost it as hee dyed for very grief on the way towards Constantinople, whither they carried him Captive. The Generall likewise of the Fort, called Gabriel Cerbellon, being a Gentleman of Milan, and a great Engineer, and most resolute Souldier, was taken; and there dyed; in both the places many persons of worth, among which Pagan de Oria was one, a Knight of the Order of Saint Iohn, of a most noble disposition, as the exceeding liberality which hee used towards his brother the famous Iohn Andrea de Oria cleerly demonstrates, and that which rendred his death more deplorable, was, that hee was slain by certain Sarasins (which hee trusted, perceiving how the Fort was lost) who had offered to convey him thence in the habit of a Moor to Tabarca, which is a little Haven or Creek possest by the Genevoses that fish for Corrall in that coast [...] These Sarasins cut off his head and brought it to the Generall of the Turkish Armie, who did accomplish in them the Spanish Proverd, That although the Treason pleaseth, yet is the Traytor hated: and so it is reported, that hee commanded those to bee hang­ed that had brought him the present, because they had not brought it alive.

Among the Christians that were lost in the Fort, there was one called Don Pedro de Aguilar born in Andaluzia, in some Town whose name I have forgotten; hee had been ancient in the Fortresse, and was a Souldier of great account, and of a rare un­derstanding, and specially had a particular grace in Poetrie: This I say, because his fortune brought him to bee Slave to my Patron, even into the very same Gally and and bench whereon I sate. This Gentleman made two Sonnets in form of Epitaphs, the one for the Goleta, the other for the Fort; and I will repeat them because I re­member them very well, and doe believe that they will bee rather gratefull then any thing disgustfull to the Audients. As soon as ever the Captive named Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don Fernando beheld his Camarada's, and they all three did smile: And when hee began to talk of the Sonnets, one of them said, Before you passe further, I beseech you, good Sir, let me intreat you to tell me what became of that Don Pedro de Auguilar whom you have named. That which I know of that Affair, answered the Captive, is, That after hee had been two yeers in Constantinople, hee fled away in the attire of an Armenian with a Greek Spie, and I cannot tell whether hee recovered his liberty or no; although I suppose hee did: for within a yeer after I saw the Greek in Constantinople, but I had not the oportunitie to demand of him the successe of that Voyage. Hee came then into Spain, quoth the Gentleman; for that same Don Pedro is my brother, and dwells now at home in our own Town, very well, rich married, and a Father of three Sonnes. God bee thanked, quoth the Captive, for the infinite favour hee hath shewed unto him: for in mine opinion there is not on earth any content­ment able to bee compared to that of recovering a mans lost libertie. I doe moreover, said the Gentleman, know the Sonnets which my brother composed. I pray you then, good Sir, quoth the Captive, repeat them; for perhaps you can say them better then I. With a very good will, answered the Gentleman, and that of the Goleta is thus.

CHAP. XIII.
Wherein is prosecuted the History of the Captive.

I have it even in the very same manner, quoth the Captive. Well then, said the Gentleman that of the Fort is thus, if I doe not forget it:

The Sonnets were not misliked: and the Captive was greatly recreated with the newes which he received of his companion, and prosecuting his Historie, he said. The Goleta, and the Fort being rendred, the Turkes gave order to dismantell Goleta: for the Fort was left in such sort, as there remained nothing up that might be overthrowne: and to doe it with more brevity and lesse labour, they undermined it in three places, but that which seemed least strong, could not be blowne up by any of them, which was the old walls; but all that which had remained a-foot of the new fortifications and workes of Fratin, fell downe to the ground with great facility: and this being ended, the Navy returned triumphant and victorious to Constantinople: where within a few moneths afterward my Lord Vchali died whom they called Vchali Fertax, which signifies in [Page] the Turkish language, the scald or scurvie runagate, for hee was such: and it is a cu­stome among the Turks to give one another nick-names either of the defects, or per­fections and virtues which they have; and the reason hereof is, that among them all they have but four linages that have sur-names, and these doe contend with that of Ottoman's, for Nobility of blood: And all the rest, as I have said, doe take denomination, sometime from the blemishes of the bodie, and sometime from the virtues of the minde: And this scurvie fellow did row fourteen yeers, being the great Turks Slave, and did renounce his faith, being four and thirtie yeers old, for despight, and because hee might bee revenged on a Turk that gave him a cuff on the face as hee rowed; and his valour was so great, as without ascending by the dishonourable means and waies usually taken by the greatest minions about the great Turk, he came first to be King of Argiers, and after to bee Generall of the Sea, which is the third most noble charge and dignitie of all the Turkish Empire: Hee was born in Calabria, and was a good morall man, and used with great humanity his Slaves, whereof he had above three thousand, which were after his death divided as hee had left in his Testament, between the great Turk (who is ever an inheritour to every dead man, and hath a portion among the deceased his children) and his Runagates. I fell to the lot of a Venetian Runagate, who being a Ship-boy in a certain Vessell, was taken by Vchali, who loved him so tenderly, as hee was one of the deerest youths hee had, and hee became after the most cruell Run­nagate that ever lived: Hee was called Azanaga, and came to bee very rich, and King of Argiers: With him I came from Constantinople somewhat contented in minde, because I should bee neerer unto Spain; not for that I meaned to write u [...]to any one of my unfortunate successe, but only to see whether fortune would prove more favorable to me in Argiers then at Constantinople; where I had attempted a thou­sand waies to escape, but none of them sorted to any good effect: and I thought to search out in Argiers some other means to comp [...]sse that which I so greedily desired; for the hope of attaining libertie sometime had never abandoned me; and when in the contriving I thought, or put my designes in practice, and that the successe did not answer mine expectation, presently without forsaking me, it forged and sought out for another hope that might sustain mee, although it were debile and weake.

With this did I passe away my life, shut up in a Prison or House, which the Turks call Bathes, wherein they doe inclose the Captive Christians, as well those that belong to the King, as other particular mens, and those which they call of the Almazen, which is as much to say, as Slaves of the Counsell, who are deputed to serve the Citie in the publique works and other Affairs thereof; and these of all other Captives doe with most difficultie attain to libertie; free by reason they belo [...]g to the Commonalty, and have no particular Master; there is none with whom a man may treat of their Redemption, although they should have the price of their Ransome. To these Bathes, as I have said, some particular men carrie their Captives to bee kept, chiefly if they bee to bee Ransomed; for there they have them at their ease and secure, untill they bee redeemed. The Kings Captives of Ransome also, doe not goe forth to labour with the other poor crue, if it bee not when the paying of their Ransome is deferred; for then, to the end they may make them write for money more earnestly, they make them labour and goe to fetch Wood with the rest, which is no small toyl and trouble. I then was one of those of Ransome; for as soon as it was known how I was a Captain, notwithstanding that I told them of my little possibilitie and want of means, all could not prevaile to disswade them from consorting me with the multitude of Gentlemen, and those of Ransome: they put on me then a chain, rather to bee a token that I was there for my Ransome, then to keep me the better with it: And so I passed away my time there with many other Gentlemen, and men of marke, held and kept in there for their Ransome, And although both hunger and nakednesse did vexe us now and then, or rather evermore, yet nothing did afflict us so much, as to hear and see every mo­ment the cruelties that my Master used towards Christians. Every day hee hanged up one, he set this man on a stake, and would cut off the others eares, and that for so little [Page 104] occasion or wholy without it, as the very Turks themselves perceived, that hee did it not for any other cause, but because he had a will to do it, and that it was his naturall inclina­tion to be a homicide of all humane kind. Onely one Spanish Souldier called such a one of Saavedra, was in his good grace, who although he did sundrie things that will remaine in the memory of that Nation for many yeeres, and all to the end to get his liberties; yet hee never strucke him, nor commanded him to bee strucken, nor said as much as an evill word unto him: and yet we all feared that he should be broched on a stake for the least of many things which he did, and himselfe did also dread it more then once; and if it were not that time denieth me leisure to doe it, I would recount unto you things done by this souldier, which might both entertain and astonish you much more then the relation of my life.

There were over the square court of our prison certain windowes that looked into it, and belonged to a certain rich and principall Moor; the which windowes (as ordi­narily are all the Moors windowes) rather seemed to be holes then windows: and even these were also very closely covered and shut fast with linnen coverings. It therefore befell that standing one day upon the battlements of our prison with other three com­panions, trying which of us could leap best in his shackles to passe away the time, and being alone (for all the other Christians were gone abroad to labour) I lifted up by chance mine eyes, and I saw thrust out at one of those so close-shut windows a cane, and a linnen tied at the end thereof, and the cane was mooved and wagged up and down, as if it had made signes, that wee should come and take it: wee looked upon it, and one of my companions went under the cane, to see whether they would let it fall, or what they would doe else but as soone as he approached it, the cane was lifted up, and did stirre it to eyther side, as if they had said (with wagging of the head) No, the Christian returned to us; and the cane being eftsoones let fall, and beginning to moove as it had done before, another of my fellowes went, and the same succeeded unto him, that did to the first. Finally, the third approached it, with no better suc­cesse then the former two, which I perceiving, would not omit to trie my fortitude: and as soon as I came neere to stand under the cane, it was let slip and fell within the Bathes just at my feet I forthwith went to untie the linnen which was knotted, wherein I found tenn Zianiys, which are certaine pieces of base gold, used among the Moors, and worth, each of them ten Rials of our money. I leave to your discretion to think if I was not glad of my booty: certes my joy and admiration was much, to think whence that good might come unto us, but specially to my selfe, since the signes of re­fusall to let it fall to the other, did confirme cleerly that the favour was only addrest to my self. I took my welcome money, broke the cane, and returned to the Battlements, and viewed the window earnestly, and perceived a very [...]eautifull hand issue out there­at, which did open and shut it again very speedily. By which imagining and thinking that some woman that dwelled in that house, had done us the charity and bene­fit, in token of our thankfull minds, we made our courtesies after the Moorish fashion, by inclining of our heads, bending of the body, and pressing our hands to our brests. Within a while after, there appeared out of the same window a little crosse made of canes, which presently was taken in again: this signe did confirm us in the opinion, that there was some Christian woman captive in that place, and that it was she which did to us the courtesie: but the whitenesse of her hand, and her rich bracelets destroyed this presumption: although we did notwithstanding conjecture that it was some run­nagate Christian, whom their Masters there doe very ordinarily take to wives, yea and account very good hap to light on one of them; for they are much more accounted of, then the women of the Nation it selfe.

Yet in all these Discourses we strayed very farr from the truth of the accident; and so from thence-forward, all our passing of the time was imployed in beholding that Win­dow as our North, wherein had appeared the Starr of the cane: but fifteen daies past over, or we could descrie either it, or the hand again, or any other signe. And although in the meane time we endeavour all that we might to know who dwelled in that house, or whether there were any Runagate Christian therein, yet never a one could tell us [Page] any other things, but that it belonged to a very rich and noble Moor, called Agui­morato, who had been Constable of the Pata, a dignity among them of very great qualitie.

But when wee thought least that it would rain any more Zianiys, by that way wee saw the Cain suddainly to appear, and another linnen hanging on it, whose bulk was much greater: and this befell when the Bath was freed of concourse, and void, as the other time before. Wee made the accustomed triall, every one approaching it before me, but without effect untill I came; for presently as I approached it, it was permit­ed to fall. I untied the knot, and found inwreathed in it fourty Duckets of Spanish gold with a Letter written in the Arabian tongue, and at the end thereof was drawn a very great crosse. I kissed the crosse, took up the money, and returned again to the bat­tlements, and wee altogether made our receivers: The hand also appeared: I made signes that I would read the paper, and the window was shut incontinently. All of us were marvellously astonished, yet joyfull at that which had befaln us, and by reason that none of us understood the Arabian tongue, the desire that wee had to understand the contents of the Letter was surpassing great, but greater the difficultie to finde out some trustie person that might read it. In the end I resolved to trust in this affair a Runnagate of Murcia, who did professe himself to bee my very great friend, and having by my liberalitie and other good turns, done secretly, obliged him to bee secreet in the affair wherein I would use him: for some runagates are accustomed when they have an intention to return into the Christian Countries, to bring with the testimonies of the most principall Captives, wherein they inform, and in the amplest manner they may, how the Bearer is an honest man, and that hee hath ever done many good turns to the Christians, and that hee hath himself a desire to escape by the first commoditie. Some Runnagates there are which procure those testimonies sincerely, and with a good intention: Others take the benefit of them either by chance or industrie; who in­tending to goe and rob into the Countries of Christians, if by chance they be astray or taken, bring forth their testimonies, and say, that by those papers may bee collected the purpose wherewithall they came, that is, to remain in Christian Countries; and that therefore they came abroad a Pyrating with the other Turks: and by this means they escape that first brunt, and are reconciled again to the Church, without receiving any harme at all: and when they espie their time, doe return again into Barbarie, to bee such as they were before. Others there are which procure those writings with a pure in­tention, and doe after stay in Christian Countries. Well, this my friend was a Runna­gate of this last kinde; who had the testimonies of all my Companions, wherein wee did commend him as amply as wee could devise: And certainly if the Moors had found those Papers about him, they would have burnt him for it. I understand how hee could speak the Arabian tongue very perfectly, and not only that alone, but also write it withall: yet before I would wholly break my minde to him, I requested him to reade mee that scrowle, which I had found by chance in a hole of my Cabine, hee o­pened it, and stood a good while beholding and construing thereof, murmuring some­what betweene his Teeth. I demanded therefore of him, whether hee understood it? And he answered that hee did very well, and that if I desired to have it translated ver­batim, I should bring unto him Pen and Inke, to the end hee might doe it more com­pletely; wee presently gave unto him that which hee asked, and hee did translate it by little and little, and havi [...]g finished it, hee said; All that is here in Spanish, is punctu­ally, without omitting a Letter, the contents of the Moorish paper: And here you must note, that where it sayes Lela Marien, it meanes our Ladie the blessed Virgin Mary: Wee read the Paper whereof the contents were these which ensue.

See, good Sir, if it was not great reason, that the reasons comprehended in this Letter should recreate and astonish us. And certainly the one and the other was so great, as the Runagate perceived well that the Paper was not found by chance, but was really addressed unto some one of us; and therefore desired us earnestly, that if that were true which hee suspected, that wee would trust and tell it unto him, and hee would adventure his life to procure our Liberties: And saying this, hee took out of his bosome a Crucifixe of mettle, and protested with very many teares by the God which that Image represented, in whom hee, although a sinner and wicked man, did most firmly believe, that hee would bee most loyall and secreet to us in all that which wee would discover unto him; for it seemed to him, and hee almost divined, that both himself and wee all should recover our liberties by her means that did write the Letter; and hee should then also see himself in the State which hee most desired, to wit, in the bosome of his Mother the holy Catholique Church; from which, through his ignorance and sinne, hee was departed and divided as an unprofitable and corrupt member. The Runnagate said this with so many teares, and such evident tokens of repentance, as all of us consented to open our mindes unto him, and declare the truth of the matter; and so we recounted unto him the whole discourse, without conceal­ing any circumstance, and shewed unto him the Window by which the Cane was wont to appear; and hee marked the house from thence, and rested with speciall charge to [Page] inform himself well of those that dwelled therein. Wee thought also that it was re­quisite to answer the Moorish Ladies Letter: and therefore having him present that could so well perform that task, wee caused the Runnagate to draw out an answer presently as I did dilate it to him, which was punctually such as I will recount: for of all the most substantiall points that befell me in that Affair, no one is faln out of my memorie, nor shall ever as long as I have breath. In effect that which I answered to the Moor was this.

The Letter being written and inclosed, I expected two dayes, that the Bathes might be free of concourse, as it was wont, which as soone as it befell, I went up to my accusto­med place of the battlements, to see whether the cane appeared; which was presently after thrust out at the window. And as soon as I perceived it, although I could not note who it was that set it, I shewed my paper, to give them warning to set on the threed: but it was already hanging thereon. To the which I tied the Letter, and with­in a while after began to appear our Starr, with the white flagg of peace, and the knotted linnen; which they let fall, and I tooke up, and I found therein in divers sorts of money and gold more then fiftie Ducats, which redoubled our joyes more then fifty times, and confirmed the hope wee conceived of attayning Libertie. The very same night our Runnagate returned to us, and told, how hee had learned that the very same Moor which we were informed of before called Aguimorata, dwelt there, and was exces­sive rich, and had one only daughter, the Heir of all his goods; of whom the common opinion throughout the City was, that shee was the fairest woman of all Barbarie: and that many of the Vice-Royes that came there, had demanded her to wife, but shee would never condiscend to any motion of mariage; and that hee likewise had under­stood that shee had sometimes a Christian captive, which now was deceased: all which agreed with the contents of the Letter. We presently entred in Councell with the Run­nagate, about the means wee were to use, to fetch away the Moor, and come all of us to Christian Lands, and in the end we concluded to attend for that time, the second [Page 106] advice of Zoraida (for so was shee then called, who now means to name her selfe Ma­ria) for as much as we cleerely perceived that it was shee, and none other, that could minister to us the meanes to remove all these difficulties. After wee had rested on this resolution, the Runagate bid us bee of good courage, for hee would ingage his life, or set us at liberty. Foure dayes after the Bathes were troubled with People; which was an occasion that the Cane appeared not all that while: But that impediment being re­moved, and the accustomed solitude returned, the Cane did againe appeare with a lin­nen hanging thereat so grosly impregned, as it promised to bee delivered of a most hap­py burthen. Both Cane and Linnen bent themselves to mee, and in them I found ano­ther Paper and a hundred Ducats in Gold, besides other small money. The Run­nagate was present, and wee gave him the Letter to reade, the effect whereof was this:

These were the contents of the seco [...]d Letter, which being heard by us all, every one offered to be himselfe the ransomed person, and promised to goe and returne with all punctuality, and among the rest I also made a proffer of my selfe; to all which reso­lutions the Runnagate opposed himselfe saying; That hee would consent in no wise that any one of us should bee freed, untill wee were all together delivered; for experi­ence had taught him how evill Ransomed men were wont to keepe those promises which they passed in the times of their thraldome; for many times certaine principall captives had made that kinde of tryall, redeeming of some one or other that should goe to Valentia or Mallorca, with money to freight a Barke or Friggot, and returne for him that had ransomed them, and did never returne againe; for the recovered liberty, and the feare of adventuring to lose it againe concurring, did blot out of their memory all the other obligations of the world. And to confirme the truth which hee averred, hee briefly recounted unto us an accident which befell much about the same time, to certain Christian Gentlemen, the strangest as I suppose that ever hapned in those quar­ters, wherein doe succeed every other day events full of wonder and admiration; and [Page] and therefore concluded, that what ought and might bee done, was, that they would give unto him to buy a Bark, such money as they meant to imploy in the ransome of a Captive, and hee would buy it there in Argiers, under pretext of becoming a Mer­chant and Sayler in Tetuan and that coast: and being once owner of a Bark, hee would easily devise how to have them out of the Baths and imbarque them all: how much more if the Moorish Ladie did as shee promised, give them money enough to ransome them all was it a most easie thing, they being free, to imbarque themselves at mid­day? But the greatest difficultie in this Affair was, that the Moors use not to permit any Runnagate to buy any Barke or other small Vessell, but only great Vessels of War; for they suspect that hee that buyes a Barke, specially if hee bee a Spainiard, does it for no other end but to runne away to Christian Countries. And yet hee knew how to facilitate that inconvenience, by inducing a Tangerine Moor to become his Partner of the Barke and the gains that should hee gotten by the commodities thereof, and with this shadow he would become Lord of it himself, and therewithall accounted the matter ended. And although that my self and my Camarada's held it the better course to send unto Mallorca for one, as the Moorish Lady said, yet durst wee not contradict him, fearfull that if wee did not what hee would have us to doe, hee would discover us and indanger our lives, if hee did once detect Zoraida's practices, for the safe-guard of whose life wee would all of us most willingly adventure our own: and therefore wee determined to put our selves into Gods and the Runnagates hands: And so wee an­swered at the same instant to Zoraida, telling her that wee would accomplish all that shee had admonished us, because shee had advertised us as well as if Lela Marien had told her what shee should say, and that the dilating or shortning of the Affair did con­sist onely in her self. I did offer my self a new to become her Husband; and with this the day insuing, wherein the Bath was also free, shee sent me down at divers times by the Cane two thousand Ducats and a Letter, wherein shee said that shee would goe to her Fathers Garden the next Iumia, that is, the Friday following, and that before shee: went away shee would give us more money; and that if it were not enough, wee should advise her, and shee would give unto us as much as wee would demand; for her Father had so much treasure as hee would never perceive it; how much more seeing shee had and kept the keyes of all. Wee gave five hundred Crowns presently to the Runnagate to buy a Barke, and with eight hundred I redeemed my self, giving the money to a Valentian Merchant which was at that season in Argiers, who did ransome me of the King, taking me forth on his word, which hee passed to pay my ransome at the arrivall of the first Ship that should come from Valentia: For if hee had delivered the money instantly, it would have given occasion to the King, to suspect that my ransome was many dayes before in Argiers, and that the Merchant had kept it silently to make his benefit thereof. Finally, my Master was so cavilous, as I durst not in any wise pay him presently.

The Thursday before the Friday of the beautifull Zoraida's departure towards the garden, she gave unto us other two thousand Ducats, and did likewise advise us of her going away, intreating me, that as soon as I had ransomed my selfe, I should learn the way to the garden, and take occasion howsoever to goe to it, and see her. I answe­red her briefly, that I would doe so, and prayed her that she would carefully commend our proceedings to Lela Marien, with those prayers which the captive had taught her. This being done, order was also given for the ransoming of my three companions, to facilitate our issue out of the Bathes, and also that they seeing me free, and them selves undelivered, might not bee troubled or perswaded by the Devill, to doe any thing in prejudice of Zoraida: For although that they, being the men of that quality they were, might assure me from this feare, I would not, for all that, adventure the mat­ter; and therefore I caused them to bee ransomed by the same meanes that I was re­deemed my selfe, giving all the money to the Merchant, that hee might with the more security passe his word for us: to whom yet we never did discover our practice and secret, by reason of the eminent danger of the discovery thereof.

CHAP. XIV.
Wherein the Captive prosecuteth the pleasant narration of his Life.

FIFTEEN dayes were not fully expired, when the Runnagate had bought him a very good Barke, able to hold thirty persons or more, and for the better colour and assurance of his businesse, hee made a Voyage to a place called Sargel, which is thirty leagues distant from Argiers toward the side of Oran, and is a great place of traffique for drie figs. Hee made this Voyage twice or thrice in company with the Tagarine, of whom wee made mention; and the name of Tagarino is in Barbary given to the Moores of Arragon, Granada and Mudesares. And in the Kingdome of Fez those Mudesares are called Elehes, and are the Nation which that King doth most imploy in warlike affaires. You shall therefore vnderstand, that every time hee passed by with his Barke, hee did cast Anchor in a little Creeke, twice the shot of a Cros-bow from the Garden wherein Zoraida attended; and there the Runnagate would in very good earnest exercise himselfe with the Moores that rowed, either to flie, or else to assault one another in jest, as hee meant to doe after in good earnest, and would now and then goe to Zoraidaes Garden and demand fruits, which her father would bestow upon him, without knowing what hee was; and although hee desired to have spoken with Zoraida, as hee told mee afterward himselfe, and have informed her how it was hee that was to carry her away by my direction into the land of Christians, and that shee should therefore live cheerefull and secure, yet was it never possible, for­asmuch as the women of that Nation doe not suffer themselves to bee viewed by any Moore or Turke, if hee bee not their Husband, or that their Parents command them, yet doe they haunt and communicate themselves to Christian captives freely, and that sometimes more then is convenient, and truly it would have grieved mee, that he should have spoken to her, for perhaps it would have perplexed her extraordinarily, to see her affaire committed to the trust of a Runnagate; but God who did otherwise dispose it, did not concur with this good desire of our Runagate, who seeing how safely hee went and returned from Sargel, and that hee sounded when and where hee pleased, and that the Tagarino his Partner, did only what he liked, and that I was ransomed, and nothing else wanting but to finde out some Christian that would rowe; he bad me bethink my self, what men I would bring away with me, beside those that I had ransomed, and that I should warn them to be ready against the next Friday, wherein hee was resolved that we should depart.

Seeing this, I spake to twelve Spaniards very lusty rowers, and those that could with most liberty get out of the Citty: and it was not a little matter to finde so many there at that time, for there were twenty Gallies abroade a robbing, which had carried all the other rowers with them, and these were left behinde, because their Master did keepe at home that Summer to finish a Galley that was on the Stockes a making. To these I said nothing else, but onely warned them that the Friday insuing in the evening, they should closely steale out by one and one, and goe towards Aguimorates Garden, and there expect mee untill I came unto them. I gave this advice to every one of them a­part, with order also, that although they saw any other Christians there, they should tell them nothing else, but that I had commanded them to expect mee in that place.

This diligence being used, yet wanted there another, which was the most expedient of all, to wit, to advise Zoraida of the termes wherein our affaires did stand, to the end she might be likewise ready and prepared, and not afrighted, though we did assault [Page] her before the time that she could imagine the Barke of the Christians to bee come to fetch her, and therefore I resolved to goe my selfe into the Garden, and see whether I might speake with her, and taking the occasion to goe and gather some Herbes; I went unto it the day before our departure, and the first person with whom I encountred, was her father, who demanded of mee in a language which in all Barbarie and Con­stantinople is usually spoken by the Moores to their Captives, and is neyther Arabian, Spanish, nor of any other Nation, but rather a mixture of all languages, wherewith all of us understand one another: Hee, I say, in that kinde of speech demanded of mee, what I sought for in that his Garden, and to whom I did belong? I answered, that I was one Arnaute Mami his slave (and this, because I was very certainely in­formed that hee was his entire friend) and that I came thither to gather of all sorts of herbs to make a Sallad: hee consequently asked of mee whether I was a man of Ran­some or no, and how much my Master demanded for mee? And being in those que­stions and demands, the beautifull Zoraida descended from the house into the Garden, who had espied mee a good while before: And as the Moorish women doe not great­ly estrange themselves from the sight of Christians, nor are in their behaviour or con­versation, with them, any thing squeamish, as wee have said already, shee did not greatly feare to approach the place where her Father talked with me, but rather her Fa­ther perceiving that shee came on slowly, did call, and commanded her to draw neer.

It were a thing impossible for mee to recount the g [...]at beauty and gallant dispositi­on, or the bravery and riches of attyre, wherein my beloved Zoraida then shewed her self to mine eyes. I will only say this, that there hanged more Pearles at her eares, su­perlative faire neck and haire, then shee hath hayres on her head; about the wrests of her legs, which were naked, after the manner of her Countrey, shee wore two Car­caxes (for so the manicles or bracelets of the feete are called in the Morisco tongue) of the finest Gold, wherein were inchaced so many Diamonds, that as shee told mee af­ter, her father valued them at twenty thousand Crownes; and those about the wrests of her hands, were of equall esteeme, Her Pearles were many, and those most orient: for all the chief bravery and ornament of the Moorish Ladies consists in the adorning of themselves with Pearles and Pearle-seed, by reason whereof there is more Pearles and Pearle-seed to bee found among the Moores, then among all other Nations of the World: And Zoraidaes father had the fame to have many, and those the very best that were in Argiers; and also above two hundred thousand Ducats of Spanish gold: of all which was shee the Lady who now is mine. And if with all this ornament shee could then seeme faire, by the reliques that have remained unto her among so many la­bours, may bee easily guessed, what shee would have beene in the time of prosperitie. For all of us doe know, that the beauty of some women hath limited dayes and seasons, and requireth certaine accidents either to diminish or increase it, and it is a thing natu­rall to the passions of the minde, eyther to rayse or abase it; but most commonly they wholly destroy it. To bee briefe, I say, that shee arived to the place where wee dis­coursed at that time most richly attyred, and beautifull beyond measure, or I at least deemed her the fairest that I had ever heheld untill then: and herewithall remembring the Obligation wherein shee had tyed mee, thought that some Deitie had pre­sented it selfe to my view, being come from Heaven to the Earth, for my recreation and Reliefe.

As soone as shee was arived, her father told her in her owne language, how I was his friend Arnaute Mami his captive, and that I came there to gather a Sallad: than shee taking the speech, demanded in that medley of tongues of which I have spoken, whether I was a Gentleman, and what the reason was why I redeemed not my selfe? I made answere that I was already ransomed, and by the Ransome might bee conjectu­red, in how much my Master valued me, seeing hee had for my libertie a thousand and five hundred Coltamis. To this shee answered. In good sooth, if thou wert my fathers, I would cause him not to give thee for twice as much more; for you Christians are great Lyers, and doe make every one of your selves poore men, to defraud the Moores of their due Ransome. It may well bee so, Maddam, quoth I: But [Page 108] I have, for my part used all truth in this affayre with my Master, and doe, and will use truth with as many persons as I shall ever have occasion to treat with in this World.

And when doest thou goe away, quoth Zoraida? To morrow, as I beleeve, quoth I. For there is a French Vessell here which sets forth to morrow, and I mean to de­part in her. Were it not better, replyed Zoraida, to expect untill Vessells come out of Spain, and goe away with them, then with those of France which are not your friends? No, quoth I, although if it were true as the news runne, that there comes a Vessell from Spain, I would attend it; but yet it is more certain that I shall depart to morrow: for the desire I have to see my self at home in my Countrey, and with those persons whom I love, is so great, as it will not permit me to expect any other commoditie that fore-slowes it self, bee it never so good. Thou art doubtlesly mar­ried in thy Countrie, said Zoraida; and therefore desir [...]st to goe see thy Wife. I am not married, quoth I; but I have passed my word to marry as soon as I am there safely arrived. And is shee beautifull to whom thou hast past it, quoth Zoraida? So beau­tifull, said I, as to indeer it and tell you the truth, shee is very like unto your selfe. Hereat her Father laughed very heartily, and said, In good earnest, Christian, shee must bee very fair that may compare with my daughter, who is the most beautifull of all this Kingdom; and if thou wilt not beleeve me, look on her well, and thou shalt see that I tell thee but the truth. Hee himself, as most perfect in the tongue, did serve for the interpreter of most of our speeches; for although shee could speak that ille­gitimate language which is there in use, yet did shee manifest her minde more by signes then by words.

Whilst thus we reasoned of many matters, there came running towards us a certaine Moor, and told his Master how four Turkes had leaped over the Garden walls, and were gathering the fruits, although they were not yet ripe. The old man and his daugh­ter Zoraida started hereat; for it is an universall and Naturall defect in the Moors to fear the Turks, but specially the Souldiers of that Nation, who are commonly so insolent, and have such command over the Moors that are their subjects, as they doe use them worse then if they were their slaves. Therefore Zoraida's father said unto her; Daugh­ter, retire thy self into the house, and keep thy self in whilest I goe speake to those Doggs; and thou, Christian, goe and seek out thine Hearbs, and depart in a good hour, and I pray Ala to conduct thee safely to thy Countrey. I inclined my self to him, and hee departed to search out the Turks, leaving mee alone with Zoraida, who began to make adoe as if shee went whither her father had commanded her. But scarce was hee covered among the Trees of the Garden, when she returned to me with her eyes full of teares, said Amexi Christiano, Amexi? that is, Goest thou away Christian, goest thou away? I answered, yes Ladie, that I doe; but I will never depart with­out thee: expect mee the next Friday, and bee not affrighted when thou shalt see us; for wee will goe to the Christian Countrey then without all doubt. This I said to her in such sort, as shee understood all my words very well; and casting her arme over my neck, shee began to travell with languishing steps towards the house; and fortune would (which might have been very ill, if Heaven had not rectified it) that as wee walked together in that manner and forme, her Father (who did by this return, after hee had caused the Turks to depart) espyed us; and wee saw also very well how hee had perceived us; wherefore Zoraida, who is very discreet would not take away her arme from my neck, but rather drew neerer unto me, and laid her head on my brest, and bowed her knees a little, with evident token that shee swouned; and I likewise made as though I did sustain her up by force. Her Father came running over towards us, and seeing his Daughter in that state, demanded the cause of her; but seeing shee made no answer, hee himself said, Shee doubtlesly is dismaid by the suddain affright shee took at the entrance of those Doggs: And taking her away from me, hee bowed her to his own brest; and shee breathing out a sigh, with her eyes yet full of teares, said again, Amexi Christiano, Amexi: Goe away Christian, goe away. To which her Father, replyed, There is no cause, Daughter, why the Christian should goe away, for [Page] hee hath done thee no harme, and the Turks are already departed. Sir, they have affrighted her (quoth I) as you have said; but yet since shee hath commanded me to goe away, I will not offend her; therefore rest in peace; for I will return, if it please you to give mee leave, for herbs to this garden when it is needfull; for my Master saies, none better are to be found for Sallads in any garden then you have in this. Come as oft as thou wilt said Aguimorato, for my daughter saies not this, in respect that thou or any other Christian hath offended her, but that, meaning to say, that the Turkes should goe away, she bad thee to depart, or else she spake it because it is time for thee to gather thine Herbs.

With this I took leave of both, and shee seemed at the instant of my departure to have had her heart torne away from her as shee departed with her Father; and I under co­lour of seeking Herbs, went about all the Garden at my leisure, and viewed all the sal­lies, and the entrances thereof, the strength of the house, and the commodities that might bee offered to facilitate our enterprise. This being done, I came home and made a relation to the Runnagate and my other fellowes of all that had passed, and did long infinitely to see the houre wherein I might, without any af [...]right or danger, possesse that happinesse which fortune in the faire and lovely Zoraida offered unto me. In fine, the time passed over, and the so much desired day and terme arived, and every one of us following the order, which with mature consideration and long discourse wee had agreed on, wee found the good successe wee desired: For the very Friday following the day wherein I had spoken with Zoraida in the Garden, Morrenago (for so was the Runnagate called) neer night cast Anchor almost right before the place wherein the beautifull Zoraida remained. The Christians also that were to row were ready, and hidden in sundry places thereabouts. All were suspended, and resolutly expected my comming, desirous to set upon the Barke that was before their face; for they knew not of the agreement that was betweene me and the Runnagate; but rather made full account that they were to gain their liberty by force of Armes, and killing the Moors that came in that Vessell.

It therefore befell, that as soon as I and my fellows appeared, all the rest that were hidden, and espyed us, made forthwith over towards us. This was at an hour when the Citie Gates were shut, and never a body abroad among all those Fields: And when wee were all together, wee were in doubt whether it would bee best first to goe and fetch Zoraida, or to imprison and stone the Tagerine Moors that rowed in the Frigat. And being in this doubt, the Runnagate came to us, asking upon what wee stayed, for it was now high time to bee going away, and all his Moors were wretchlesse and the greater number of them asleep. Wee told him then the cause of our stay: And hee answered, That it was of most importance first to subject the Vessell, which might bee done with very great facility, and without any perill; and that wee might goe after for Zoraida. His opinion liked us all very well; and therefore without lingring any longer, hee leading the way, wee came to the Vessell, and hee himself leaping in first of all, set hand to his Falchion, and said in Morisco, Let none of you that is here stir himself if hee love his life. And saying so, all the rest of the Christians entred. The Moors which were of little Spirit, hearing their Master say so, were marvellously a­mazed, and without daring any one of them to set hand to their Armes, which were but a few at all, they suffered themselves very quietly to bee taken and bound by the Christians, which did it very dexteriously, threatning them, that if they did let slip the least out-cry, they should presently bee all put to the Sword. This being finished, and the half of our people remaining in their Guard, wee that were left, con­ducted also by the Runnagate, went towards Aquimoratus Garden; the doore thereof did, by very good hap, open with as little noyse as if it had had no lock at all: Whereupon wee went with great quietnesse and silence towards the house, unseen or espied of any.

The beautifull Zoraida was the while expecting us at a window, and as soon as shee saw people approach, demanded with a low voyce whether wee were Nizarans, as if shee would say or ask whether wee were Christians? I answered that wee were, and [Page 109] willed her to come down. As soon as shee knew me shee stayed not a Minute, but without answering any word came down in an instant; and opening the door shewed her self to us all, more beautifull and richly attyred then I am able in any sort to ex­presse. As soon as I saw her I took her by the hand and kissed it: the same did the Runnagate, and my two Camarada's; and all the rest which knew not the matter, did as they had seen us doe before them; for it seemed that wee did no more but give her thanks, and acknowledge her the auctresse of all our liberties. The Runnagate de­manded of her in her own language, whether her Father were in the Garden, or no? Shee answered that hee was, and that hee slept. Then will it bee requisite, quoth the Runnagate, to rouse him, and bear him and all the other things of worth in this Garden away with us. That shall not bee so (quoth shee) for I will have no man to touch my Father; and in this house there is nothing of value, but that which I mean to carrie away with my self, which is so much as will bee sufficient to cheer and inrich you all; as, if you will stay but a while, you shall perceive.

And saying so, shee entred again in into the house, promising to return to us spee­dily, and bade us stand still without making any noyse. I demanded of the Runnagate what speech had passed betwen them? And hee told mee all shee had said. And I an­swered him again, that I would not have Zoraida's will transgrest in any sort. By this time she returned laden with a little Casket full of Gold, so that shee was scarceable to bear it. And her Father in the mean season, by bad fortune, awaked, and heard the noise that was beneath in his Garden, and looking out at a Window, hee perceived that they were all Christians that were in it; and therefore cried out in a loud and un­measurable manner, in the Arabian tongue, Christians, Christians, Theeves, Theeves; by which cries wee were all of us structen into very great fear and confusion: but the Runnagate seeing the perill wherein wee were, and how neerly it concerned him to come off from that enterprize, before hee were discovered, ranne up very speedily to the place where Aquimorato stood, and some of our fellowes accompanied him (for I durst not abandon Zoraida, who had faln between mine armes all amazed:) and in conclusion, those which had mounted behaved themselves so well, as they brought Aquimorato down in a trice, having tyed his hands and set a gagg in his mouth which hind [...]ed his speech, threatning him that if hee did speak but a word it should cost him his life.

When his Daughter saw him shee covered her eyes, because shee would not behold him: And hee marvelled, wholly ignoring with how good a will shee came away with us: but then considering that nothing was so requisite as our leggs, wee did with all velocitie and dilligence get into the Frigat; for our Companions did perplexedly ex­pect our return, half afraid that some disgrace had befaln us. Scarce were two hours of the night overrunne, when wee were all imbarked: and then wee unmanacled Zoraida's Fathers hands, and took the cloth out of his mouth: But the Runnagate did again admonish him, that as hee tendred his life, hee should not speake one word. Hee beholding his Daughter likewise there, began to sigh very feelingly, but chiefly perceiving me to hold her so straightly embraced, and that shee made no resistance, nor did complain or seem coy, but stood quiet: But yet for all that hee kept silence, fearing lest they should put the Runnagates menaces in execution. Zoraida seeing her self now safe within the Barke, and that wee were ready to row away, look­ing on her Father and the other Moors that were tyed therein, shee intreated the Run­agate to tell mee how shee desired me to doe her the favour to set those Moors and her Father at liberty; for shee would rather cast her self into the Sea then see a Fa­ther who had loved her so dearly carried away captive before her eyes, and that also by her occasion. The Runnagate told me her minde, and I answered how I was very well pleased it should bee so. But hee replyed, That it was in no sort expedient, by reason that if they were landed there, they would presently raise the Countrey and put the whole Citie into a tumult, and cause certaine light Frigots to bee maned and sent out in our pursuit; and lay both Sea and Land for us, in such sort as it would be impossible for us to escape; but what was at the present possible to bee done, was to give [Page] them libertie at the first Christian Countrey whereat wee happened to arive.

All of us agreed to this opinion, and Zeraida also (to whom reason was given of the motives wee had, not to free them forthwith, and accomplish her will therein) re­mained satisfied; and therefore presently with joyfull silence and cheerfull diligence every one of our lustie Rowers seizing upon his Oare, wee began, after wee had com­mended our selves unto Almighty God, to lanch forth, and addresse our course to­wards the [...]sles of Mallorca, which is the neerest Christian Countrey, but by reason that the winde blew somwhat from the Mountaines, and that the Sea began to be rough, it was not possible to continue that course, and so wee were forced to approach the shore, and goe by little and little towards Oran, not without great grief and anguish, for feare to bee espied by the towne of Sargel, which is on that coast, and falls some se­ventie leagues beyond Argiers: and wee did likewise feare to meete in that passage some Galliot, of those which come ordinarily with Merchandize from Tetuan, al­though every one of us for himselfe, and for all together did presume, that if wee in­countred a Galliot of Merchandize, so it were not a Pyrate, that not only wee would not bee lost, but rather would take the Vessell, that therein wee might with more secu­ritie finish our Voyage. Zoraida, whilest thus wee sailed, went with her head betweene my hands, because shee would not looke on her Father; and I felt her, how shee was still invoking of Lela Marien to assist us; and having sayled about some thirty leagues the morning overtook us about some three Musquet shot from Land, in a place that seemed to bee Desart, and free from all accesse of those that might discover us; and yet for all that, wee got by might and maine, somwhat further into the Seas that now was become a little calmer; and having entred some two leagues into the Maine, order was given that they should row by turnes, whilest they did refresh themselves and take a little sustenance; for the Barke was very well furnished with Victuals, although those which did row refused the offer, saying, that then it was no time to repose, and that they should set those that did not row to dinner; for they would not yet in any sort let goe their Oares. It being done as they had said, the winde did rise so much as it made us abandoning our Oares, to set sail, and direct our Boat towards Oran, being unable to take any other course: All was done with very great speed; and so wee made by the sail more then eight miles an hour, free from all other fear then that of encountring some Vessell of warre. Wee gave the Moors our Prisoners their dinner, and the Runnagate comforted them, saying, That they went not as Prisoners, for they should receive their Libertie upon the first commodity that were proffered: The same was likewise said of Zoraida's Father, who returned them this answer: I would easily expect and believe any other thing, O Christians, of your liberalitie and honourable manner of proceeding: but doe not think that I am so simple, as once to imagine that you will give me my Libertie; for you did never expose your self to the danger of despoyling me thereof with intention to return it me so prodigally again, especially knowing, as you doe, who I am, and the profit you may reap by giving me it again, to which profit if you will put a name, and tell me how much would you demand, I doe even from hence offer unto you all that which you will seek for me, and for that un­fortunate Daughter of mine: or if you will not deliver me, I will give you it for her alone, who is the greatest and the best part of my Soul. And saying so, hee began to weep so bitterly, as hee moved us all to compassion and forced Zoraida to look upon him, who seeing him weep was so strangely moved, as arising from my feet, shee went and embraced her Father, and laying her face upon his they began together so tender a lamentation as many of us that were in the Bark were forced to keep them companie; but when her Father noted her to bee so richly adorned, and with so many Jewells on hee asked her in his own language, How haps this, Daughter, that yesternight late, before this terrible disaster befell us wherein wee are plunged, I saw thee attyred in thine ordinarie houshold array, and that now, without having had any leisure to apparell thy self, or having given thee any glad tidings, for whose solemnizing thou oughtest to adorn and publish thy selfe, I doe view thee thus clad in the richest attire which I could bestow upon thee when our fortune was most favourable? Answer me to this, [Page 110] for thou hast suspended and astonished me more then the very disgrace it self wherein I am.

All that the Moor said to his Daughter, the Runnagate declared unto us; and shee did not answer a word to him: But when hee saw the little Coffers lie at one side of the Barke wherein shee was wont to keep her Jewells, and that hee knew very well shee had left at Argiers, and not brought to the Garden, hee was much more amazed, and demanded of her how that Coffer was come into our possession, and what things shee had there within it? To which the Runnagate, without attending that Zoraida should answer him, said, Sir, doe not trouble your self by demanding so many things of your Daughter Zoraida; for with one that I will say, I shall satisfie them all: and therefore you shall understand that shee is a Christian, and hath been the file that cut off our chains, and is the Libertie it self of our Captivity; and shee goeth along with us of her own free will, as content (if mine imagination doe not wrong me) to see her self in this State, as hee is that commeth out of darknesse to the light, from death unto life, and out of pain into glorie. Is it true, Daughter, which this man saies, quoth the Moor? (It is, answered Zoraida:) That thou in effect art a Christian, replyed the old man, and shee that hath put her Father into his enemies hands? To which Zoraida answered, I am shee that is a Christian, but not shee that hath brought thee to this passe: for my desire did never so estrange it selfe from thee, as to abandon or harme thee, but only endeavoured to doe my self good. And what good hast thou done thy self, Daughter? Demand that, said shee, of Lela Marien, for shee can therein inform thee better then I can.

Scarce had the Moor heard her say so, when with incredible haste hee threw him­self headlong into the Sea, wherein hee had been questionlesly drowned, if the long apparell hee wore on had not kept him up a while above the water. Zoraida cryed out to us to save him: and so wee all presently ran, and laying hold on a part of his Turkish Robe, drew him up half drowned, and wholly devoid of feeling: Whereat Zoraida was so grieved, that shee lamented him as dolefully as if hee had been dead. There wee laid him with his mouth downward, and hee avoided a great quantity of water, and after the space of two hours returned to himself again: and in the mean time the winde also turning; it did drive us towards the Coast; so that wee were constrained to keep our selves by very force of Armes from striking upon it; and our good for­tune directing us, wee arrived to a little Creek at the side of a certain Cape or Pro­montorie, called by the Moors, The Cape of the Cava Rumia, which in our Language signifies The ill Christian Woman: and the Moors hold it for a tradition, that in the very same place was the Cava buried, for whom Spain was lost, and conquered by the Moors: For Cava in their language signifies an ill Woman, and Rumia a Christian: yea, and they hold it for a signe of misfortune to arrive or cast Anchor there, when meer necessity drives them thither; without which they never approach it: yet did it not prove to us the shelter of an ill woman, but the secure Heaven of our safety. Wee sent our Sentinels a shore, and never let the Oares slip out of our hands: Wee did likewise eate of the Runnagates Provision, and heartily besought Almighty God and our Ladie to assist and favour us with a happy end to so luckie a beginning: And wee agreed upon Zoraida's intreatie, to set her Father and the other Moors that we had tyed a land in that place; for shee was of so tender and compassionate a minde as shee could in no wise brook to see her Father tyed in her presence, or her countrey-men borne away Captives: wherefore wee made her a promise, that wee would at our departure let them all goe away, seeing wee incur'd no danger by leaving them in that inhabitable Desart: Our Prayers were not so vain but that they found gentle accep­tance in Heaven which presently changed the Winde and appeased the Sea, inviting us cheerfully to returne to it again, and prosecute our commenced Voyage.

Seeing that the weather was favourable wee loosed the Moors and set them all a land one by one; and comming to dis-imbarque Zoraida's Father, who was by that time wholly come to himself, hee said, For what doe you conjecture, Christians, that this bad woman is glad that you give me liberty? Doe you think that shee doth it for [Page] pittie that shee takes of me? No truely; but shee doth it only to remove the hin­derance my presence gave her when shee would execute her unlawfull desires: Nor ought you to believe that shee is moved to change Religion, by reason that shee under­stands yours to be better then her own; but only because she knows licentiousnesse to bee more publiquely and freely practised in your Countrey then among us: And then turning to Zoraida, whom I and another Christian held fast by both the armes lest shee should doe some desperate act, hee said, O infamous Gyrle, and ill-advised Mayden! where doest thou runne thus blinded and distracted, in the power of those Doggs our naturall enemies? Cursed bee the hour wherein I ingendred thee, and cursed the de­lights and pleasures wherein thou wast nousled. I perceiving that hee was not like to make an end of his execrations so soon as I could wish, had him set on shore, and thence hee prosecuted his Maledictions and Plaints, praying unto Makomet that hee would intercede with Ala, that wee might bee all destroyed, confounded and cast away. And when wee could heare his words no longer, by reason that wee set sail, wee per­ceived his works, that were, to pluck his Beard, teare his Haire, and cast himself on the ground; but once hee did lift vp his voyce so high, as that wee heard him say, Returne beloved Daughter, returne to the land, for I doe pardon thee all that thou hast done; and deliver that money to those men, for it is now their own; and return thou to com­fort thy sad and desolate Father, who will forsake his life on these desolate sands, if thou do'st abandon him.

Zoraida heard him say all this, and lamented thereat, but knew not how to speak, or answer him any other thing but this: Father mine, I pray Ala, that Lela Marien, who hath been the cause of my becomming a Christian, may likewise comfort thee in thy sor­row. Ala knows well, that I could doe none other then I did, and that these Christians doe owe me nothing for my good will, seeing that though I had not come away with them, but remained at my house, yet had it been impossible (such was the haste where­withall my soule pres [...]ed mee) not to have executed this my purpose; which seemes to mee to bee as good, as thou, O beloved Father, doest account it wicked. Shee said this in a time that neither her Father could heare her, nor wee behold him: and therefore, after I had comforted Zoraida, wee did thenceforth onely attend our Voyage, which was so much holpen by the favourable winde, as wee made full ac­count to bee the next day on the Coast of Spaine: but, as good very seldome, or rather never betides a man thorowly and wholly, without being accompanied or followed by some evill which troubles and assaults it, our fortune would, or rather the maledictions of the Moore, powred on his Daughter: (for the Curses of any Father whatsoever are to bee feared) that being ingulfed three houres within night, and going before the winde with a full Sayle, and our Oares set up, because the pro­sperous winde had rid us of the labour of rowing, wee saw neere unto us by the light of the Moone that shined very cleerely, a round vessell which with all her Sailes spread, did crosse before us into the Sea, and that so neerely, as wee were faine to strike downe her Saile, that wee might avoide the shog shee was like to give us; and those that were in her, had on the other side laboured also what they might, to turne her out of our way, standing all of them on the hatches to demand of us what wee were, from whence wee came, and whether wee did Saile? But by reason that they spake French, the Runnagate bade us not to speake a word, saying, Let none an­swer, for these are French Pirates which make their booty of every body. For this cause none of us answered: and being passed a little forward, and that the Ship remained in the Lee of us, they suddenly shot off two Peeces of Artillery, and as I thinke, both of them had chaine Bullets, for with the one they cut our Mast asun­der, and overthrew it and the Saile into the sea, and instantly after they discharged another, the Bullet alighting in our Barke, did pierce it thorow and thorow, with­out doing any other hurt: but wee, seeing that our vessell began to sinke, began all to crie out, and request them to succour us, and prayed them that they would take us into their vessell, for wee were a drowning. Then they came amaine, and ca­sting out their Cock-boate, there entred into it as good as a doozen Frenchmen, [Page 111] well appointed with their Harcabuzes and Matches lighted, and so approached un­to us; and perceiving how few wee were, and that the Barke did sinke, they received us into their boate, saying, that because wee had used the discourtesie of not mak­ing them answer, that mis-fortune had befalne us. Our Runnagate about this time tooke the coffer wherein Zoraida's treasures were kept, and threw it into the Sea unperceived of any.

In conclusion, wee went all of us into the great vessell with the Frenchmen who after they had informed themselves of all that which they desired to know, as if they were our Capitall Enemies; they afterward dispoy [...]ed us of all that ever wee had about us, and of Zoraida they tooke all, even unto her very bracelets, that shee wore on the wrests of her feete. But the wrong they did to Zoraida did not afflict me so much as the feare I conceived, that after they had taken away from her, her most rich and precious Jewels, they would also deprive her of the Jewell of most prize, and which shee valued most. But the desires of that nation extend themselves no farther, then to the gaine of money: and their avarice in this is never thorowly satisfied; and at that time was so great, as they would have taken from us the very habits of slaves, that wee brough from Barbarie, if they had found them to have beene worth any thing: and some there were of opinion among them, that we should bee all inwreathed in a Saile, and throwne into the Sea, because they had intention to traffique into some havens of Spaine, under the name of Britaines, and that if they carried us alive, they should bee punished, their robbery being detected: but the Cap­taine, who was hee that had pilled my beloved Zoraida, said, that hee was so conten­ted with his bootie, as he meaned not to touch any part of Spaine, but would pas [...]e the streights of Gibraltar by night, or as hee might, and so returne againe to Rochel, from whence hee was come: and thereupon they all agreed to give us their Cock-boate, and all that was neces [...]ary for our short voyage, as indeede they performed the day ensuing when wee were in the view of Spaine, with the sight whereof all our griefes and poverties were as quite forgotten, as if wee never had felt any; so great is the delight a man takes to recover his Liberty. It was about mid-day when they put us into the Cocke, giving unto us two Barrells of water and some Bisket; and the Captaine moved with some compassion, as the beautifull Zoraida embarked her selfe, bestowed on her about forty Crownes in gold; nor would hee permit his Souldiers to dispoyle her of these very Garments, which then and now shee doth weare.

Wee entred into the Cock-boate, and giving them thanks for the good they did, and shewing at our departure more tokens of thankfullnesse then of discontent, they sayled presently away from us towards the Straights, and wee without looking on any other North or Starre, then the land it selfe which appeared before us, did row towards it so lustily, that at Sun-set wee were so neere, as wee made full account to arive be­fore the night were far spent. But by reason that the Moone did not shine, and the night was very darke, and that wee knew not where wee were, wee did not hold it the best course to approach the shoare too neere; yet others there were that thought it convenient and good, desiring that wee should make to it, although wee ranne the boate on the Rocks, and far from any dwelling; for by doing so, wee should free our selves from the feare which wee ought of reason to have, lest there should bee up and downe on that coast any Friggots of the Pyrates of Tituan, which are wont to leave Barbarie over-night, and bee on the coast of Spayne ere morning, and ordinarily make their bootie, and turne to their supper againe to Barbarie the night following; but of the contrary opinions, that which was followed was, that wee should draw neere the land by little and little, and that if the quietness of the Sea would permit it we should take land where we might best and most commodiously do it. This was done, and a little before midnight wee arived to the foote of a high and monstrous Mountaine, which was not altogether so neer to the Sea, but that it did grant a little patch of ground, whereon wee might commodiously disimbarke. Wherefore wee ranne our selves on the Sands, and came all a-Land and kissed the Earth, and with teeres of most joyfull [Page] content and delight, gave thanks unto our Lord God, for the incomparable favours which hee had done us in our Voyage: Then tooke wee out our Victu­alls from the Boate, and drew it selfe up on the Shore, and ascended a great part of the Mountaine: for although wee were in that place, yet durst wee not assure our selves, nor did throughly beleeve that it was a Christian Countrey whereon wee did tread.

The day breaking some what slower then I could have wished it; wee ascended the mountaine wholly, to see whether wee might discover any dwelling, or sheep­folds from thence; but although wee extended our sight unto every quarter, yet could wee neither descry dwelling, person, path, nor high-way: yet did wee resolve notwithstanding to enter into the land, seeing that wee could not choose but dis­cover ere long some body who might give us notice of the place where wee were: and that which afflicted mee most of all, was, to see Zoraida goe afoot thorow those rugged places; for although I did somtimes carry her on my shoulders, yet did the toyle I tooke more weary her, then the repose shee got could ease her; and therefore would never after the first time suffer mee to take that paines againe, and so shee went ever after a foote with great patience and tokens of joy, I holding her still by the hand, and having travelled little lesse then a quarter of a league, we heard the noyse of a little bell, an infallible argument that neere at hand there was some cattle; whereupon all of us looking very wistly, to see whether any body appeared, wee might perceive under a Corke-tree a young Sheepheard, who very quietly and carelesly was carving of a stick with a knife: Wee called to him, and hee leaped up lightly on foote, and (as we after­wards learned) the first that hee got sight of, were the Runnagate and Zoraida; whom hee seeing apparelled in the Morisco habit, thought that all the people of Barbarie had beene at his heeles; and therefore running very swiftly into the Wood, hee cried all a­long with marvelous lowdnesse, Moores, Moores are in the Land! Moores, Moores, arme, arme! These outcries strooke us anew into a great perplexitie, and scarce did wee know what wee should doe: but considering how the Sheepheards alarme would cause all the Countrey to rise up, and that the horsemen that kept the coast would pre­sently come to see what it was; wee all agreed that the Runnagate should put off his Turkish attyre, and put on a captives cassocke, which one of the company gave un­to him forthwith, although the giver remained after in his shirt: and thus commit­ting the affaire unto almighty God, wee followed on by the same way, which wee saw the sheepheard had taken, alwaies expecting when the horsemen of the coast would fall upon us: and wee were not deceived in our expectation, for within two houres after, having issued out of those woods into a plane, wee discovered about some fifty horsemen which came running towards us as swiftly as their horses could drive, and having perceived them, wee stood still, and stayed untill they came to us, and saw in stead of the Moors they sought for, so many poore Christians, and remained somwhat ashamed thereat: and one of them demanded whether wee were the occasi­on that a Sheapheard had given the alarme? Yes, quoth I, and as I was about to in­forme what I was, and of all our Adventure, and from whence wee came, one of the Christians that came with us, did take notice of the horseman who had spoken unto us, and so interrupting my speech hee said, Sirs, let God bee praysed which hath brought us to so good a place as this is; for if I bee not deceived, the earth which wee tread, is of Veley Malaga; and if the yeeres of my captivity have not confounded my memorie, you likewise Sir, that demand what wee bee, are Peter of Bustamonte, mine Uncle. As soone as ever the Christian captive had spoken those words, the horseman leaping off his horse, ran and embraced him saying, O Nephew! as deere to mee as my soule and life now I doe know thee very well, and many a day since have I wept for thee, thinking thou wast dead, and so hath my sister thy Mother, and all the rest of thy friends which doe live yet, and God hath beene pleased to preserve their Lives, that they may enjoy the pleasure to behold thee once againe. Wee knew very well that thou wert in Argieres, and by the signes and tokens of thy clothes, and that of all the rest here of thy Companions; I surmise that your escape hath beene miraculous. Indeede it [Page 112] was so replyed the Captive, and wee shall have time I hope to recount unto you the manner.

As soone as the horsemen had understood that wee were Christian Captives, they alighted off their horses, and every one of them invited us to mount upon his owne, to carry us to the City of Veley Malaga, which was yet a league and a halfe from that place and some of [...]hem went to the place where wee had left the Boate, to bring it to the Ci­tie; whom we informed first of the place where it lay; others did mount us up on horseback behind themselves, and Zoraida rode behinde the captives uncle: all the peo­ple issued to receive us, being premonished of our arivall by some one that had ridden before. They did not wonder to see captives freed, nor Moors captived there, being an ordinary thing in those parts, but that whereat they wondred was the surpassing beauty of Zoraida, which at that season and instant was in her prime, as well through the warmth she had gotten by her travell, as also through the joy shee conceived to see her selfe in Christian lands, secure from all feare of being surprised or lost, and these things called out to her face such colours, as if it be not that affection might then have decei­ved me, I durst aver, that a more beautifull then she was, the world could not afford, at least amo [...]g those which I had ever beheld.

Wee went directly to the Church to give thanks unto Almighty God for the be­nefit received: And as soon as Zoraida entred into it, shee said there were faces in it that resembled very much that of Lela Marien. Wee told her that they were her images: And the Runnagate as well as the brevitie of the time permitted, instructed her what they signified, to the end shee should doe them reverence, as if every one of them were truely that same Lela Marien which had spoken unto her. Shee who had a very good understanding, and an easie and cleer conceit, comprehended presently all that was told unto her concerning Images. From thence they carried us and divided us among different houses of the Citie: But the Christian that came with us carried the Runnagate, Zoraida, and me to the house of his Parents, which were indifferently accommodated and stored with the goods of Fortune, and did entertain me with as great love and kindenesse as if I were their own sonne. We remained six dayes in Veley, in which time the Runnagate having made an information of all that which might concern him, hee went to the City of Granado to bee reconciled by the holy Inquisitions means, to the bosome of our holy Mother the Church: The rest of the freed Cap­tives took every one the way that hee pleased; and Zoraida and I remained behinde with those Ducats only which the Frenchmans courtesie was pleased to bestow on Zoraida: and with part of that summe I bought her this beast whereon shee rides; I my selfe serving her hitherto as her Father and her Squire, and not as her Spouse, wee travail with intention to see if my Father bee yet living, or any of my Brothers have had more prosperous hap then my self, although seeing Heaven hath made me Zoraida's Consort, me thinks no other good Fortune could arrive, were it never so great, that I would hold in so high estimation. The patience wherewithall shee bears the incom­modities usually annext unto Povertie, and the desires shee shews to become a Chri­stian, is such and so great, as it strikes me into an admiration, and doth move me to serve her all the dayes of my life; although that the delight which I take to see my self hers, and shee mine, is oft times interrupted, and almost dissolved by the fear which I have, that I shall not finde in mine own Countrey some little Corner wherein I may entertain her; and that Time and Death have wrought such alteration in the Goods and Lives of my Father and Brothers, as I shall scarce finde any one at home that knows me. I have no more, good Sirs, to tell you of my lives Historie, then which, whether it bee pleasing and rare, or no, your cleer conceits are to judge: As for my self I dare say, that if it had been possible, I would have told it with more brevity; fearing it might bee tedious unto you, I purposely omitted many delightfull circumstances thereof.

CHAP. XV.
Which speaks of that which after befell in the Inne; and of sundry other things worthy to bee known.

THe Captive having said this, held his peace; and Don Fernando replyed to him thus; Truely Captain, the manner wherewith­all you have recounted this marvellous successe, hath been such, as it may bee parragon'd to the noveltie and strangenesse of the event it self: And so great is the delight wee have taken in the hearing thereof, as I doe beleeve, that although wee had spent the time from hence till to morrow, in listening to it, yet should wee bee glad to hear it told over once again. And saying so, Cardenio and all the rest did offer themselves and their means to his service, as much as lay in them with so cordiall and friendly words as the Captive remained throughly satisfied with their good wits: but specially Don Fernando offered, that if hee would return with him, hee would cause the Marquesse his Brother to bee Zoraida her Godfather in Baptisme; and that hee for his part, would so accommodate him with all things necessary, as hee might enter into the Town with the decencie and authoritie due to his person. The Captive did gatifie his large offers very courteously, but would not accept any of them at that time. By this the night drew on, and about the fall thereof there arived at the Inne a Coach with some men a Horse-back and asked for lodging; to whom the Hostesse answered, that in all the Inne there was not a span free; the number of her Guests was already so many. Well, although that be so, quoth one of the Horse-men that had entred, yet must there bee a place found for Master Justice who comes in this Coach. At this name the Ho­stesse was afraid, and said, Sir, the misfortune, is, that I have no beds: but if Master Justice brings one with him, as it is probable hee doth, let him enter in boldly, and I and my Husband will leave our own Chamber to accommodate his Worship. So bee it, quoth the Squire; and by this time alighted out of the Coach a man whose attire did presently denote his Dignity and Office; for his long Gown and his great and large Sleeves did shew that hee was a Judge, as the Servingmen affirmed. Hee led a young Mayden by the hand of about some sixteen yeers old, apparelled in riding attire; but shee was therewithall of so disposed, beautifull, and cheerfull a countenance, as her presence did strike them all into admiration; so as if they had not seen Dorotea, Lu­sci [...]da and Zoraida which were then in the Inne, they would hardly have believed that this Damzels beauty might any where have been matched.

Don-Quixote was present at the Judges and the Gentlewomans entry: and so, as soon as hee had seen him, hee said, Sir, you may boldly enter and take your ease in this Castle, which although it bee but little and ill accommodated, yet there is no nar­rownesse nor discommodity in the world but makes place for Armes and Learning, and specially if the Armes and Letters bring Beauty for their guide and leader as your Learning doth, conducted by this lovely Damzell, to whom ought not only Castles to open and manifest themselves, but also Rocks to part and divide their Cliffs and Moun­tains to bow their ambitious crests to give and make her a lodging: Enter therefore, I say, Worshipfull Sir, into this Paradise, wherein you shall finde Starrs and Sunns to accompanie this Skie which you bring along with you: Here shall you finde Armes in their height, and beauty in her prime. The Judge marvailed greatly at Don Quixotes speech, whom hee began to behold very earnestly, and wondred no lesse at his shape then at his words, and knowing not what answer hee might return him, hee was diverted on the other side, by the suddain approach of the three Ladies Lu­scinda, Dorotea and Zoraida which stood before him: for having heard of the arrivall [Page 113] of new Ghests, and also being informed, by the Oastesse, of the young Ladies beautie, they were come forth to see and entertaine her. But Don Fernando, Carde­nio and the Curate, did give him more compleate and courtly Entertainement then the rustie Knight. In effect, the Judge was marveilously amazed at that which hee saw and heard in that Inne: And the fayre Guests thereof bade the beautifull May­den welcome. The Judge perceived very well, that the Guests of the Inne were all men of account: but Don Quixotes feature, visage and behaviour, did set him out of all byas, being not able to conjecture what hee might bee; and after some courtlike in­tercourses pas [...]ed, and the commodities of the Inne examined, they all agreed againe, as they had done before, that all the women should enter into Don-Quixotes Roome, and the men remaine without in their Guard. And so the Judge was content that the Damzell, who was his Daughter, should also goe with those Ladies, which shee did with a very good will: and with a part of the In-keepers narrow bed, and halfe of that which the Judge had brought with him, they made shift to passe over that night the best they could.

The Captive, who from the instant that hee had first seene the Judge, did greatly suspect that hee was his Brother, and demanded of one of his servants how hee was cal­led, and where hee was borne? The other answered how hee was called the Licentia [...] Iohn Perez of Viedma, and as hee had heard, hee was borne in a Village of the Moun­taines of Leon. With this relation and the rest that hee had noted, hee finally confir­med his opinion that it was the brother, who following his Father advice, had dedica­ted himselfe to his Studies; and full of joy and contentment, calling aside Don Fernan­do, Cardenio and the Curate, hee certified them of all that passed, and that the Judge was his Brother. The Servingman told him likewise how hee went towards the Indies, where hee had his place and office in the Courts of Mexico; and also that the young Gentlewoman was his Daughter, of whose byrth her Mother had died, and hee ever af­ter remained a widower, and very rich, by her Dowrie and Portion that shee had left to her Daughter: Hee demanded of them advice how hee might discover himselfe to his Brother, or first know, whether after hee had detected himselfe, hee would receive him with a good countenance and affection, and not bee ashamed to acknowledge him for his Brother, seeing him in so poore an estate. Leave the tryall of that experience to mee, quoth the Curate, and the rather, because there is no occasion why you, Sir Cap­taine, should not bee kindly entertained by him: for the Prudence, Worths and good countenance of your Brother, give manifest tokens that hee is nothing arro­gant. For all that, said the Captaine, I would not make my selfe knowne on the suddaine, but would use some pretty ambages to bring him acquainted with mee. I say unto you, quoth the Curate, that I will trace the matter in such sort, as wee all will rest satisfied.

Supper was by this made ready, and all of them sate downe to the table, the captive excepted and Ladies, which supped together within the roome; and about the midst of supper the Curate said, Master Justice, I have had in times past a comrade of your very surname in Constantinople, where I was sometime captive, who was one of the most valiant Souldiers and Captaines that might bee found among all the Spanish foote; but hee was as unfortunate as hee was valorous and resolute. And how was that Captaine called, good Sir quoth the Judge? His name was replyed Master Curate, Ruy Perez Viedma, and hee was borne in a Village of the Mountaines of Leon; and hee recoun­ted unto mee an occurrence hapned betweene his Father, him, and his other Brethren; which if I had not beene told by a man of such credit and reputation as hee was, I would have esteemed for one of these fables which old Wives are wont to rehearse by the fire side in Winter; for hee said to mee, that his Father had divided his goods among his three sonnes, and gave them withall certaine Precepts, better then those of Cato; and I know well, that the choice which hee made to follow the Warre had such happy success, as within a few yeeres, through his forwardnesse and valour, without the helpe of any other arme, hee was advanced to a company of Foote, and made a Captaine, and was in the way and course of becomming one day a Colonell; but Fortune was contrary to [Page] him, for even there where he was most to expect her favour, hee lost it, with the losse of his Liberty in that most happy journey wherein so many recovered it, to wit, in the Battell of Lepanto. I lost mine in Goleta, and after by different successe wee became companions in Constantinople; from whence wee went to Argiers, where did befall him one of the most notable Adventures that ever hapned in the World; and there the Curate with succinct brevitie recounted all that had hapned between the Captain and Zoraida: to all which the Judge was so attentive, as in all his life hee never listened to any cause so attentively as then: And the Curate only arived to the point wherein the French-men spoyled the Christians that came in the Barke, and the necessitie where­in his Companion and the beautifull Zoraida remained; of whom hee had not learned any thing after, nor knew not what became of them, or whether they came into Spain, or were carried away by the French-men into France.

The Captain stood listening somewhat aloof off to all the Curates words, and noted the while the motions and gestures of his brother; who seeing that the Curate had now made an end of his Speech, breathing forth a great sigh, and his eyes being filled with teares, hee said, O Sir, if you had known the news which you have told me, and how neerly they touch me in some points, whereby I am constrained to manifest these teares, which violently break forth in despight of my discretion and calling, you would hold me excused for this excesse. That Captaine of whom you spoke is my eldest Bro­ther, who, as one stronger and of more noble thoughts then I or my younger Brother, made election of the honourable military calling, one of the three estates which our Father proposed to us, even as your Comrade informed, when as you thought hee related a Fable: I followed my Book, by which God and my dilligence raised me to the State you see: My younger Brother is in Peru, and with that which hee hath sent to my Father and my self, hath bountifully recompenced the portion hee car­ried, and given to him sufficient to satisfie his liberall disposition, and to me where­withall to continue my Studies with the decencie and authority needfull to advance me to the rank which now I possesse. My Father lives yet, but dying through desire to learne somewhat of his eldest Sonne, and doth dayly importune God with inces [...]ant prayers, that death may not shut his eyes untill hee may once again see him alive. I only marvell not a little, considering his discreetion, that among all his labours, affli­ctions or prosperous successes hee hath been so carelesse in giving his Father notice of his Proceedings: for if either hee, or any one of us had known of his Captivity, hee should not have needed to expect the miracle of the Cane for his Ransome. But that which troubles me most of all, is, to think whether these French-men have restored him again to libertie or else slain him, that they might conceale their robberie the better; all which will bee an occasion to me to prosecute my Voyage, not with the joy where­withall I began it, but rather with Melancholy and Sorrow. O dear Brother, I would I might know now where thou art, that I my self might goe and search thee out, and free thee from thy pains, although it were with the hazard of mine own. O who is hee that could carrie news to our old Father, that thou wert but alive, although thou were hidden in the most abstruse Dungeons of Barbarie? for his Riches, my Brothers, and mine would fetch thee from thence. O beautifull and bountifull Zoraida, who might bee able to recompence thee for the good thou hast done to my Brother? How happie were hee that might bee present at thy Spirituall Birth and Baptisme, and at thy nuptials which would bee so gratefull to us all? These and many other such words did the Judge deliver, so full of compassion for the news that hee had received of his Bro­ther, as all that heard him kept him companie in shewing signes of compassion for his sorrow.

The Curate therefore perceiving the happie successe whereto his designe and the Captains desire had sorted, would hold the company sad no longer; and therefore arising from the Table, and entring into the Room wherein Zoraida was, hee took her by the hand, and after her followed Luscinda, Dorotea, and the Judge his Daughter: the Captain stood still to see what the Curate would doe, who taking him fast by the other hand, martched over with them both towards the Judge and the other Gentle­men [Page 114] and said, Suppresse your teares, Master Justice, and glut your desire with all that good which it may desire, seeing you have here before you your good brother, and your loving sister in law: this man whom you view here, is the Captaine Viedma, and this the beautifull Moore, which hath done so much for him.

The Frenchmen which I told you of, have reduced them to the povertie you see, to the end that you may shew the liberalitie of your noble brest. Then did the Captaine draw neere, to embrace his brother: but hee held him off a while with his armes to note whether it was hee or no; but when hee once knew him, hee embraced him so lovingly, and with such abundance of teares, as did attract the like from all the behol­ders. The words that the brothers spoke one to another, or the feeling affection which they shewed, can hardly bee conceived, and therefore much lesse written by any one whatsoever. There they did briefly recount the one to the other their successes: there did they shew the true love and affection of brothers in his prime: there did the Judge embrace Zoraida: there hee made her an of [...]er of all that was his: there did hee also cause his Daughter to embrace her: there the beautifull Christian, and the most beau­tifull Moore renewed the teares of them all: There Don-Quixote was attentive, with­out speaking a word, pondering of these rare occurrences, and attributing them to the Chimeraes which hee imagined to bee incident to Chivalrie: and there they agreed that the Captaine and Zoraida should returne with their brother to Sivill, and thence ad­vise their Father of his finding and libertie, that he, as well as hee might, should come to Sivill to the Baptisme and Marriage of Zoraida, because the Judge could not possibly returne, or discontinue his journey, in respect that the Indian Fleete was to depart with­in a Moneth from Sivill towards new Spaine.

Every one in conclusion was joyfull and glad at the captives good successe: and two parts of the night being wel nigh spent, they all agreed to repose themselves a while. Don-Quixote offered himselfe to watch and gaurd the Castle whilst they slept, lest they should bee assaulted by some Giant or other miscreant, desirous to rob the great Treasure of beautie that was therein immured and kep [...]. Those that knew him rendred unto him infinite thankes: and withall informed the Judge of his extravagant humor, whereat hee was not a little recreated: onely Sancho Panca did fret, because they went so slowly to sleepe, and hee alone was best accommoda­ted of them all, by lying downe on his beasts furniture which cost him deerely, as shall bee after recounted. The Ladies being withdrawne into their Chamber, and every one laying himselfe downe where best hee might, Don-Quixote sallied out of the Inne, to bee Centinell of the Castle as hee had promised. And a little before day it happened, that so sweet and tuneable a voyce touched the Ladies eares, as it obliged them all to listen unto it very attentively, but chiefly Dorotea, who first a­waked, and by whose side the young Gentlewoman Donna Clara of Viedma (for so the Judges Daughter was called) slept. None of them could imagine who it was that sung so well without the help of any instrument: sometimes it seemed that hee sung in the yard, others that it was in the Stable: and being thus in suspence, Cardenio came to the Chamber-dore, and said, Whosoever is not asleepe, let them give eare, and they shall heare the voice of a Lackey that so chants, as it likewise in­chants. Sir, quoth Dorotea, wee heare him very well. With this Cardenio departed, and Dorotea using all the attention possible, heard that his song was this following.

CHAP. XVI.
Wherein is recounted the Historie of the Lackie, with other strange Adventures befaln in the Inne.

The Singer arriving to this point of his song, Dorotea imagined that it would not bee amisse to let Donna Clara heare so excellent a voyce, and therefore shee jogged her a little on the one and other side, untill shee had awaked her, and then said, Pardon me, child, for thus interrupting your sweet repose, seeing I doe it to the end you may joy, by hearing one of the best voyces that perhaps you ever heard in your life. Clara awaked at the first drowsily, and did not well understand what Dorotea said, and there­fore demanding of her what shee said, shee told it her again; whereupon Donna Clara was also attentive: but scarce had shee heard two verses repeated by the early Musician when a marvellous trembling invaded her, even as if shee had then suffered the grievous fit of a Quartane Ague: Wherefore embracing Dorotea very straightly, shee said, Alas, deer Lady, why did you awake me, seeing the greatest happ that Fortune could in this instant have given me, was, to have mine eyes and eares so shut, as I might neither see nor hear that unfortunate Musician? What is that you say childe, quoth Dorotea? did you not heare one say that the Musician is but a Horse-Boy? Hee is no Horse-Boy, quoth Clara, but a Lord of many Towns, and hee that hath such firm possession of my Soul, as if hee himself will not reject it, hee shall never bee deprived of the dominion thereof. Dorotea greatly wondred at the passionate words of the young Gyrle, whereby it seemed to her that shee farre surpassed the discretion which so tender yeers did promise: And therefore shee replyed to her, saying, You speak so obscurely, Lady Clara, as I cannot understand you; expound your selfe more cleerly, and tell me what is that you say of Souls and Towns, and of this Musician whose voyce hath altred you so much: but doe not say any thing to me now; for I would not lose by listening to your disgusts, the pleasure I take to hear him sing; for me thinks hee resumes his musick with new Verses, and in another tune: In a good hour, quoth Don­na Clara; and then because she her self would not hear him, she stopt her eares with her [Page 115] fingers; whereat Dorotea did also marvell: but being attentive to the Musick, shee heard the Lacquie prosecute his Song in this manner.

Here the voyce ended, and Donna Clara's sighs began; all which inflamed Dorotea's desire to know the cause of so sweet a Song and so sad a Plaint: And therefore shee eftsoons required her to tell her now what shee was about to have said before. Then Clara timorous lest Luscinda should over-hear her, imbracing Dorotea very neerly, laid her mouth so closely to Dorotea's eare, as shee might speak securely without being understood by any other, and said; Hee that sings, is, dear Ladie, a Gentlemans Sonne of the Kingdome of Aragon whose Father is Lord of two Towns, and dwelled right before my Fathers house at the Court, and although the Windows of our house were in Winter covered with Sear-cloth, and in Summer with Lattice, I know not how it happened, but this Gentleman, who went to the School, espied me; and whether it was at the Church, or else-where, I am not certain. Finally, hee fell in Love with me, and did acquite me with his affection from his own Windows that were opposite to mine, with so many tokens and such abundance of teares, as I most forceably believed, and also affected him, without knowing how much hee loved me. Among the signes that hee would make me, one was, to joyn the one hand to the other, giving me thereby to understand that hee would marry me: and although I would be very glad that it might bee so; yet as one alone, and without a Mother, I knew not to whom I might communicate the affair, and did therefore let it rest without affording him any other favour, unlesse it were when my Father and his were gone abroad, by lifting up the Lattice or Sear-cloth only a little and permitting him to behold me; for which fa­vour hee would shew such signes of joy, as a man would deem him to bee reft of his wits.

The time of my fathers departure ariving, and hee hearing of it, but not from mee (for I could never tell it to him) hee fell sick, as far as I could understand, for griefe; and therefore I could never see him all the day of our departure, to bid him farewell at least with mine eyes; but after wee had travelled two dayes, just as wee entred into an Inne in a Village, a dayes journey from hence, I saw him at the lodging dore, appare­led [Page] so properly like a Lackey, as if I had not borne about mee his Portraiture in my Soule, it had beene impossible to know him, I knew him, and wondred, and was glad withall; and hee beheld mee unwitting my father, from whose presence hee still hides himselfe when hee crosses the waies before mee as I travell, or after wee arive at any Inne. And because that I know what hee is, and doe consider the paines hee takes by coming thus a foote for my sake, and that with so great toyle, I die for sorrow, and where hee puts his feete, I also put mine eyes, I know not with what intention hee comes, nor how hee could possibly thus escape from his Father, who loves him beyond measure, both because hee hath none other Heir, and because the young Gentleman al­so deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him; and I dare affirme besides, that all that which hee saies, hee composes ex tempore, and without any study; for I have heard that hee is a fine Student, and a great Poet; and every time that I see him, or doe heare him sing, I start and tremble like an Aspen-leafe, for feare that my father should know him, and thereby come to have notice of our mutuall affections. I have never spoken one word to him in my life, and yet I doe neverthelesse love him so much, as without him I shall not bee able to live. And this is all deer Ladie, that I am able to say unto you of the Musician whose voice hath pleased you so well, as by it alone you might conjecture that he is not a horse-boy as you said, but rather a Lord of Soules, and townes as I affirmed.

Speake no more Lady Clara (quoth Dorotea, at that season, kissing her a thousand times) speake no more I say? but have patience untill it bee day light; for I hope in God so to direct your affaires, as that they shall have the fortunate successe that so ho­nest beginning deserves. Alas Madam, quoth Donna Clara, what end may be expe­cted, seeing his father is so noble and rich as hee would scarce deeme mee worthy to bee his sonnes servant, how much lesse his spouse? and for mee to marry my selfe unknown to my Father, I would not doe it for all the world; I desire no other thing, but that the young Gentleman would returne home againe and leave mee alone; perhaps by not seeing him, and the great distance of the way which wee are to travell, my paine which now so much presseth mee, will bee somwhat allayed, although I dare say, that this remedy which now I have imagined, would availe mee but little; for I know not whence with the vengeance, or by what way this affection, which I beare him, got into mee, seeing both I and hee are so young as wee bee, for I beleeve wee are much of an age, and I am not yet full sixteene, nor shall bee, as my father sayes, untill Michael­mas next. Dorotea could not contain her laughter, hearing how childishly Donna Cla­ra spoke: to whom shee said, Lady let us repose againe, and sleepe that little part of the night which remaines, and when God sends day light, wee will prosper, or my hands shall faile mee. With this they held their peace, and all the Inn was drowned in profound silence; only the Inne-keepers Daughter and Maritorners were not a­sleepe, but knowing very well Don-Quixotes peccant humor, and that hee was ar­med and on Horse-back without the Inne, keeping Guard, both of them consorted to­gether, and agreed to bee some way merry with him, or at least to passe over some time, in hearing him speake ravingly.

It is therefore to bee understood, that there was not in all the Inne any window which looked out into the field, but one hole in a Barne, out of which they were wont to cast their straw; to this hole came the two demy-Demzells, and saw Don-Quixote mounted and leaning on his Javelin, and breathing forth ever and anon, so dolefull and deepe sighes, as it seemed his Soule was plucked away by every one of them; and they noted besides, how hee said with a soft and amorous voice, O my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, the Sunne of all beauty, the end and quintessence of discretion, the treasurie of sweete countenance and carriage, the store-house of honestie; and finally, the Idea of all that which is profitable, modest, or delightfull in the World! and what might thy Ladyship bee doing at this present? Hast thou perhaps thy minde now upon thy cap­tive Knight, that most wittingly exposeth himselfe to so many dangers for thy sake? Give unto mee tidings of her, O thou Luminary of the three faces: peradventure how dost now with envie enough behold her, eyther walking through some Gallerie of [Page 116] her sumptuous Palaces, or leaning on some Bay-window and thinking how (saving her honour and greatnesse) shee shall mittigate and asswage the torture which this mine oppressed heart indures for her Love; what glory shee shall give for my pains; what quiet to my cares; what life to my death; and what guerdon to my services. And thou Sun which art, as I believe, by this time sadling of thy Horses to get away early and goe out to see my Mistrisse, I request thee, as soon as thou shalt see her, to salute her in my behalf; but beware that when thou lookest on her & doest greet her, that thou doe not kisse her on the face; for if thou doest, I become more jealous of thee, then ever thou wast of the swift ingrate which made thee runn and sweat so much thorow the Plains of Thessalia or the brinks of Peneo; for I have forgotten through which of them thou rannest so jealous and inamoured.

To this point arrived Don-Quixote, when the Inne-keepers Daughter began to call him softly unto her and say, Sir Knight, approach a little hitherward, if you please: At which voyce Don-Quixote turned his head, and saw by the light of the Moon which shined then very cleerly, that hee was called too from the hole, which hee accounted to bee a fair window full of iron bars, and those costly gilded with gold, well befitting so rich a Castle, as hee imagined that Inne to bee; and presently in a moment hee for­ged to his own fancie, that once again, as hee had done before, the beautifull Damzell, daughter to the Ladie of that Castle, overcome by his Love, did returne to sollicite him: and with this thought, because hee would not shew himself discourteous and ungratefull, hee turned Rozinante about and came over to the hole; and then ha­ving beheld the two Wenches hee said, I take pittie on you, beautifull Ladie, that you have placed your amorous thoughts in a place whence it is not possible to have any correspondence answerable to the desert of your high worth and beauty, whereof you are in no sort to condemn this miserable Knight Errant, whom Love hath wholly dis­abled to surrender his will to be any other then to her, whom at the first sight hee made absolute Mistrisse of his soul: Pardon me therefore, good Ladie, and retire your self to your Chamber, and make me not, by any further insinuation of your desires, more unthankfull and discourteous then I would bee: and if through the love that you bear me, you finde in me any other thing wherewithall I may serve and pleasure you, so that it bee not love it self, demand it boldly; for I doe sweare unto you by mine absence yet, sweetest enemie, to bestow it upon you incontinently, yea though it bee a lock of Medusas haires, which are all of Snakes, or the very Sunne-beams inclosed in a Viall of glasse.

My Lady needs none of those things, Sir Knight, answered Maritornes. What doth shee then want, discreet Matron, quoth Don-Quixote? Only one of your faire hands, said Maritornes, that therewithall shee may disburden her selfe of some part of those violent desires, which compelled her to come to this window, with so great danger of her honour: for if her Lord and Father knew of her comming, the least slice he would take off her should bee at the least an eare. I would faine once see that, quoth Don-Quixote: but I am sure he will beware how he doe it, if he have no list to make the most disastrous end that ever father made in this world, for having laied vio­lent hands on the delicate limbs of his amorous daughter. Maritornes verily perswaded her self, that Don-Quixote would give up his hand as he was requested; & having already contrived in her minde what she would do, descended with all haste from the hole, and going into the Stable, fetched out Sancho Panca his Asses halter, and returned again with very great speed, just as Don-Quixote (standing up on Rozinantes saddle, that he might the better reach the barred windowes, whereat hee imagined the wounded Damzell remained) did, stretching up his hand, say unto her, Hold, Lady, the hand, or as I may better say, the executioner of earthly miscreants: hold, I say, that hand, which no other woman ever touched before, not even shee her self that hath intyre possession of my whole body, nor doe I give it to you, to the end you should kisse it; but that you may behold the contexture of the sinnews, the knitting of the muscles, and the spaciositie and hredth of the veins, whereby you may collect how great ought the force of that Arme to bee whereunto such a hand is knit. Wee shall see that pre­sently, [Page] quoth Maritornes: and then making a running knot on the halter, shee cast it on the wrist of his hand, and then descending from the hole, shee tyed the other end of the halter very fast to the lock of the Barn door. Don-Quixote feeling the roughnesse of the halter about his wrists, said, It rather seems that you grate my hand, then that you che­rish it; but yet I pray you not to handle it so roughly, seeing it is in no fault of the evill which my will doth unto you; nor is it comely that you should revenge or dis­burden the whole bulk of your indignation on so small a part: remember that those which love well doe not take so cruell revenge. But no body gave eare to these words of Don-Quixote; for as soon as Maritornes had tyed him, shee and the other, almost burst for laughter, ran away, and left him tyed in such manner, as it was impossible for him to loose himself.

Hee stood, as wee have recounted, on Rozinante his saddle, having all his arme thrust in at the hole, and fastened by the wrist to the lock, and was in very great doubt and fear, that if Rozinante budged never so little on any side hee should fall and hang by the arme; and therefore hee durst not once use the least motion of the world, although hee might well have expected from Rozinantes patience and milde spirit, that if hee were suffered, hee would stand still a whole age without stirring himself. In fine Don-Quixote seeing himself tyed, and that the Ladies were departed, began straight to imagine that all that had been done by way of inchantment, as the last time, when in the very same Castle the inchanted Moor (the Carrier) had so fairly belaboured him: and then to himself did he execrate his own want of discretion and discourse, seeing that having escaped out of that Castle so evill dight the first time, he would after adventure to enter into it the second: for it was generally observed by Knights Errant, that when they had once tried an Adventure, and could not finish it, it was a token that it was not reserved for them, but for some other; and therefore would never prove it again. Yet for all this hee drew forward his Arme to see if hee might deliver himself; but hee was so well bound, as all his indeavours proved vain: It is true that hee drew it very warily, lest Rozinante should stir; and although hee would fain have set and setled himself in the saddle, yet could hee doe no other but stand, or leave the Arme behinde: There was many a wish for Amadis his Sword, against which no inchantment what­soever could prevail: there succeeded the malediction of his fates: there the exagge­rating of the want that the world should have of his presence, all the while hee abode inchanted (as hee infallibly believed hee was) in that place: There hee anew remembred his beloved Lady Dulcinea of Toboso: There did hee call oft enough on his good Squire Sancho Panca, who intombed in the bowels of sleep and stretched along on the Pannell of his Asse, did dream at that instant, but little of the mother that bore him: There hee invoked the Wise men Lirgandeo and Aquife to help him: And finally, the morning did also there overtake him so full of despair and confusion, as hee roared like a Bull; for hee had no hope that by day-light any cure could bee found for his care, which hee deemed would bee everlasting, because hee fully accounted him­self inchanted; and was the more induced to think so, because hee saw that Rozinante did not move little nor much; and therefore hee supposed that both hee and his horse should abide in that state without eating, drinking, or sleeping, untill that either the malignant influence of the Stars were passed, or some greater Inchanter had dis-inchant­ed him.

But hee deceived himselfe much in his beleefe, for scarce did the day begin to peepe, when there arived foure Horsemen to the Inn doore, very well appointed, and having snap-hances hanging at the pommell of their saddles, they called at the Inn door (which yet stood shut) and knocked very hard which being perceived by Don-Quixote, from the place where hee stood Centinell, hee said with a very loud and arrogant voice, Knights, or Squires, or whatsoever else ye bee, you are not to knock any more at the gates of that Castle, seeing it is evident, that at such houres as this, eyther they which are within doe repose them, or else are not wont to open Fortresses, untill Phoebus hath spread his Beames over the Earth: therefore stand back, and expect till it be cleere day, and then wee will see whether it bee just or no, that they open their gates unto [Page 117] you. What a Divell, what Castle or Fortresse is this, quoth one of them, that it should binde us to use all those circumstances? If thou beest the In-keeper, command that the doore bee opened, for wee are travellers, that will tarry no longer then to baite our Horses and away, for wee ride in poste haste. Doth it seeme to you Gentlemen, quoth Don-Quixote, that I looke like an In-keeper? I know not what thou lookest like, an­swered the other, but well I know that thou speakest madly, in calling this Inne a Ca­stle. It is a Castle, replyed Don-Quixote, yea, vnd that one of the best in this Province and it hath People within it which have had a Scepter in hand, and a crowne on their head. It were better said quite contrary, replyed the Traveller, the Scepter on the head, and the Crowne in the hand, But perhaps (and so it may well bee) there is some company of Players within, who doe very usually hold the Scepters, and weare those crownes whereof thou talkest; for in such a paultry Inne as this is, and where I heare so little [...]noyse, I cannot beleeve any one to bee lodged, worthy to weare a crowne, or beare a Stepter. Thou knowest but little of the World, replyed Don-Quixote, seeing thou dost so much ignore the chances that are wont to befall in Chivalry. The fellowes of him that entertained this prolixe Dialogue with Don-Quixote, waxed weary to heare them speake idlely so long together, and therefore turned againe to knock with great fury at the dore, and that in such sort, as they not only waked the Inne-keeper, but also all the Guests, and so he arose to demand their pleasure.

In the meane while it hapned, that one of the Horses whereon they rode, drew neere to smell Rozinante, that Melancholy, and sadly, with his eares cast downe, did sustain without moving his out-stretched Lord; and hee beeing indeede of flesh and blood, al­though hee resembled a block of wood, could not choose but feele it, and turne to smel him againe, who had thus come to cherish and entertaine him; and scarce had hee stir­red but a thought from thence, when Don-Quixotes feete, that were joyned, slipt asun­der, and tumbling from the Saddle, had doubtlesly faln to the ground, had hee not remained hanging by the Arme; a thing that caused him to indure so much pain, as hee verily believed that either his wrist was a cutting, or his Arme a tearing off from his body; and hee hung so neer to the ground as hee touched it with the tops of his toes, all which turned to his prejudice; for having felt the little which hee wanted to the setting of his feet wholly on the earth, hee laboured and drew all that he might to reach it; much like unto those that get the Strappado, with the condition to touch or not to touch, who are themselves a cause to increase their own tor [...]ure, by the earnest­nesse wherewith they stretch themselves, deceived by the hope they have to touch the ground if they can stretch themselves but a little further.

CHAP. XVII.
Wherein are prosecuted the wonderfull Adventures of the Inne.

SO many were the out-cries which Don-Quixote made, as the Inn-keeper opened the door very hastily and affrighted, to see who it was that so roared; and those that stood without did also the same: Maritornes whom the cries had also awaked, imagining straight what it might bee, went into the Barne, and unperceived of any, loosed the halter that susteined Don-Quixote, and forth­with hee fell to the ground in the presence of the Inn-keeper and the Travellers, who comming towards him, demanded the occassion why hee did so unmeasurably roar? Hee, without making any answer, took off the halter from his wrist, and getting up, hee leaped upon Rozinante, imbraced his Target, set his Launce into the Rest, and wheeling about a good part of the Field, re­turned [Page] with a half gallop, saying, Whosoever shall dare to affirm that I have not been with just title inchanted, if my Lady the Princesse Micomicona will give mee leave to doe it, I say that hee lies, and I doe presently challenge him to Combat. The new Travellers were amazed at Don-Quixotes words; but the Host removed that won­der by informing them what hee was, and that they should make no account of his words, for the man was bereft of his wits. Then they demanded of the Inn-keeper, if there had arived to his Inne a young Stripling of some fifteen yeers old or there­abouts apparelled like a Horse-Boy, and having such and such marks and tokens; and then gave the very signes of Donna Clara's Lover. The Host made answer, That there were so many People in his Inn, as hee had taken no notice of him for whom they de­manded: But one of them having seen the Coach wherein the Judge came, said, Questionlesly hee must bee here; for this is the Coach that they say he hath followed: let therefore one of us remain at the door, and the rest enter to seek him out: Yea, and it will not bee from the purpose, if one of us ride about without the Inn, lest hee should make an escape from us by the walls of the ya [...]d. We will doe so, said another of them; And thus two of them entred into the house, one staid at the door, and the other did compasse the Inne about. The Inn-keeper beheld all, but could never judge a right the reason why they used all this diligence, although hee easily believed that they sought for the Youth whose markes they had told unto him.

By this the day was grown clear, and as well by reason thereof, as through the out­cries of Don-Quixote, all the Strangers were awake and did get up, especially both the Ladies, Clara and Dorotea: for the one through fear to have her Lover so neer, & the other with desire to see him, could sleep but very little all that night. Don-Quixote perceiving that none of the four Travellers made any account of him, or answered his challenge, was ready to burst with wrath and despight: and if hee could any wise have found that it was tollerated by the Statutes of Chiva [...]ry, that a Knight Errant might have lawfully undertaken any enterprize, having plight his word and faith, not to at­tempt any untill hee had finished that which hee had first promised, hee would have assailed them all and made them ma [...]gre their teeth to have answered him: But be­cause it seemed to him not so expedient nor honourable, to began any new Adventure untill hee had installed Micomicona in her Kingdome, hee was forced to bee quiet, expecting to see whereunto the indeavours and diligence of those four Travellers tended: the one whereof found out the Youth, that hee searched, asleep by another Lacquie, little dreaming that any body did look for him; and much lesse, would finde him out thus. The man drew him by the arme, and said, Truely Don Lewis, the habit that you weare, answers very well your calling; and the Bed whereon you lie, the care and tendernesse wherewith your Mother did nurse you. The Youth hereat rub'd his drowsie eyes, and beheld very leisurely him that did hold him fast, and knew him forthwith to bee one of his Fathers Servants, whereat hee was so amazed as hee could not speake a word for a great while: And the Serving-man continuing his speech, said, Here is nothing else to bee done, Lord Lewis, but that you bee patient and de­part again with us towards home, if you be not pleased to have your Father & my Lord depart out of this World to the other; for no lesse may bee expected from the Woe wherein hee rests for your absence. Why, how did my Father know, said Don Lewis, that I came this way, and in this habit? A Student answered, The other to whom you bewrayed your intention did discover it, moved through the compassion hee took to heare your Fathers lamentations when he found you missing: and so hee dispatcht four of his men in your search; and wee are all at your service more joyfull then may bee imagined, for the good dispatch wherewithall wee shall return, and carrie you to his sight which doth love you so much. That shall bee as I please or Heaven will dispose, said Don Lewis. What would you please, or what should Heaven dispose of, other then that you agree to return? For certainly you shall not doe the contrarie, nor is it possible you should. All these reasons that passed between them both, did the Lackey that lay by Don Lewis heare; and arising from thence, hee went and told all that passed to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and all the rest that were gotten up: To whom [Page 118] hee told how the man gave the title of Don to the boy, and recounted the speech he used, and how he would have him return to his fathers house, which the youth refused to doe. Whereupon, aud knowing already what a good voice the heavens had given him, they greatly desired to be more particularly informed what he was, and intended also to help him, if any violence were offered unto him, and therefore went unto the place where he was, and stood contending with his servant.

Dorotea issued by this out of her chamber, and in her companie Donna Clara, all perp [...]xed; Dorotea calling Cardenio aside, told unto him succinctly all the History of the Musician, and Donna Clara: and he rehearsed to her againe all that passed of the Serving-mens arrivall that came in his pursuit, which he did not speak so low, but that Donna Clara over-heard him, whereat she indured such alteration, as she had faln to the ground, if Dorotea running towards her, had not held her up. Cardenio intreated Do­rotea to returne with the other to her chamber, and he would endevour to bring the matter to some good passe, which they presently performed. The four that were come in Don Lewis his search, were by this all of them entred into the Inn, and had compassed him about, perswading him that he would, cutting off all delayes, returne to com­fort his father. He answered that he could not doe it in any sort, untill he had finished an adventure, which imported him no lesse then his life, his honour, and his soule. The servants urged him then, saying, that they would in no sort goe backe without him, and therefore would carry him home, whether he would or no. That shall not you doe, quoth Don Lewis, if it be not that you carry me home dead. And in this season all the other Gentlemen were come into the contention, but chiefly Cardenio, Don Fernando and his Comarada's, the Judge the Curate, and the Barber, and Don-Quixote; for now it seemed to him needlesse to guard the Castle any more. Cardenio, who knew already the History of the Youth, demanded of those that would carry him a­way, what reason did move them to seeke to take that Lad away against his will? Wee are moved unto it, answered one of them, by this reason, that wee shall thereby save his fathers life, who for his absence is like to lose it. To this said Don Lewis, it is to no end to make relation of mine affaires here. I am free, and will returne if I please, and if not no one shall constrain mee to doe it perforce. Reason shall constrain you, good Sir, to doe it, quoth the man, and when that cannot prevaile with you, it shall with us, to put that in execution for which we be come and are bound to doe. Let us know this af­faire from the begining, said the Judge to those men. Sir, quoth one of them, who knew him very well, as his Masters next neighbour: Master Justice, doth not your wor­ship know this Gentleman who is your Neighbours sonne, and hath absented himselfe from his fathers house, in an habit so undecent and discrepant from his calling, as you may perceive? The Judge beheld him then somewhat more attentively, knew him, and imbracing of him said. What toyes are these Don Lewis, or what cause hath beene of efficacie sufficient to move you to come away in this manner and attyre, which an­swers your calling so ill? The teares stuck then in the young Gentlemans eyes, and hee could not answere a word to the Judge, who bad the foure servingmen app [...]a [...]e themselves, for all things should bee done to their satisfaction, and then takeing Don Lewis apart, hee intreated him to tell him the occasion of that his de­parture.

And whilest hee made this and other demands to the Gentleman, they heard a great noyse at the In doore; the cause whereof was, that two Guests which had lien there that night, seeing all the People busied to learne the cause of the foure Horse-mens coming, had thought to have made an escape scot-free, without defraying their expences; but the In-keeper who attended his owne affaires with more diligence then other mens, did stay them at their going forth, and demanded his money, upbrayding their dishonest re­solution with such words as moved them to returne him an answere with their fists, which they did so roundly, as the poore Oast was compelled to raise the crie and de­mand succour. The Oastesse and her daughter could see no man so free from occupati­on as Don-Quixote; to whom the daughter said, I request you Sir Knight, by the virtue that God hath given you, to succour my poore Father, whom two bad men are grind­ing [Page] like corne. To this Don-Quixote answered very leisurely, and with great gravity; Beautifull Damzell, your Petition cannot prevaile at this time, for as much as I am hin­dred from undertaking any other Adventure, untill I have finished one wherein my promise hath ingaged mee, and all that I can now doe in your service is, that which I shall say now unto you; Run unto your Father, and bid him continue and maintaine his conflict manfully, the best that hee may, untill I demand license of the Princesse Mi­comicona, to help him out of his distresse; for if shee will give it unto mee, you may make full account that hee is delivered. Sinner that I am (quoth Maritornes, wh [...] was by and heard what hee said) before you shall bee able to obteyne that License, of which you speake, my Master will bee departed to the other World. Worke you so Lady, quoth Don-Quixote, that I may have the License; for so that I may have it, it will make no great matter, whether hee bee in the other world or no, for even from thence would I bring him back againe, in despight of the other World it selfe, if it durst contradict mee, or at least wise I will take such a revenge of those that doe send him to the other World, as you shall remaine more then meanely contented; and so without replying any more, hee went and fell on his knees before Dorotea, demanding of her in Knightly and Errant phrases, that shee would daigne to license him to goe and succour the Con­stable of that Castle, who was then plunged in a deepe distresse. The Princesse did grant him leave very willingly, and hee presently, buckling on his Target, and laying hold on his Sword, ranne to the Inne doore, where yet the two Guests stood hand­somly tuging the Innkeeper: But as soone as hee arived, hee stopt and stood still, al­though Maritornes and the Oastesse demanded of him twice or thrice the cause of his restiffenesse: in not assisting her Lord and Husband. I stay quoth Don-Quixote, be­cause according to the Lawes of Armes, it is not permitted to mee to lay hand to my Sword against Squire-like men that are not dubbed Knights: But call to mee here my Squire Sancho, for this defence and revenge concernes him as his duty. This passed at the Inne doore, where fists und blowes were interchangeably given, and taken in the best sort, although to the Innkeepers cost, and to the rage and griefe of Maritornes, the Oastesse, and her daughter, who were like to runne wood, beholding Don-Quixotes cowardise, and the mischiefe their Master, Husband and Father endured, But here let us leave them; for there shall not want one to succour him, or if not, let him suffer, and all those that wittingly undertake things beyond their power and force; and let us turne backward to heare that which Don Lewis answered the Judge, whom wee left somewhat apart with him, demanding the cause of his comming a foote, and in so base aray; to which the Youth, wringing him hard [...] by the hands, as an Argument that some extraordinary griefe pinched his heart, and sheding many teares, answered in this manner.

I know not what else I may tell you, deere Sir, but that from the instant that hea­ven made us Neighbours, and that I saw Donna Clara, your Daughter and my Lady, I made her Commandresse of my Will; and if yours, my true Lord and Father, doe not hinder it, shee shall bee my Spouse this very day. For her sake have I abandoned my Fa­thers house, and for her I did on this attyre, to follow her wheresoever shee went [...] as the Arrow doth the Marke, or the Mariner the North-starre: Shee is as yet, no far­ther acquainted with my desires, then as much as shee might understand somtimes, by the teares which shee saw mine eyes distill a farre off: Now Sir, you know the Riches and Nobility of my discent, and how I am my Fathers sole Heire, and if it seeme unto you that these bee conditions whereupon you may venter to make mee throughly happy, accept of mee presently for your sonne in Law; for if my Father, borne away by other his Designes, shall not like so well of this good which I have sought out for my selfe, yet time hath more force to undoe and change the affaires, then mens Will. Here the a­morous Gentleman held his peace, and the Judge remayned astonied as well at the grace and discretion wherewith Don Lewis had discovered his affections unto him, as al­so to see himselfe in such a passe, that as hee knew not what course hee might best take in so suddaine and unexpected a matter; and therefore hee answered no other thing at that time, but only bad him to settle his minde, and entertayne the time with his Ser­vants, [Page 119] and deale with them to expect that day, because hee might have leisure to con­sider what might bee most convenient for all. Don Lewis did kisse his hands perforce, and did bathe them with tears, a thing able to move a heart of Marble, and much more the Judges, who (as a wise man) did presently perceive how beneficiall and honourable was that preferment for his Daughter; although hee could have wished, if it had been possible, to effect it with the consent of Don Lewis his Father, who hee knew did pur­pose to have his Sonne made a Noble man of Title.

By this time the Inn-keeper and his Ghests had agreed, having paid him all that they ought, more by Don-Quixotes perswasion and good reasons, then by any mena­ces: And Don Lewis his Servants expected the end of the Judge his discourse and his resolution: When the Devill (who never sleeps) would have it, at that very time entred into the Inne the Barber from whom Don-Quixote took away the Helmet of Mambrino, and Sancho Panca the furniture of the Asse, whereof hee made an ex­change for his own: which Barber, leading his Beast to the Stable, saw Sancho Panca, who was mending some part of the Pannell; and as soon as hee had eyed him, he knew him, and presently set upon Sancho, saying. A Sir Thief, have I found you here with all the Furniture whereof you rob'd me? Sancho that saw himself thus assaulted unex­pectedly, and had heard the disgracefull termes which the other used, laying fast hold on the Pannell with the one hand, gave the Barber such a buffet with the other, as hee bathed all his teeth in blood: but yet for all that the Barber held fast his gripe of the Pannell, and therewithall cryed out so loud, as all those that were in the house came to the noyse and conflict: and hee said, I call for the King and Justice; for this Thief and Robber by the High-wayes goeth about to kill me, because I seek to recover mine own goods. Thou lyest, quoth Sancho, for I am not a Robber by the High waies; for my Lord Don-Quixote wonne those spoyles in a good Warre. By this time Don-Quixote himsel was come thither, not a little proud to see how well his Squire de­fended himself, and offended his Adversarie; and therefore hee accounted him from thenceforth to bee a man of valour, and purposed in his minde to dub him Knight on the first occasion that should bee offered, because he thought that the Order of Knight­hood would bee well imployed by him.

Among oeher things that the Barber said in the discourse of his contention, this was one: Sirs, this Pannell is as certainly mine, as the death which I owe unto God, and I know it as well as if I had bred it, and there is my Asse in the Stable who will not per­mit me to tell a lye; or otherwise doe but trye the Pannell on him, and if it fit him not justly I am content to remain infamous: And I can say more, that the very day wherein they took my Pannell from me, they robbed me likewise of a new brazen Bason which was never used, and cost me a crown. Here Don-Quixote could no lon­ger contain himself from speaking; and so thrusting himself between them two, and putting them asunder, and causing the Pannell to bee laid publiquely on the ground until the truth were decided, he said; To the end that you may perceive the cleer and ma­nifest error wherein this good Squire lives; see how hee calls that a Bason which [...] was, and shall bee the Helmet of Mambrino, which I took away perfor [...]e from him in fair War, and made my self Lord thereof in a Lawfull and Warlike manner: About the Pannell I will not contend; for that which I can say therein is, that my Squire Sancho demanded leave of me to take away the Furniture of this vanquished Cowards Horse that hee might adorn his own withall: I gave him author tie to doe it, and hee took them: And for his converting thereof from a Horses Furniture into a Pannell, I can give none other reason then the ordinarie one, to wi [...] that such trans­formations are usually seen in the successes of Chivalrie; for confirmation whereof friend Sancho runne speedily and bring me out the Helmet which this good man a­voucheth to bee a Bason. By my faith Sir, quoth Sancho, if wee have no better proof of our intention then that which you say, I say that the Helmet of Mambrino is as arrant a Bason, as this good mans Furniture is a Pannell. Doe what I command, said Don-Quixote: I cannot believe that all the things in this Castle will bee guided by inchantment. Sancho went for the Bason, and brought it: and as soon as Don-Quixote [Page] saw it, hee took it in his hands and said, See Sirs, with what face can this im­pudent Squire affirm that this is a Bason, and not the Helmet that I have mentioned? and I swear to you all by the Order of Knight-hood which I professe, that this is the very same Helmet which I wonne from him, without having added or taken any thing from it. That it is questionlesse, quoth Sancho; for since the time that my Lord wonne it untill now, hee never fought but one Battell with it, when hee delivered the un­luckie chained men; and, but for this Bason-Helmet, hee had not escaped so free as hee did, so thick a showre of stones rained all the time of that conflict.

CHAP. XVIII.
Wherein are decided the controversies of the Helmet of Mam­brino, and of the Pannell, with other strange and most true Adventures.

GOod Sirs, quoth the Barber, what do you think of that which is affirmed by these Gentlemen who yet contend that this is not a Bason, but a Helmet? He that denies it, quoth Don Quixote, I will make him know that hee lyes, if he be a Knight; and if hee bee but a Squire, that hee lyes and lyes again a thousand times. Our Barber who was also present, as one that knew Don-Quixotes humour very well, would fortifie his folly and make the Jest passe yet a little farther, to the end that they all might laugh: and therefore speaking to the other Barber, hee said Sir Barber, or what else you please, know that I am also of your occupation, and have had my writ of examination and approbation in that Trade more then these thirtie yeers, and am one that knows very well all the instruments of Barberie whatsoever; and have been besides in my youthfull dayes a Souldier; and doe therefore likewise know what is a Helmet, and what a Morrion, and what a close Castle, and other things touching Warfare; I mean all the kinde of Armes that a Souldier ought to have: and therefore I say (still submitting my self to the better opinion) that this peece which is laid here before us, and which this good Knight holds in his hand, not only is not a Barbers Bason, but also is so farre from being one as is white from black, or veritie from untruth; yet doe I withall affirm, that although it is an Helmet, yet it is not a compleat Helmet. No truely, quoth Don-Quixote, for it wants the half, to wit, the nether part and the Bever. It is very true, quoth the Curate, who very well under­stood his friend the Barber his intention; and the same did Cardenio, Don Fernando, and the rest of his fellows confirm; yea, and even the Judge himself, had not Don Lewis his affair perplexed his thoughts, would for his part have holpen the Jest well forward: But the earnestnesse of that affair held his minde so busied, as hee little or nothing at­tended the pastime. Lord have mercy upon me, quoth the other Barber, then half beside himself, and is it possible that so many honourable men should say that this is no Bason, but a Helmet? This is a thing able to strike admiration into a whole Uni­versitie, how discreet soever it were: it is enough if this Bason must needs bee a Hel­met, the Pannell must also bee a Horses Furniture, as this Gentleman sayes. To mee it seems a Pannell, quoth Don-Quixote; but as I have said, I will not meddle with it, nor determine whether it bee a Pannell or the Capparison of a Horse.

Therein is nothing else to bee done said the Curate, but that Sir Don-Quixote say it once; for in these matters of Chivalrie, all these Noblemen, and my selfe, doe give un­to him the prick and the prize; I sweate unto you by my Iove good Sirs, quoth Don-Quixote, that so many and so strange are the things which have befaln mee in this Ca­stle, [Page 120] these two times that I have lodged therein, as I dare avouch nothing affirmatively of any thing that shall bee demanded of mee concerning the things contained in it; for I doe infallibly imagine, that all the Adventures which passe in it, are guided by inchant­ment: the first time, I was very much vexed by an inchanted Moore that was in [...] and Sancho himselfe sped not very well with the Moores followers; and yesternight I stood hanging almost two houres space by this arme, without knowing how, or how that disgrace befell mee; so that for me to meddle now in so confused and difficult a matter, as to deliver mine opinion, were to passe a rash judgement: So that they which say that this is a Bason and no Helmet, I have already made answere; but whether this bee a Pannell or furniture, I dare pronounce no difinitive Sentence, but only remit it to your discreet opinions: perhaps because you are not dubbed Knights as I am, the in­chantments of this place will have no power over you, and your understandings shall be free and able to judge of the things in this Castle really and truly, and not as they seeme unto me. Doubtlesse quoth Don Fernando, Don-Quixote sayes very well, that the definition of this case belongs unto us; and therefore, and because wee may pro­ceede in it upon the the better and more solid grounds, I will secretly take the Suffra­ges of all those Gentlemen, and afterwards make a cleere and full Relation of what shall come of them.

To those that knew Don-Quixote his humour, this was a matter of marvailous laughter, & sport; but to such as were not acquainted therewithall, it seemed the greatest folly of the world, especially to Don Lewis, and his four servants, and with other three Passengers that had arrived [...]y chance to the Inne, and seemed to bee Troupers of the holy Brother-hood, as indeed they were: but hee that was most of all beside himself for wrath, was the Barber, whose Bason they had transformed before his owne, face into the Helmet of Mambrino, and whose Pannell hee made full account should likewise be turned into the rich Furniture, and Equipage of a great, Horse. All of them laughed heartily, to see Don Fernando goe up and downe, taking the Suffrages of this man and that, and rounding every one of them in the eare that they might declare in secret whether that was a pannell or a furniture, for which such deadly contention had passed. After that he had taken the suffrages of so many as knew Don-Quixote, he said very lowdly, The truth is, good fellow, that I grow weary of demanding so many opi­nions; for I can no sooner demand of any man what I desire to know, but they forth­with answer mee, how it is meere madnesse to affirme, that this is the pannell of an Asse, but rather the furniture of a Horse, yea and of a chiefe Horse of service; and therefore you must have patience for in despite both of you and of your Asse, and not­withstanding your weak allegations and worse prooves it is, and will continue the furniture of a great Horse, Let me never injoy a place in Heaven (quoth the Barber) if you all be not deceived; and so may my soul appear before God, as it appears to me, to be a pannell, and no horse furniture: but the law carries it away, and so farewell it: and yet surely I am not drunk; for unlesse it be by sinning, my fast hath not been broken this day.

The follies which the Barber uttered, stirred no lesse laughter among them, then did the rorings of Don-Quixote, who then spoke in this manner: Here is now no more to be done, but that every man take up his owne goods, and to whom God hath given them, let S. Peter give his blessing. Then said one of the four Servingmen, If this were not a jest premeditated, and made of purpose, I could not perswade my self, that men of so good understanding as all these are, or seem to be, should dare to say, and affirm, that this is not a Bason, nor that a Pannell: but seeing that they averr it so constantly, I have cause to suspect that it cannot bee without a great deale of Mysterie, to af­firme a thing so contrary to that which very truth it selfe, and experience demonstrates unto us: for I doe vow (and saying so he rapt out a round oath or two) that as many as are in the world, should never make me beleeve that this is no bason, nor that no pan­nell of a he-Asse. It might as well be of a she-Asse, quoth the Curate. That comes all but to one, replied the other; for the question consists not therein, but whether it be a pannell or not, as you doe avouch? Then one of the Troupers of the holy Brother­hood [Page] (who had listned to their disputation, and was grown full of choler to hear such an errour maintained, said, It is as very a pannell, as my father is my father; and hee that hath said, or shall say the contrary, is, I beleeve, turned into a grape. Thou lyest like a clownish knave (qd. Don-Quixote:) and lifting up his Javelin, which he al­wayes held in his hand, hee discharged such a blow at the Troupers pate, as if he had not avoyded, it would have thrown him to the ground. The Javelin was broken by the force of the fall into splinters; and the other Troupers, seeing their fellow misused, cried out for help, and assistance for that holy Brotherhood. The Inkeeper, who also was one of the same Fraternitie, ranne in for his rod of Justice, and his sword, and then stood by his fellowes. Don Lewis his foure Servants compassed him about lest hee should attempt to escape whilest the tumult indured. The Barbar seeing all the house turned upside downe, laid hand againe upon his Pannell, and the same did Sancho.

Don-Quixote set hand to his Sword and assaulted the Troopers. Don Lewis cryed to his serving men that they should leave him, and goe to helpe Don-Quixote, Cardenio and Don Fernando; for all of them tooke Don-Quixotes part. The Curate cried out, the Oastesse shrieked, her Daughter squeaked, Maritornos houled, Dorotea stood con­fused, Luscinda amazed, and Donna Clara dismayed; the Barbar battered Sancho, and Sancho pounded him againe. Don Lewis, on whom one of his Serving men had presu­med to lay hands, and hold him by the arme, gave him such a pash on the mouth, as hee broke his Teeth, and then the Judge tooke him into his owne protection. Don Fernando had gotten one of the Troopers under his feet, where he stood belabouring him at plea­sure. The Innekeeper renewed his out-cry, and reinforced his voyce, demanding ayde for the holy. Brotherhood: So that all the Inn seemed nothing else but Plaints, Cryes, Screetches, Confusions, Feares, Dreads, Disgraces, Slashes, Buffets, Blows, Spurnings, and effusion of Blood.

In the midst of this Chaos and Labyrinth of things, Don-Quixote began to imagine and fancie to himselfe, that hee was at that very time plunged up to the eares in the dis­cord and conflict of King Agramante his Campe; and therefore hee said with a voice that made all the Inne to tremble: All of you, hold your hands all of you, put up your Swords, all of you bee quiet and listen to mee, if any of you desire to continue alive. That great and monstrous voice made them all stand still; thereupon hee thus procee­ded. Did not I tell you Sirs, that this Castle was inchanted, and that some Legion of Devills did inhabit it? In confirmation whereof, I would have you but to note with your owne eyes, how the very discord of King Agramants Campe is transferred hither, and passed ever among us. Looke how there they fight for the Sword, here for the Horse, yonder for the Eagle, beyond for the Helmet; and all of us fight, and none of us know for what. Come therefore, you Master Justice, and you Master Cu­rate, and let the one represent King Agramant, and the other King Sobrino, and make Peace and Atonement among us: for I sweare by Almighty Iove, that it is great wrong and pittie, that so many Noblemen, as wee are here, should be slaine for so sleight causes.

The Troopers, which did not understand Don-Quixotes manner of speech, and saw themselves very ill handled by Don Fernando and Cardenio, would in no wise bee pacifi­ed; But the Barber was content, by reason that in the conflict both his beard and his Pannell had beene torne in peeces. Sancho to his Masters voice was quickly obedient, as became a dutifull Servant. Don Lewis his foure serving men stood also quiet, seeing how little was gained in being other; only the Innekeeper persisted as before, affirming that punishment was due unto the insolencies of that mad man, who every foote confound­ed and disquieted his Inne. Finally, the rumor was pacified for that time; the Pannell remained for a Horse furniture untill the day of judgement; the Bason for a Helmet, and the Inn for a Castle in Don-Quixotes imagination. All the broyles being now appea­sed, and all men accorded by the Judges and Curates perswasions; then began Don Lewis his servants again to urge him to depart with them, and whilest hee and they debated the matter, the Judge communicated the whole to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and [Page 121] the Curate, desiring to know their opinions concerning that affair, and telling them all that Don Lewis had said unto him; whereupon they agreed that Don Fernando should tell the Serving-men what hee himself was, and how it was his pleasure that Don Lewis should goe with him to Andaluzia, where hee should bee cherished and accounted of by the Marquesse his Brother, according unto his calling and deserts; for hee knew well Don Lewis his resolution to bee such, as he would not return into his Fathers pre­sence at that time, although they core him into peeces. Don Fernando his quality, and Don Lewis his intention being understood by the four, they agreed among themselves, that three of them should goe back to beare the tidings of all that had passed, to his Father, and the other should abide there to attend on him and never to leave him untill they returned to fetch him home, or knew what else his Father would command: And in this sort was that monstrous bulk of division and contention reduced to some forme by the authority of Agramant and the wisdome of King Sobrino.

But the Enemie of Concord, and the Adversarie of Peace, finding his projects to bee thus illuded and condemned, and seeing the little fruit hee had gotten by setting them all by the eares, resolved once again to trye his wits, and stir up new discords and troubles, which befell in this manner: The Troupers were quieted, having understood the calling of those with whom they had contended, and retired themselves from the brawl, knowing that howsoever the cause succeeded they themselves should have still the worst end of the staffe: But one of them, who was the very same whom Don Fer­nando had buffetted so well, remembred how among many other Warrants that hee had to apprehend Malefactors, hee had one for Don-Quixote, whom the Holy-Bro­therhood had commanded to bee apprehended for freeing of the Gally-Slaves, a disaster which Sancho had before-hand with very great reason feared:) As soon as he remem­bred it, hee would needs trye whether the signes that were given him of Don-Quixote did agree with his person; and so taking out of his bosome a scorll of Parchment wherein they were written, hee presently found out that which hee looked for; and reading it a while very leisurely, as one that was himself no great Clerke, at every other word hee looked on Don-Quixote, and confronted the marks of his warrant with those of Don-Quixotes face, and found that he was infallibly the man that was therein men­tioned: And scarce was hee perswaded that it was hee, when folding up his Parch­ment, and holding the Warrant in his left hand, hee laid hold on Don-Quixotes coller with the right so strongly as hee could hardly breath, and cryed out aloud, saying, Aid for the Holy-Brotherhood: and that you may perceive how I am in good earnest, read that Warrant, wherein you shall finde that this Robber by the High-way side is to bee apprehended. The Curate took the Warrant and perceived very well that the Trouper said true, and that the marks agreed very neer with Don-Quixotes; who seeing him­self so abused by that base Rascall, as hee accounted him, his choler being mounted to her height, and all the bones of his body crashing for wrath, hee seized as well as hee could with both his hands on the Troupers throat, and that in such sort, as if hee had not been speedily succoured by his fellows, hee had there left his life are Don-Quixote would have abandoned his gripe.

The Inne-keeper, who of force was to assist his fellow in Office, forthwith repaired unto his aide. The Hostesse seeing her Husband re-enter into contentions and brables, raised a new crie, whose burden was borne by her Daughter and Maritornes, asking succour of Heaven and those that were present. Sancho seeing all that passed, said, By the Lord all that my Master hath said of the Inchantments of this Castle is true; for it is not possible for a man to live quietly in it one hour together.

Don Fernando parted the Trouper and Don-Quixote, and with the good will of both unfastened their holds: but yet the Troupers for all this desisted not to require their Prisoner, and withall, that they should help to get him tyed and absolutely rendred unto their wills; for so it was requisite for the King and the Holy Brotherhood, in whose name they did again demand their help and assistance for the Arresting of that publique Robber and Spoyler of People in common Paths and High-wayes.

[Page] Don-Quixote laughed to heare them speake so idlely, as hee imagined, and said with very great gravitie; Come hither, you filthie base extractions of the dunghill, dare you terme the losing of the inchayned, the freeing of Prisoners, the assisting of the wretched, the raysing of such as are falne, and the supplying of those that are in want? Dare you (I say) terme these things robbing on the High-way? O infamous brood, worthy for your base and vile conceit, that Heav'n should never communicate with you the valour included in the exercise of Chivalrie, wee give you to understand the sinne and errour wherein you are, by not adoring the very shadow, how much more the assistance of a Knight Errant? Come hither, O you that bee no Troopers, but Theeves in troope, and Robbers of high-wayes by permission of the Holy Brotherhood: Come hither I say, and tell mee, who was that jolt-head that did subscribe or ratifie a Warrant for the attach­ing of such a Knight as I am? Who was hee that knowes not how Knights errant are exempted from all Tribunals? and how that their Sword is the Law, their Valour the Bench, and their Wills the Statutes of their Courts? I say againe, what mad man was hee that knowes not how that no priviledge of Gentry injoyes so many preemiencies, immunities, and exemptions, as that which a Knight errant acquires the day wherein he is dubbed, and undertakes the rigorous exercise of Armes? What Knight Errant did e­ver pay tribute, subsidie, tallage, carriage, or passage over water? What Taylor ever had money for making his clothes? What Constable ever lodged him in Castle, that made him after to pay for the shot? What King hath not placed him at his owne Table? What Damzell hath not faln in love with him, and permitted him to use her as hee liked? And finally, what Knight errant was there ever, is, or ever shall bee in the World, which hath not the courage himselfe alone to give foure hundred blowes with a cudgell to foure hundred Troopers that shall presume to stand before him in ho­stile manner?

CHAP. XIX.
In which is finished the notable Adventure of the Troopers, and the great ferocitie of our Knight Don-Quixote, and how hee was Inchanted.

WHILEST Don-Quixote said this, the Curate laboured to per­swade the Troopers, how the Knight was distracted, as they them­selves might collect by his works and words, & therefore it would bee to no end to prosecute their Designe any farther, seeing that although they did apprehend and carry him away, hee would bee presently delivered againe as a mad-man. To this, hee that had the Warrant made answere, that it concerned him not to deter­mine whether hee was mad or no, but only to obey and execute his superiours command; and that being once Prisoner, they might deliver him three hundred times and if it were their good pleasure. For all that (quoth the Curate) you may not carrie him with you at this time, nor (as I suppose) will hee suffer himself to bee taken. To bee brief, the Curate said so much, and Don-Quixote plaid so many mad pranks, as the Troupers themselves would have proved greater fools then hee, if they had not manifestly discerned his defect of judgement: and therefore they held it to bee the best course to let him alone, yea and bee compounders of Peace and Amity between Sancho Panca and the Barber, which still continued their most rancorous and deadly contention. Finally, they, as the Officers of Justice, did mediate the cause, and [Page 124] were Arbiters thereof in such sort, as both the parties remained, though not wholly con­tented, yet in some sort satisfied; for they only made them exchange their Pannells, but not their Gyrts or Head-stalls.

As touching Mambrino's Helmet, the Curate did unawares to Don-Quixote, give to the Barber eight ryals by it, and the Barber gave back unto him an acquittance of the receit thereof, and an everlasting release of all actions concerning it. These two dis­cords which were the most principall, and of most consequence, being thus accorded, it onely rested, that three of Don Lewis his Servingmen would be content to return home, and leave the fourth to accompanie his Master whither Don Fernando pleased to carry him. And as good hap and better fortune had already begun to break Lances, and facilitate difficulties, in the favour of the Lovers, and worthy persons of the Inn, so did it resolve to proceed forward, and give a prosperous successe unto all: for the Servingmen were content to doe whatsoever their master would have them: whereat Donna Clara was so cheerfull, as no one beheld her face in that season, but might read therein the inward contentment of her mind. Zoraida, although she did not very well understand all the seccesses of the things she had seen, yet was she interchangably griev­ed and cheered according to the shews made by the rest, but chiefly by her Spaniard, on whom her eyes were alwaies fixed, and all the affects of her mind depended. The Inkeeper, who did not forget the recompence made by the Curate to the Barber, de­manded of him Don-Quixotes expences, and satisfaction for the damage he had done to his Wine-baggs, and the losse of his Wine, swearing that neither Rozinante, nor San­cho his Asse should depart out of the Inne, untill he were payed the very last far­thing. All was quietly ended by the Curate, and Don Fernando paid the whole sum although the Judge had also most liberally offered to doe it; and all of them remained afterwards in such quietnesse and peace, as the Inn did no longer resemble the discorded Camp of Agramante (as Don-Quixote termed it) but rather enjoyed the very peace and tranquilitie of the Emperour Octavians time; for all which the common opinion was, that thanks were justly due to the sincere proceeding and great eloquence of Master Curate, and to the incomparable liberalitie and goodnesse of Don Fernando. Don-Quixote, perceiving himself free and delivered from so many difficulties and brabbles (wherewithall as well hee as his Esquire had been perplexed) held it high time to pro­secute his commenced voyage, and bring to an end the great Adventure unto which hee was called and chosen: Therefore with resolute determination to depart, hee went and cast himself on his knees before Dorotea, who not permitting him to speak untill he arose, he to obey her stood up & said, It is a common Proverb, beautifull Ladie, That Diligence is the mother of Good-hap; and in many and grave Affairs experience hath shewed, that the sollicitude and sore of the suiter oft brings a doubtfull matter to a certain and happie end: But this truth appears in nothing more cleerly, then in mat­ters of Warre; wherein celeritie and expedition prevent the Enemies Designes, and obtain the Victory before an Adversary can put himself in defence: All this I say, high and worthie Ladie, because it seems to mee, that our abode in this Castle is nothing profitable, and many therewithall turn so farre to our hindrance, as wee may palpably feel it one day: For who knows but that your enemie the Gyant, hath learned by Spies or other secret intelligence and means how I mean to come and destroy him, and (oportunitie favouring his designes) that hee may have fortified himself in some inexpugnable Castle or Fortresse, against the strength whereof neither mine industrie nor the force of mine invincible Arme can much prevail: wherefore, deer Ladie, let us prevent (as I have said) by our dilligence, and let us presently depart unto the place whereunto wee are called by our good Fortune, which shall bee deferred no longer then I am absent from your Highnesse foe. Here hee held his peace, and did expect, with great gravitie, the beautifull Princesse's answer; who with debonair countenance, and a stile accommodated unto Don-Quixote, returned him this answer: I doe gra­tifie and thank, Sir Knight, the desire you shew to assist me in this my great need, which denotes very cleerly the great care you have to favour Orphans and distressed Wights; and I beseech God, that your good desires and mine may bee accomplished, to the end [Page] that you may see how there are some thankfull women on earth; as touching my de­parture, let it bee forthwith; for I have none other will then that which is yours: therefore you may dispose of me at your own pleasure; for she that hath once committed the defence of her person unto you, and hath put into your hands the restitution of her estate, ought not to seek to doe any other thing then that which your wisedome shall ordain. In the name of God (quoth Don-Quixote) seeing that your Highnesse doth so humble your self unto me, I will not lose the occasion of exalting it, and installing it again in the throne of your inheritance. Let our departure bee incontinent; for my desires, and the way, and that which they call the danger that is in delay, doe spur me on: And seeing that Heaven never created, nor Hell ever beheld any man that could affright me or make a Coward of me, goe therefore Sancho and saddle Rozinante, and empannell thine Asse, and make ready the Queens Palfrey, and let us take leave of the Constable and those other Lords and depart away from hence in­stantly.

Then Sancho (who was present at all this) waging of his head said, O my Lord, my Lord, how much more knaverie (be it spoken with the pardon of all honest kerchiefs) is there in the little Village then is talked of? What ill can there bee in any Village, or in all the Cities of the World, able to impaire my credit, thou Villaine? If thou be an­gry, quoth Sancho, I will hold my tongue, and omit to say that which by the dutie of a good Squire and of an honest servant I am bound to tell you. Say what thou wilt, quoth Don-Quixote, so thy words bee not addrest to make mee afraid; for if thou beest trighted, thou doest only like thy selfe; and if I bee devoyd of terror, I also doe that which I ought. It is not that which I meane, quoth Sancho, but that I doe hold for most sure and certaine, that this Ladie which calls her selfe Queene of the great King­dome of Micomicon, is no more a Queene then my Mother; for if shee were what shee saies, shee would not at every corner and at every turning of a hand bee billing as shee is, with one that is in this good company. Dorotea blushed at Sancho's words; for it was true indeede, that her Spouse Don Fernando would now and then privately steale from her lips some part of the reward which his desires did merit (which Sancho espying, it seemed to him, that that kinde of wanton familiarity was more proper to Curtezans, then becomming the Queene of so great a Kingdome) and yet shee neither could nor would reply unto him, but let him continue his speech, as fol­loweth. This I doe say good my Lord, quoth hee, to this end; That if after wee have run many waies and courses, and indured bad nights and worse daies, hee that is in this Inn, sporting himselfe, shall come to gather the fruit of our labours; there is no reason to hasten me thus to saddle Rozinante, or empannell the Asse, or make ready the Palfrey seeing it would be better that we stayed still, and that every whore spun, and wee sell to our victuals.

O God, how great was the fury that inflamed Don-Quixote, when he heard his Squire speake so respectlesly! I say it was so great, that with a shaking voice, a faul­tering tongue, and the fire sparkling out of his eyes, he said, O villanous peasant, rash, unmanerly, ignorant, rude, blasphemous, bold murmurer, and detractor, hast thou presumed to speake such words in my presence, and in that of these noble Ladies? and hast thou dared to entertaine such rash and dishonest surmises into thy confused imagination? Depart out of my sight, thou monster of nature, store-house of un­truthes, armorie of falshood, sinke of rogerie, inventour of Villainie, publisher of ravings, and the enemy of that decencie which is to be used towards royall persons. Away villaine, and never appear before me, under paine of mine indignation. And saying so he bended his browes, fild up his cheekes, looked about him on every side, and struck a great blow with his right foot on the ground; all manifest tokens of the rage which inwardly fretted him. At which words and furious gestures poor Sancho remained so greatly affrighted, as he could have wished in that instant, that the earth opening under his feet, would swallow him up, and knew not what to doe, but turne his back, and get him out of his Lords most furious presence. But the dis­creet Dorotea (who was now so well schooled in Don-Quixotes humour) to mitigate [Page 123] his yre, said unto him; Be not offended, good Sir Knight of the sad face, at the idle words which your good Squire hath spoken: for perhaps he hath not said them with­out some ground, nor of his good understanding and Christian minde can it be su­spected, that he would wittingly slander or accuse any body falsely: And therefore we must beleeve, without all doubt, that as in this Castle, as you your selfe have said, Sir Knight, all things are represented, and succeed by manner of inchantment; I say, it might befall, that Sancho may have seene by Diabolicall illusion, that which he saies, he beheld so much to the prejudice of my reputation.

I vow by the omnipotent Iove, quoth Don-Quixote, that your Highnesse hath hit the very prick, and that some wicked Vision appeared to this sinner my man Sancho, that made him to see that which otherwise were impossible to bee seen by any other way then that of inchantment; for I know very well the great goodnesse and simpli­citie of that poor wretch is such, as hee knows not how to invent a lye on any bodie living. It is even so, and so it shall bee, quoth Don Fernando: and therefore, good Sir Don-Quixote, you must pardon him, and reduce him again to the bosome of your good grace: Sicut erat in Principio, and before the like Visions did distract his sense. Don-Quixote answered, that hee did willingly pardon him: And therefore the Curate went for Sancho, who returned very humbly; and kneeling down on his knees, de­manded his Lords hand, which hee gave unto him; and after that hee had permited him to kisse it, hee gave him his blissing, saying; Now thou shalt finally know, Sancho, that which I have told thee divers times, how that all the things of this Castle are made by way of inchantment. So doe I verily believe, said Sancho, except that of the can­vassing in the Blanket, which really succeeded by an ordinary and naturall way. Doe not believe that, said Don-Quixote; for if it were so, I would both then, and also now have taken a dire revenge: but neither then, nor now could I ever see any, on whom I might revenge that thine injurie. All of them desired greatly to know what that accident of the Blanket was: And then the Inn-keeper recounted it point by point, the flights that Sancho Panca made; whereat they all did laugh not a little; and Sancho would have been ashamed no lesse, if his Lord had not anew perswaded him that it was a meer inchantment: And yet Sancho's madnesse was never so great, as to beleeve that it was not a reall truth verily befaln him, without any colour or mixture of fraud or il­lusion; but that hee was tossed by persons of Flesh, Blood, and Bone, and not by dreamed and imagined shadows or Spirits, as his Lord beleeved, and so con­stantly affirmed.

Two dayes were now expired when all that Noble companie had sojourned in the Inn, and then it seeming unto them high time to depart: They devised how (without putting Dorotea and Don Fernando to the pains to turn back with Don-Quixote to his Village, under pretence of restoring the Queen Micomicona) the Curate and Bar­ber might carry him back as they desired, and indevour to have him cured of his folly in his own house. And their invention was this: They agreed with one, who by chance passed by that way with a Teame of Oxen, to carry him in this order follow­ing: They made a thing like a Cage of Timber, so big as that Don-Quixote might sit or lie in it at his ease: and presently after Don Fernando and his fellows, with Don Lewis his Servants, the Troupers, and the Inn-keeper, did all of them, by Master Cu­rates direction, cover their faces and disguise themselves, every one as hee might best, so that they might seem to Don-Quixote other people then such as hee had seen in the Castle. And this being done, they entred with very great silence into the place where hee slept and took his rest after the related conflicts: And approaching him who slept securely, not fearing any such accident; and laying hold on him very strongly, they tyed his hands and his feet very strongly, so that when hee started out of his sleep, hee could not stir himself, nor doe any other thing then admire and wonder at those strange shapes that he saw standing before him; and presently hee fell into the conceit which his continuall and distracted imagination had already suggested unto him, beleeving that all those strange figures were the Spirits and shadows of that inchanted Castle, and that hee himself was now without doubt inchanted, seeing hee could neither move nor [Page] defend himself. All this succeeded just as the Curate (who plotted the jest) made full account it would: Only Sancho, among all those that were present, was in his right sense and shape; and although hee wanted but little to bee sick of his Lords disease, yet for all that hee knew all those counterfeit Ghosts; but hee would not once unfold his lips, untill hee might see the end of that surprizall and imprisonment of his Master; who likewise spoke never a word, but only looked to see what would bee the period of his disgrace: Which was, that bringing him to the Cage, they shut him within, and afterwards nailed the Barrs thereof so well as they could not bee easily broken: They presently mounted him upon their shoulders; and as hee issued out at the chamber door, they heard as dreadfull a voyce as the Barber could devise (not hee of the Pannell [...] but the other) which said, O Knight of the sad-Countenance! bee not grieved at the im­prisonment whereinto thou art led; for so it must bee, that thereby the Adventure, into which thy great Force and Valour have thrust thee, may bee the more spedily ended; and ended it will bee, when the furious Manchegall-Lyon, and the white Tobosian-Dove shall bee united in one; and after they have humbled their lofty Crest unto the soft Yoake of Wedlock, from whose wonderfull consort shall issue to the light of the Orbe, fierce Whelps which shall imitate the raunching paws of their valourous Father: And this shall bee be­fore the pursuer of the fugitive Nymph doe with his swift and naturall course make two turns in visitation of the glistring Images: And thou, O the most noble and obedient Squire that ever had Sword at a Gyrdle, Beard on a Face, or Dent in a Nose, let it not dis­may or discontent thee, to see carried away before thy eyes the flowre of all Chivalrie Er­rant. For very speedily, if it please the framer of the World, thou shalt see thy self so ex­alted and ennobled, as thou shalt scarce know thy self: Nor shalt thou bee defrauded of the promises made unto thee by thy noble Lord: And I doe assure thee from the wise Men­tironiana, that thy wages shall bee payed thee, as thou shalt quickly see in effect: And therefore follow the steps of the valorous and inchanted Knight; for it is necessary that thou goe to the place where you both shall stay: And because I am not permitted to say more, farewell; for I doe return I well know whither. Towards the end of this Prophecie hee lifted up his voyce, and afterwards lessened it, with so slender an accent, that even those which were acquainted with the jest almost believed what they had heard.

Don-Quixote was very much comforted by the Prophecie; for hee presently appre­hended the whole sense thereof, and perceived how hee was promised in marriage his beloved Dulcinea of Toboso, from whose happy womb should salley the whelps (which were his Sonnes) to the eternall glory of the Mancha. And believing all this most firmly, hee elevated his voyce, and breathing forth a great sigh, thus said: O thou, what­soever thou beest, which hast prognosticated so great good to me, I desire thee to request in my name the Wise man who hath charge to record mine acts, that hee permit me not to perish in this Prison (to which they now doe carrie me) before the accomplishment of so joy­full and incomparable promises, as now have been made unto me: For, so that this may befall, I will account the pains of my Prison a Glory, and the Chains that inviron me, an ease; and will not esteem this Bed whereon I am laid a hard Field of Battell, but a soft Tick and a most fortunate Lodging. And as concerning the consolation of my Squire Sancho Pança, I trust in his goodnesse and honest proceeding, that hee will not abandon me in good or bad fortune: for though it should fall out through his or my hard hap, that I shall not bee able to be slow on him an Island, or other equivalent thing, as I have promised, his Wages at least cannot bee lost; for in my Testament, which is made already, I have set down what hee is to have, though not conformably to his many good Services, yet according to my possibility. Sancho Panca bowed his head with great reverence, and kissed both his hands (for one alone hee could not, by reason they were bound together) and presently those Visions did lift up the Cage and accommodate it on the Team of Oxen.

CHAP. XX.
Wherein is prosecuted the manner of Don-Quixotes inchantment, with other famous occurrences.

WHen Don-Quixote saw himselfe to be incaged after that manner, and placed in the Cart, he said, I have read many and very grave Histories of Knights Errant, but I never read, saw, nor heard, that they were wont to carry Knights Errant inchanted after this manner, and with the leisure that those slothfull and heavy beasts doe threaten: for they were ever accustomed to be carried in the ayr with wonderfull speed, shut in some duskie and obscure cloud; or in some fiery chariot; or on some Hippogriphus, or some other such like beast: but that they carry me now on a Teame of Oxen, I protest it drives me into a great amazment, but perhaps both Chivalry, and the inchantments of these our times, doe follow a course different from those of former ages: and peradventure it may also bee, that as I am a new Knight in the world, and the first that hath againe revived the now-neglected, and forgotten exercise of armes, so have they also newly inven­ted other kinds of inchantments, and other manners of carrying away inchanted Knights. What doest thou think of this, sonne Sancho? I know not, quoth Sancho, what to think, because I am not so well seen in Scriptures Errant as you are; but for all this I durst affirm and swear, that these visions which goe up aud down in this place, are not altogether Catholike. Catholikes, my father, quoth Don-Quixote, how can they be Catholikes, when they be all Devils, which have assumed phantasticall bodies to come and put me into this state? And if thou wilt prove the truth hereof, doe but touch and feel them, and thou shalt finde them to have no bodies, but of ayre, and that they consist of nothing but an outward appearance. Now by my faith, Sir, quoth Sancho, I have already touched them, and finde this Devill that goeth there so busily up and done, both plump and soft-fleshed; and that he hath besides another property very different from that which I have heard say Devils have: for it is said that they smell all of brimstone and other filthy things; but one may feel at least halfe a league off, the Amber that this Devill smells off. Sancho spoke this of Don Fernando, who belike (as Lords of his ranke are wont) had his attyre perfumed with Amber.

Marvell not thereat, friend Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, for the Devils are very crafty; and although they bring smels or perfumes about them, yet they themselves smell nothing (because they are spirits) or if they doe smell ought, it is not good, but evill and stinking savors: the reason is, for that as they doe alwayes bear where­soever they be, their hell about them, and can receive no kind of ease of their torments, and good smels be things that delight and please; it is not possible that they can smell any good thing, and if it seeme to thee that that Devill whom thou dost mention smells of Amber, eyther thou art deceived, or hee would deceive thee, by making thee to thinke that hee is no Devill. All these Discourses passed betweene the Master and the man, the whilest Don Fernando and Cardenio (fearing lest Sancho should finde out the deceite whereto hee was already come very heere) resolved to hasten the Knights departure; and therefore calling the Inne-keeper aside, they comman­ded him to saddle Rozinante, and empannell Sanchoes beast; which hee did with all expedition: And the Curate agreed with the Troopers for so much a day to ac­companie him unto his Village. Cardenio hanged at the pummell of Rozinantes Saddle, the Target on the one side, and on the other the Bason, and by signes hee commanded Sancho to get up on his Asse, and to leade Rozinante along by the Bri­dle; [Page] and afterwards placed on either side of the Cart two Troopers with their fire-locks.

But before the Cart departed, the Oastesse, her Daughter, and Maritornes came out to bid Don-Quixote farewell, fayning that they wept for sorrow of his disaster; to whom Don-Quixote said, My good Ladies doe not weepe: for all these mischances are incident to those as professe that which I doe, and if these calamities had not befaln mee, I would never have accounted my selfe for a famous Knight Errant; for the like chan­ces never happen to Knights of little name or renowne, because there are none in the world that makes any mention of them. But they often befall to the valorous, who have emulators of their Virtue and Valour, both many Princes and many other Knights that strive by indirect meanes to destroy them. But for all that, Virtue is so potent as by her selfe alone (in despight of all the Negromancy that ever the first inventor there­of Zoroastes knew) shee will come off victorious from every danger, and will shine in the world as the Sunne doth in Heaven. Pardon mee faire Ladies, if by any careles­nesse I have done you any displeasure, for with my will and knowledge I never wrong­ed any. And pray unto God for mee, that hee will please to deliver mee out of this prison, whereinto some ill meaning Inchanter hath thrust mee; for if I once may see my selfe at liberty againe, I will never forget the favours which you have done mee in this Castle, but greatly acknowledge and recompence them as they de­serve. Whilest the Ladies of the Castle were thus intertayned by Don-Quixote, the Curate and Barber tooke leave of Don Fernando and his Companions; of the Captaine and his Brother, and of all the contented Ladies, specially of Dorotea and Luscynda; all of them imbraced and promised to acquaint one another with their succeeding fortunes; Don Fernando intreating the Curate to write unto him what became of Don-Quixote, assuring him that no affaire hee could informe him of should please him better then that, and that hee would in lieu thereof acquaint him with all oc­currences which hee thought would delight him, eyther concerning his owne Mar­riage or Zoraidaes Baptisme, or the successe of Don Lewis, and Luscyndaes returne into her House.

The Curate offered willingly to accomplish to a hair all that he had commanded him: and so they returned once again to embrace one another, and to renew their mutuall and complementall offers: The Inkeeper came also to the Curate, and gave him certaine papers, saying, that he had found them within one of the linings of the wallet, wherein the Tale of the curious impertinent was had; and that since the ow­ner did not return to fetch it, he bade him take them all with him; for feeing he could not read, he would keep them no longer. Master Curate yeelded him many thanks; and then opening them, found in the beginning thereof these words: The Tale of Riconnette and Cortadillo; by which he understood that it was some History, and col­lected that it must be a good one, seeing that of the curious Impertinent, contrived perhaps by the same Author, had proved so well, and therefore he laid it up, with an intention to read it as soon as he had oportunity. Then he mounted on horse­back with his friend the Barber; and both of them putting on their maskes, that they might not quickly be known by Don-Quixote, they travelled after the Team, which held on in this order; first went the Cart, guided by the Carter: on both sides thereof the Troupers rode with their fire-locks: then followed Sancho upon his Asse, leading Rozinante by the Bridle; and last of all came the Curate and Barbar upon their mighty Mules, and with their faces covered; all in a grave posture, and with an Alder­man like pace, and travelling no faster then the slow steps of the heavie Oxen permitted them. Don-Quixote, sate with his hands tyed, his legs stretched out, and leaning a­gainst the barre of the Cage, with such a silence, and patience, as hee rather seemed a Statue then a Man. In this quiet and leisurely manner, they travelled for the space of two leagues, when ariving to a Valley, it seemed to their Conductor a fit place to re­pose and baite his Oxen. And acquainting the Curate with his purpose, the Barber was of opinion that they should yet goe on a little further, because hee knew that there lay behinde a little Mountaine, which was within their view, a certaine Vale, much better [Page 125] furnished with grasse then that wherein hee meant to abide. The Barbers opinion was allowed; and therefore they continued on their Travell, when the Curate looking by chance behinde him, saw comming after them six or seven men on horse-back, and very well appointed, who quickly got ground of them; for they came not the lazie and flegmatick pace of Oxen, but as men that were mounted on Canons Mules, and pricked forward with a desire to passe over the heat of the day in their Inne, which was not much more then a league from thence. Finally, those dilligent Travellers over-took our slothfull ones, and saluted them courteously, and one of them that was a Canon of Toledo, and Master of the rest, noting the orderly procession of the Cart, Troupers, Sancho, Rozinante, the Curate and Barber, but chiefly the incaged Don-Quixote hee could not forbeare to demand what meaned the carriage of that man in so strange a manner, although hee did already conjecture, by observation of the Troupers, that hee was some notable Robber or other Delinquent, the punishment of whom be­longed to the Holy-Brotherhood. One of the Troupers, to whom the demand was made, did answer in this manner: Sir, wee know not wherefore this Knight is car­ried in this forme; and therefore let hee himself, who best may, tell you the reason thereof.

Don-Quixote had over heard their discourse, and said, If, Gentlemen, you bee con­versant and skillfull in matters of Chivalry, I will communicate my misfortunes with you: but if you bee not, I have no reason to trouble my self to recount them. The Curate and Barber seeing the Travellers in talk with Don-Quixote, drew neer to make answer for him in such sort, that their invention might not bee discovered; the whilest the Canon replyed to the Knight, and said; Truely brother I am better acquainted with Books of Knight-hood, then with Villapanda's Logick: and therefore if all the difficultie rest only in that, you may safely communicate whatsoever you will with me. A Gods name bee it, quoth Don-Quixote: You shall therefore nnderstand, Sir Knight, that I am carried away inchanted in this Cage, through the envie and fraud of wicked Magicians; For virtue is much more persecuted of the wicked then honoured of the good. I am a Knight Errant, but none of those whose names are not recorded in the Books of fame; but one of those who in despite of envie it self, and of all the Magicians of Persia, the Bracmanes of India, or of the Gymnosophists of Aethiopia, shall hang his name in the Temple of Eternitie, that it may serve as a Modell and Pattern to ensuing ages; wherein Knights Errant may view the steps which they are to follow, if they mean to aspire to the top and honourable height of Armes. The Knight, Sir Don-Quixote, saith true, quoth the Curate, speaking to the Travellers, that hee is carried away in this Chariot inchanted, not through his own default or sinnes, but through the malignant Treacherie of those to whom Virtue is loathsome and Valour odious: This is, good Sir, the Knight of the sad-Countenance (if you have at any time heard speak of him) whose valorous Acts shall remain insculped in stubborn Brasse, and time-surviving Marble, though Envie and Mallice doe labour never so much to obscure them.

When the Canon heard the imprisoned man and the three speak thus in one tenour, hee was about to blesse himself for wonder, and could not conjecture what had befaln him; and into no lesse admiration were they brought that came with him. But Sancho Panca having in the mean time approached to hear their speech, to plaister up the mat­ter, added; Now, Sirs, whether you will love me well or ill for what I shall say, the very truth of the matter is, that my Lord Don-Quixote is as much inchanted as my mother, and no more; for his judgement is yet whole and sound; hee eates and drinks, and doth his necessities as other men doe, and as hee himself did yesterday and other dayes before they incaged him; all which being so, how can you make me beleeve that hee goeth inchanted? for I have heard many persons avouch, that inchanted persons neither eat, nor drink, nor speak: and yet my Lord, if hee bee not thwarted, will talk more then twenty Barresters: And then turning towards the Curate, hee said, O Ma­ster Curate, Master Curate, doe you think that I doe not know you? And think you that I doe not suppose, yea, and presage whereto these new inchantments are addressed? [Page] Well, know then that I know you well, although you cover your face never so much, and that I understand your meaning, how deeply soever you smother your drifts: But in fine, where Emulation and Envie raigns, Virtue cannot live; where pinching swayes, liberalitie goes by. A pox take the Devill; for, but for your Reverence, my Lord had e're this time been wedded to the Princesse Micomicona, and I my self had been cre­ated an Earl at least; for no lesse might bee expected either from the bountie of my Lord or the greatnesse of my deserts: but now I perceive that to bee true which is commonly said, That the wheel of Fortune turns about more swiftly then that of a Mill; and that they which were yesterday on the top thereof, lie to day all along on the ground. I am chiefly grieved for my Wife and Children; for whereas they ought and might hope to see their Father come in at his gates made a Governour or Vice-Roy of some Isle or Kingdome, they shall now see him return unto them no better then a poor Horse-Boy: All which I have urged so much, Master Curate, only to intimate to your paternitie, how you ought to have remorse and make a scruple of conscience, of treat­ing my dear Lord as you doe; and look to it well, that God doe not one day demand at your hands, in the other life, amends for the prison whereinto you carrie him, and that you bee not answerable for all the succours and good deeds which hee would have afforded the World in this time of his Captivitie.

Snuffe me those candles, quoth the Barber, hearing him speak so. What Sancho, art thou also of thy Masters confraternity? I swear by the Lord, I begin to see that thou art very like to keep him company in the Cage, and that thou shalt be as deep­ly inchanted as he, for the portion which thou hast of humour, and Chivalry. Thou wast in an ill hour begotten with child by his promises, and in a worse did the Isle, which thou so greatly longest for sink into thy pate. I am not with child by any body, said San­cho, nor am I a man of humour to let any body get me with child, no, though it were the King himself: and although I be poor, yet am I a Christian, and owe no­thing to any one; and if I desire Islands, others there are that desire worse things, and every one is the sonne of his own workes: and under the name of a man, I may become Pope, how much more the Governour of an Island; and chiefly seeing my Lord may gaine so many, as he may want men to bestow them on? and there­fore, Master Barber you should take heed how you speak; for all consists not in trimming of beards: and there is some difference between Peter and Peter. I say it, because all of us know one another, and no man shall unperceived put a false Die upon me. As concerning my Lords inchantment, God knowes the truth, and there­fore let it rest as it is, seeing it is the worse for the stirring in. The Barber would not reply unto Sancho, lest that with his simplicities, he should discover what the Curate and himselfe did labour so much to conceale: and the Curate doubting the same, had intreated the Canon to prick on a little forward, and he would unfold to him the mistery of the encaged Knight, with other matters of delight. The Canon did so, and taking his men along with them, was very attentive to all that he rehear­sed, of the condition, life, madnesse, and fashion of Don-Quixote. There did he briefly acquaint him with the originall cause of his distraction, and all the progresse of his adventures, untill his shutting up in that Cage: and their own designe in car­rying him home to his Country, to try whether they might by any means finde out a re­medy for his frenzy. The Canon and his men again admired to hear so strange a History as that of Don-Quixote, and as soon as the Curate had ended his relation, the Ca­non said:

Verily Master Curate, I doe find by experience, that those Books which are institu­ted of Chivalry, or Knighthood, are very prejudicicall to wel-governed Common­wealths: and although borne away by an idle and curious desire) I have read the be­ginning of almost as many as are imprinted, of that subject, yet could I never indure my selfe to finish and read any one of them thorow: for me thinkes that somewhat more or lesse, they all import one thing, and this hath no more then that, nor the other more then his fellow. And in mine opinion this kinde of writing and invention falls within the compasse of the Fables called Milesid, which are wandring [Page 126] and idle Tales, whose only scope is delight and not instruction; quite contrarie to the project of those called Fabulae Apologae, which delight and instruct together: And though that the principall end of such Books bee recreation, yet cannot I perceive how they can yeeld it, seeing they bee forced with so many and so proportionlesse untruths: For the delight that the minde conceives, must proceed from the beautie and confor­mitie which it sees or contemplates in such things as the sight or imagination represents unto it; and all things that are deformed and discordant, must produce the contrary effect. Now then, what beautie can there be; or what proportion between the parts and the whole, or the whole and the parts, in a Book or Fable, wherein a Youth of sixteen yeers of age gives a blow to a Gyant as great as a Jewes, and with that blow divides him in two as easily as if hee were a pellet of Sugar? And when they describe a Battell, after that they have told us how there were at least a million of men on the adverse side, yet if the Knight of the Book bee against them, wee must of force, and whether wee will or no, understand that the said Knight obtained the Victory through the in­vincible strength of his Arme. what then shall wee say of the facilitie wherewithall the Inheritrix of a Kingdome or Empire falls between the armes of those Errant and un­known Knights? What understanding, if it bee not altogether barren or barbarous, can delight it self, reading how a great Tower full of Knights doth passe thorow the Sea, as fast as a Ship with the most prosperous winde? And that going to Bed a man is in Lombardie, and the next morning findes himself in Prester Iohn's Countrey, among the Indians, or in some other Region which never was discovered by Ptolomeus, nor seen by Marcus Polus? And if I should bee answered, that the inventers of such Books doe write them as Fables: and therefore are not bound unto any respect of circumstances or observation of truth, I would reply, that an untruth is so much the more pleasing, by how much the neerer it resembles a truth; and so much the more gratefull, by how much the more it is doubtfull and possible: For lying Fables must bee suited unto the Readers understanding; and so written, as that facilitating im­possible things, levelling untrue things, and holding the minde in suspence, they may ravish a more delight, and entertain such manners, as pleasure and wonder may step by step walk together; all which things hee that writes not likelihoods shall never bee able to perform. And as touching imitation (wherein consists the perfection of that which is written) I have not seen in any Books of Knight-hood an intire bulk of a Fable, so proportioned in all the members thereof, as that the middle may answer the beginning, and the end the beginning and middle: But rather they have composed them of so many members, as it more probably seems, that the Authours intended to frame Chi­meraes or Monsters then to deliver proportionate figures, most harsh in their stile, in­credible in exploits, impudent in love matters, absurd in complements, prolixe in Bat­tels, fond in discourses, uncertain and senselesse in voyages; and finally, devoid of all discretion, art, and ingenious disposition: And therefore they deserve (as most idle and frivolous things) to bee banished out of all Christian Common-wealths.

Master Curate did listen to the Canon with very great attention; and hee seemed unto him to bee a man of good understanding, and that hee had great reason for what hee had alledged: and therefore said, that in respect they did concur in opinions, and that hee had an old grudge to the vanity of such Books, hee had likewise fired all Don-Quixotes Library, consisting of many Books of that subject: And then hee recounted to him the search and inquisition hee had made of them; and which hee had condemned, and which reserved: Whereat the Canon laughed heartily, and said, that notwith­standing all the evill hee had spoken of such Books, yet did hee finde one good in them, to wit, the subject they offered a good wit to work upon and shew it self in them; for they displayed a large and open plaine, thorow which the Pen might run without let or incumbrances, describing of Ship-wracks, Tempests, Incounters, and Battells; delineating a valorous Captain with all the properties required in him; as wisedome to frustrate the designes of his enemie; eloquence to perswade or disswade his Souldiers; ripenesse in advice; promptnesse in execution; as much valour in attending, as in assaulting of an enemie; deciphering now a lamentable and tragicall successe, then a [Page] joyfull and unexpected event; there a most beautifull, honest, and discreet Ladie, here a valiant courteous and Christian Knight; there an unmeasurable barbarous Braggard, here a gentle, valourous, and wise Prince: Representing the goodnesse and loyaltie of Subjects, the magnificence and bountie of Lords: Sometimes hee may shew himself an Astrologian, sometimes a Cosmographer, sometimes a Musician, sometimes a Statist, and sometimes, if hee please, hee may have occasion to shew himself a Nigromancer: There may hee demonstrate the subtiltie of Vlisses, the pietie of Encas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortune of Hector, the treachery of Sinon, the amitie of Eurialus, the liberallitie of Alexander, the resolution of Caesar, the clemency and truth of Trajanus, the fidelitie of Zopirus, the prudence of Cato; and finally, all those parts that make a worthy man perfect: one whiles by placing them all in one subject; another by di­stributing them among many; and this being done, and set out in a pleasing stile and a wittie fashion that approacheth as neer as is possible unto the truth, will questionlesse remain a work of many fair draughts, which being accomplished, will represent such beauty and perfection, as shall fully attain to the best end aimed at in all writing, that is, as I have said, joyntly to instruct and delight: for the irregularity and liberality of those Books given to the Authour, the means to shew himself an Epick, Lyrick, Trage­dian, and Comedian; with all other things which the most gracefull and pleasant Sci­ences of Poetry and Oratorie include in themselves: for Epicks may bee as well writ­ten in Prose as in Verse.

CHAP. XXI.
Wherein the Canon prosecutes his Discourse upon Books of Chivalrie, and many other things worthy of his wit.

SIR, you say very true, quoth the Curate; and for this very reason are they which have hitherto invented such Books the more wor­thy of reprehension, because they neither heeded the good dis­course, the art, nor the rules, by which they might have guided themselves, and by that means have grown as famous for their Prose as bee the two Princes of the Greek and Latine Poetrie for their Verse. I have for my part, quoth the Canon, at least at­tempted to write a Book of Chivalrie, observing therein all the points by me mentioned: and in truth I have written above a hundred sheets thereof; and to the end that I might trie whether they were correspondent to my estimation, I did communicate them both with certain skillfull and wise men that are marvellously affected to that subject, and with some ignorant persons that only delight to hear fa­natic? [...] [...]nventions; and I have found in them all a great approbation of my labours; yet would I not for all that prosecute the work, as well because it seemed unfit for my Profession, as also because I finde the number of the ignorant to excede that of the ju­dicious: And though more good come to a man by the praise of a few wise men, then hurt by the scoffs of a number of fools, yet would I not willingly subject my self to the confused judgement of the senselesse vulgar, who commonly give themselves most un­to the reading of such Books. But that which most of all rid my hands, yea, and my memorie, of all desire to end it, was this argument, drawn from our modern Comedies, and thus made to my self: If those (as well the Fictions, as Historicall ones) are all or the most part of them notorious Fopperies, and things without either head or foot, and yet are by the vulgar heard with such delight, and held and approved for good: and both the Authours that compose them, and Actors that represent them say, that they must bee such as they bee for to please the Peoples humors, and not more con­formable [Page 127] to reason or truth, and that, because those wherein Decorum is observed, and the fable followed according to the rules of Art, serve onely for three or four discreete men (If so many may be found at a Play) which doe attend unto them, and all the rest of the Auditors remaine fasting, by reason they cannot conceive the arti­ficiall contexture thereof; therefore is it better for them to gaine good money and meanes by many, then bare opinion or applause by a few. The very same would bee the end of my Booke, after I had used all possible industrie to ob­serve the aforesaid precept; and I should remaine only for a neede, and as the Taylour that dwels in a corner, without trade or estimation.

And although I have sundry times indeavoured to perswade the Players, that their opinion was erronious herein, and that they would attract more people, and acquire greater fame by acting artificiall Comedies, then those irregular, and methodicall Playes then used: yet are they so wedded to their opinion, as no reason can woo, nor demonstration winn them from it. I remember, how dealing upon a day with one of those obstinate fellowes, I said unto him, Doe not you remember, how a few yeers agoe were represented in Spaine three Tragedies, written by a famous Poet of our Kingdome, which were such as delighted, yea and amazed all the auditors, as well the learned as the simple, the exact as the slight ones; and that the Players got more by those three alone, then by thirtie of the best that were penned, or acted since that time? You mean, without question, quoth the Actor answering me, Issabella, Filis, and Alexandra. The very same, quoth I; and note whether in them were not right­ly observed all the rules and precepts of Art: and yet thereby they neither wanted any part of their dignitie, nor the approbation of all the world. So that I inferr the fault not to be in the vulgar that covets idle toyes, but rather in those which know not how to penn or act any other thing: for no such fond stuffe was in the Comedie of Ingratitude revenged, nor found in Numantia, nor perceived in that of the Amo­rous Merchant, and much lesse in the Favourable enemy, nor in some others made by judicious Poets, which both redounded to their infinite fame and renowne, and yeel­ded unto these Actors aboundant gain. To these I added other reasons, wherewith I left him, in mine opinion, somewhat perplexed, but not satisfied, or desirous to for­goe his erronious opinion.

Truely, Master Canon, quoth the Curate, you have touched a matter that hath rowsed an ancient rancour and heart-burning of mine against the Comedies now in re­quest; the which is equall to the grudge that I beare to Bookes of Knight-hood. For seeing the Comedie, as Tully affirms, ought to be a mirrour of mans life, a pattern of manners, and an Image of truth: Those that are now exhibited, are mirrours of vanity, patterns of folly, and Images of voluptuousnesse. For what greater absurditie can be in such a subject; then to see a Child come out, in the first Scene, of the first Act, in his swadling Clouts, and issue in the second already grown a man, yea, a bearded man? And what greater vanity, then to present before us a valiant old man, and a yong co­ward? A Lay man become a Divine? a Page a Councellor? a King a Scoundrell? and a Princesse a Scowre-kettle? What should I say, of the little care had of the due observation of time, for the succeeding of that they represent, other then that I my selfe have seene Comedies, whose first Act began in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third ended in Africa: and truely if there had beene a fourth, it would que­stionlesse have finished in America, and by consequence wee should have seene a round walk about the four parts of the World. And fayning an exployt performed in the time of King Pepin, or of Charlemaine, they make the principall Actours thereof, eyther Heraclius the Emperour that entred into Hierusalem bearing of the holy Crosse; or Godfrey of Bulloin that recovered the Holy-land; Many yeeres, yea and ages having occurred between the times of the one and the other: yea and the Come­die being grounded on a fiction, to attribute unto it the verities of a History, and mingle it and patch it up, with peeces of others, having relation to different persons and times; and this with no plausible invention, or draught resembling the truth, but rather with palpable, grosse, and inexcusable errours. And which is worse, some guls [Page] are found to affirme, that all perfection consists herein, and that they are too dainty that look for any other.

Now, if we would passe further, to examine the divine Comedies that treat of God, or the lives of Saints, what a multitude of false miracles do the composers de­vise? what a bulke of matters Apocryphall, and ill-understood? attributing to one Saint the miracles done by another? yea and in humane Comedies they presume to doe miracles (without farther respect, or consideration, but that such a miracle or shew, as they term it, would doe well in such a place) to the end that the ignorant folk may admire them, and come the more willingly to them: all which doth pre­judice truth, discredit histories, and turn to the disgrace of our Spanish wits: for stran­gers, which doe with much punctualitie observe the method of Comedies, hold us to be rude and ignorant, when they see such follies, and absurdities escape us: and it will be no sufficient excuse for this errour, to say, that the principall end of well-governed Commonwealths, in the permitting of comedies, is onely to entertaine the commu­naltie with some honest pastime, and thereby divert the exorbitant and vicious humors which idlenesse is wont to ingender: and seeing that this end is attained to by what­soever Comedies good or bad, it were to no purpose to appoint any Laws or limits unto them, or to tye the Composers to frame, or Actors to play them, as they should doe: For hereunto I answer, that this end would without all comparison bee com­passed better by good Comedies then by evill ones: for the Auditour having heard an artificall and well-ordered Comedie, would come away delighted with the Jests and instructed by the truths thereof, wondring at the successes, grow discreeter by the reasons, warned by the deceits, become wise by others example, incensed against vice, and enamoured of virtue; all which affects a good Comedie should stirr up in the hearers minde, were hee never so grosse or clownish: And it is of all impossibilities the most impossible, that a Comedie consisting of all these parts should not entertain delight, satisfie and content the minde much more then another that should bee de­fective in any of them, as most of our now-a-day Comedies bee. Nor are the Poets that Pen them chiefly to bee blamed for this abuse; for some of them know very well where the errour lurks, and know also as well how to redresse it. But because that Co­medies are become a vendible Merchandize, they affirm, and therein tell the plain truth, that the Players would not buy them if they were of any other then the accustomed kinde; and therefore the Poet indeavors to accommodate himself to the humour of the Player, who is to pay him for his labour: And that this is the truth, may bee ga­thered by an infinite number of Comedies, which a most happie wit of this Kingdome hath composed with such delicacie, so many good Jests, so elegant a Verse, so excellent Reasons, so grave Sentences; and finally, with so much eloquence and such a loftinesse of stile, as hee hath filled the World with his fame; and yet by reason that hee was forced to accommodate himself to the Actors, all of them have not arrived to the height: of perfection which Art requires. Others there are, that write without any judgement, and with so little heed of what they doe, as after their works have been once acted, the Players are constrained to run away and hide themselves, fearing to bee punished, as often they have been for acting things obnoxious to the Prince, or scandalous to some Families.

All which inconveniences might bee redressed if there were some understanding and discreet person ordained at the Court to examine all Comedies before they were Acted, and that not only such as were played at the Court it self, but also all others that were to bee Acted throughout Spain, without whose allowance, under his hand and seal, the Magistrate of no Town should permit any Comedie to bee played: By which means the Players would diligently send their Playes to the Court, and might boldly after­wards Act them, and the composers would with more care and studie examine their Labours, knowing that they should passe the strict censure of him that could understand them: And by this means would good Comedies bee written, and the thing intended by them most easily attained to, viz. entertainment of the People, the good opinion of Spanish wits, the profit and security of the Players, and the saving of the care that [Page 128] is now imployed in chastising their rashnesse. And if the same charge were given to this man, or to some other, to examine the Books of Knight-hood which should bee made hereafter, some of them doubtlesse would bee put forth, adorned with that perfection whereof you spoke but now, inriching our language with the pleasing and precious treasure of eloquence, and being an occasion that the old Books would become obscure in the bright presence of those new ones published, for the honest recreation, not only of the idler sort, but also of those that have more serious occupations: For it is not possible for the bow to continue still bent; nor can our humane and fraile nature su­stain it self long without some help of lawfull recreation.

The Canon and Curate had arrived to this point of their discourse, when the Barber spurring on and overtaking them, said to the Curate, This is the place I lately told you was fit to passe over the heat of the day in, while the Oxen baited amidest the fresh and aboundant Pastures. It likes me very well, quoth the Curate: and tel­ling the Canon what hee meant to doe, hee also was pleased to remain with them, as well invited by the prospect of a beautifull Valley which offered it self to their view, as also to injoy the Curates conversation, towards whom hee began to bear a marvel­lous affection: And lastly, with the desires hee had to bee thorowly acquainted with Don-Quixotes Adventures, therefore hee gave order to some of his men, that they should ride to the Inne, which was hard by, and bring from thence what meat they could finde, sufficient to satisfie them all, because hee meant likewise to passe the hot time of the day in that place. To which one of his men did answer, that their sump­ture Mule was by that time, as hee thought, in the Inne, so copiously furnished with provision of meat, that, as hee supposed, they needed not buy any thing there but barley for their Mules. If it be so, quoth the Canon, let our Mules be carried thither, and the sumpture one returned hither.

Whilest this passed, Sancho being free from the continuall presence of the Curate and Barber, whom hee held as suspected persons, thought it a fit time to speak with his Lord; and therefore drew neer to the Cage wherein he sate, and said to him in this manner: Sir, that I may discharge my conscience, I will reveal unto you all that hath past in this affair of your inchantment; which briefly is, that those two which ride with their faces covered are the Curate of our Village and the Barber, and as I ima­gine they both are the Plotters of this your kinde of carrying away, for meer emulation that they see you surpasse them both in atchieving of famous Acts: This truth being presupposed, it follows that you are not Inchanted, but beguiled and made a fool: For the proof whereof I will but demand of you one question; and if you doe answer me according to my expectation, as I beleeve you will, you shall feel the deceit with your own hands and perceive how you are not inchanted, but rather have your wits turned upside-down.

Sonne Sancho demand what thou wilt, quoth Don-Quixote, and I will satisfie thee, and answer directly to thy desire: But as touching thy averment, that those which goe along with us, be the Curate and Barber, our Gossips, and old acquaintance; it may well befall that they seem to be such; but that they are so really, and in effect, I would not have thee beleeve in any manner: For that which thou art to believe and shouldest understand in this matter is, that if they bee like those our friends, as thou sayest, it must needs bee that those which have inchanted me, have assumed their semblance and like­nesse (for it is an easie thing for Magicians to put on any shape they please) thereby to give thee occasion to think that which thou doest, to drive thee into such a Labyrinth of imaginations as thou shalt not afterwards know how to sally out, although thou hadst the assistance of Theseus clew; and withall to make me waver in mine under­standing, to the end I may not conjecture from whence this charme is derived unto me: for if thou on the one side doest affirm, that the Barber and Curate of our Village doe accompanie me; and I on the other side finde my self incaged, and am so assured of mine own force, that no humane strength, bee it not supernaturall, is able thus to incage me; what wouldest thou have me to say or think, but that the manner of mine inchantment exceeds as many as ever I read throughout all the Histories intreating of [Page] Knights Errant, which have beene inchanted? Wherefore thou maiest very well appease, and quiet thy selfe in that point of beleeving them to be those thou sayest, for they are those, as much as I am a Turke: and as touching thy desire to de­mand somewhat of me, speake, for I will answer thee, although, thou puttest mee questions untill to morrow morning.

Our Lady assist me, quoth Sancho (as loud as he could) and is it possible that you are so brain-sicke, and hard-headed, as you cannot perceive that I affirme the very pure truth, and that malice hath a greater stroke in this your disgrace and imployment then any inchantments? But seeing it is so, I will proove evidently that you are not in­chanted: if not, tell me, as God shall deliver you out of this tempest, and as you shall see your self, when you least think of it, in my Lady Dulcinea's armes. Make an end of conjuring me, said Don-Quixote, and aske me what question thou wilt; for I have al­ready told thee, that I will answer with all punctuality. That is it I demand, quoth Sancho; and the thing I would know, is, that you tell me without adding or diminish­ing ought, but with all truth used or looked for of all those which professe the exercise of armes as you doe, under the title of Knights Errants. I say, answered Don-Quixote, that I will not lie a jot: make therefore a beginning, or an end of these demands, for in good sooth thou dost weary me with so many salutations, petitions and preventions. Sancho replyed, I say that I am secure of the bounty aud truth of my Lord: and there­fore, because it makes to the purpose in our affaire, I doe with all respect demand, whether your Worship, since your incagement, and as you imagine, inchantment in that coope, have not had a desire to make greater or lesse water, as men are wont to say? I doe not understand, good Sancho, that phrase of making water: and therefore explicate thy selfe, if thou wouldest have me to answer thee directly. And is it pos­sible, replied he, that your Worship understands not what it is to make great or little waters? then goe to some schoole, and learn it of the boyes, and know that I would say, Have you had a desire to doe that which cannot be undone? O now, now, I un­derstand thee, Sancho. Yes, very many times [...] yea and even now I have: wherefore, I pray thee, deliver me from the extremity thereof; for I promise thee, I am not alto­gether so clean as I would be.

CHAP. XXII.
Wherein the discreete discourse that passed betweene Sancho Pan­ca, and his Lord Don-Quixote, is expressed.

HA, quoth Sancho, have I caught you at last? this is that which I de­sired to know, as much as my soule or life, come now, Sir and tell me, can you deny that which is wont to be said, when a body is ill disposed, I know not what ayles such a one; for he neither eates nor drinks, nor sleepes, nor answers directly to that which is de­manded him, so as it seemes that he is inchanted? By which may be collected, that such as neither eat, drink, sleepe, nor doe the other naturall things you wote of, are inchanted: but not those which have a desire as you have, and eate meate, when they get it, and drink drink when it is given them, and answer to all is propounded unto them. Thou sayest true, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote: but I have told the already, that there are divers sorts of inchantments, and perhaps they change with the times from one kinde into another; and that now the inchanted use to doe all that which I do, although they did not so in times past; and therefore there is no disputting, or drawing of conclusions against the customes of the time. I know, and doe verily perswade my self, that I am inchanted, and that is sufficient for the dis­charge [Page 129] of my conscience, which would bee gratly burdened if I thought that I were not inchanted, and yet permitted my self to bee borne away in this Cage idly; and like a Coward with-holding the succour I might give to many distressed and needy persons, which even at this hour bee like enough to have extream want of mine aide and assi­stance. Yet say I, notwithstanding, replyed Sancho, that for more aboundant satis­faction, your Worship might doe well to attempt the getting out of this prison, the which I doe obliege my self with all my power to facilitate, yea and to get out, and then you may recount eftsoons on the good Rozinante, who also seems inchanted, so sad and melancholy hee goes: And this being done, wee may again assay the fortune of seeking Adventures, which if it have no good successe wee have time enough to return to our Cage; wherein I promise, by the faith of a good and loyall Squire, to shut up my self together with you, if you shall prove so unfortunate, or I so foolish, as not to bring our Designes to a good issue. I am content to doe what thou sayest, brother Sancho, replyed Don-Quixote, and when thou seest oportunitie offered to free me, I will bee ruled by thee in every thing; but yet thou shalt see how far thou art over-wrought in the knowledge thou wilt seem to have of my dis­grace.

The Knight Errant and the ill errant Squire beguiled the time in these discourses, untill they arrived to the place where the Canon, Curate, and Barber expected them: And then Sancho alighting, and helping to take down the Cage, the Wayn-man un­yoked his Oxen, permitting them to take the benefit of pasture in that green and plea­sant Valley, whose Verdure invited not such to enjoy it as were inchanted like Don-Quixote, but rather such heedfull and discreeet persons as was his man, who intreated the Curate to licence his Lord to come out but a little while; for otherwise the Prison would not bee so cleanly as the presence of so Worthie a Knight as his Lord was re­quired. The Curate understood his meaning, and answered that he would satisfie his requests very willingly, but that hee feared when hee saw himself at libertie, hee would play then some prank or other, and goe whither no body should ever set eye on him after. I will bee his surety that hee shall not flie away, quoth Sancho. And I also, quoth the Canon, if hee will but promise me, as hee is a Knight, that hee will not depart from us without our consent. I give my word that I will not, quoth Don-Quixote (who heard all that they had said) and the rather, because that inchanted bodies have not free will to dispose of themselves as they list; for hee that inchanted them, may make them unable to stir from one place in three dayes; and if they make an escape, hee can compell them to return flying: and therefore, since it was so, they might securely set him at libertie, especially seeing it would redound so much to all their benefits; for if they did not free him, or get further off, hee protested that hee could not forbear to offend their noses. The Canon took his hand (although it were bound) and by his faith and word that hee would not depart, and then they gave him liberty; whereat hee infinitely rejoyced, especially seeing himself out of the Cage. The first thing that hee did after, was to stretch all his bodie, and then hee went towards Rozinante, and striking him twice or thrice on the buttocks, hee said; I hope yet in God and his blessed Mother, O flower and Mirror of Horses, that wee two shall see our selves very soon in that state which our hearts desire; thou with thy Lord on thy back, and I mounted on thee and exercising the function for which God sent me into this World: And saying so, Don-Quixote with his Squire Sancho retired himself somewhat from the com­panie, and came back soon after a little more lightned, but greatly desiring to execute his Squires Designes.

The Canon beheld him very earnestly, and with admiration wondring to see the strangenesse of his fond humour, and how that hee shewed, in whatsoever hee uttered, a very good understanding, and only left the stirrops (as is said before) when any men­tion was made of Chivalrie; and therefore moved to compassion, after they were all laid down along upon the grasse, expecting their dinner, hee said unto him, Gentleman, is it possible that the idle and unsavourie Lecture of Books of Knight-hood hath so much distracted your wit, as thus to beleeve that you are carried away inchanted, with [Page] other things of that kinde, as much wide from truth, as untruths can be from verity it self? or how is it possible that any humane understanding can frame it self to beleeve, that in this world there have been such an infinite of Amadises, such a crue of famous Knights, so many Emperours of Trapisonda, such a number of Felixmartes of Hyrca­nia; so many Palfrayes, Damzels Errant, Serpents, Robbers, Giants, Battailes, un­heard of adventures, sundry kinds of inchantments, such unmeasureable incounters, such braverie of apparell, such a multitude of enamoured and valiant Princesses, so ma­ny Squires, Earles, witty Dwarfes, Viragoes, love-Letters, amorous dalliances; and fi­nally, so many, so unreasonable, and impossible Adventures as are contayned in the bookes of Knighthood.

Thus much I dare avouch of my selfe, that when I reade them, as long as I doe not thinke that they are all but toyes and untruths, they delight mee; but when I ponder seriously what they are, I throw the very best of them against the walls, yea, and would throw them into the fire if they were neere mee, or in my hands, having well deserved that severitie, as false Impostors and Seducers of common sense, as brochers of new Sects and of uncouth courses of life, as those that give occasion to the ignorant vulgar, to beleeve in such exorbitant untruths as are contained in them: Yea, and are withall so presumptuous, as to dare to confound the wits of the most discreete and best descen­ded Gentlemen; as wee may cleerely perceive by that they have done to your selfe, whom they have brought to such termes, as it is necessarie to shut you up in a Cage and carry you on a Team of Oxen, even as one carries a Lyon or Tygre from place to place, to gayne a living by the shewing of him. Therefore good Sir Don-Quixote, take com­passion of your selfe, and returne into the bosom of discretion, and learne to imploy the most happy talent of understanding and abundance of wit, wherewith bountifull heaven hath enriched you, yet some other course of stud [...]e which may redound to the profit of your Soule, and advancement of your credit and estate. And if, borne away by your naturall disposition, you will yet persist in the reading of Warlike and Knightly discourses; Reade in the holy Scripture the Acts of Judges, for there you shall finde surpassing feats and deeds, as true, as valorous. Portugal had a Viriate; Rome a Caesar; Carthage a Hanniball; Greece an Alexander; Castile an Earle; Fe [...]nun Goncalez; Vàlencia a Cid; Andaluzia a Goncalo Fernandez; Estremaduza a Diego; Garcia de Paredes; Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas; Toledo a Garcia Lasso; Si [...]ill a Do [...] Manuel de Leon. The discourses of whose valorous Acts, may Entertayne, Teach, Delight and make Wonder the most sublime Wit that shall reade them. Yea, this were indeede a Studie fit for your sharpe understanding, my deere Sir Don-Qui­xote, for by this you should become learned in Histories, enamoured of Virtue, instructed in Goodnesse, bettered in Manners, Valiant without Rashnesse, Bold without Cowardice: And all this to Gods Honour, your owne Profit, and Re­nowne of the Mancha, from whence, as I have learned, you deduce your beginning and Progenie.

Don-Quixote listened with all attention unto the Canons admonition, and per­ceiving that hee was come to an end of them, after hee had looked upon him a good while he said; Me thinks Gentleman, that the scope of your discourse hath been addrest to perswade me, that there never were any Knights Errant in the world, and that all the bookes of Chivalry are false, lying, hurtfull, and unprofitable to the Common­wealth, and that I have done ill to reade them, worse to beleeve in them, and worst of all to follow them, by having thus taken on mee the most austere profession of wan­dring Knighthood, whereof they intreate; denying moreover that there were ever a­ny Amadises, eyther of Gaule or Greece; or any of all the other Knights, wherewith such bookes are stuffed: All is just as you have said, quoth the Cannon; whereto Don-Quixote replyed thus; You also added, that such bookes had done mee much hurt, seeing they had turned my judgement, and immured mee up in this Cage, and that it were better for mee to make some amendment, and alter my Studie, reading other that are more Authenticall, and delight and instruct much better. It is very true, an­swered the Canon.

[Page 130]Why then, quoth Don-Quixote, I finde by mine accounts, that the inchanted and senslesse man is your selfe, seeing you have bent your selfe to speake so many blasphe­mies against a thing so true, so currant, and of such request in the world, as hee that should deny it, as you doe, merits the same punishment, which as you say you give to those bookes, when the reading thereof offends you; for to goe about to make men beleeve that Amadis never lived, nor any other of those Knights wherewith Histories are fully replenished, would bee none other then to perswade them that the Sunne lightens not, the Earth sustaines not, nor the Ice makes any thing cold. See what wit is there in the world so profound, that can induce another to beleeve that the History of Guy of Burgundie, and the Princes Floripes was not true? Nor that of Fierabras, with the Bridg of Mantible, which befell in Charlemaines time, and is I swear, as true, as that it is day at this instant? And if it be a Lie, so must it be also that ever there was an Hector, Achilles, or the War of Troy; The twelve Peeres of France, or King Arthur of Bri­taine, who goes yet about the world in the shape of a Crow, and is every foote expe­cted in his Kingdome. And they will as well presume to say, that the History of Gua­rino Mezquino, and of the quest of the holy Sangriall bee lies; and that for the love be­tweene Sir Tristram and La Bella Ysonde, and betweene Queene Guenevor and Sir Lan­celot Dulake, wee have no sufficient authoritie, and yet there bee certaine persons alive, which almost remember that they have seene the Ladie Quintaniona, who was one of the best skinkers of Wine that ever Great Brittaine had; and this is so certaine, as I remem­ber, that one of my Grand-mothers of my Fathers side, was wont to say unto mee, when shee saw my Matrone, with a long and reverend Kerchief or Vaile; My Boy, that woman resembles very much Lady Quintaniona. From which I argue, that eyther shee knew her her self, or at the least, had seene some Portraiture of hers. Who can moreo­ver denie the certaintie of the Historie of Peter of Provance, and the beautifull Mago­lona, seeing that untill this very day one may behold in the Kings Armory, the Pinne wherewith hee guided and turned any way hee listed the horse of wood, whereupon hee rode through the Ayre; which Pinne is a little bigger then the Thill of a Cart; and neere unto it is also seene Babieca his saddle; and in Roncesuals there yet hangs Rowlands horne, which is as big as a very great joyst, whence is inferred, that there were twelve Peeres; that there was a Pierres of Provance; that also there were Cids, and other such Knights as those which the world termes Adventurers: if not, let them also tell mee, that the valiant Lusitanian, Iohn de Melo was no Knight Errant, who went to Burgundie, and in the Citie of Ras fought with the famous Lord of Charni, called Mo­sen Pierres, and after with Mosen Henry of Ramestan in the Citie of Basilea, and bore away the Victorie in both the conflicts, to his eternall Fame: And that there were no such curres as the Adventures, and single Combats begunne and ended in Burgun­die, by the valiant Spanyards Pedro Garba, and Guttierre Quixad [...] (from whom I my selfe am lineally descended) who overcame the Earle of Saint Paules sonnes. They may also averre unto mee that Don Fernando de Guevarra went not to seeke Adven­tures in Germanie, where hee fought with Micer George, a Knight of the Duke of Austria his House. Let them likewise affirme, that Suero de Quinonnes of the pas­sage, his Justs were but Jests; as [...] the Enterprize of Mosen Lewis de falses, a­gainst Don Goncalo de Guzman, a Gentleman of Castile, with many other renow­ned Acts, done as well by Christian Knights of this Kingdom, as of other forraign Lands, which are all so authentical & true, as that I am compell'd to reiterate what I said before, which is [...] That whosoever denies them is defective of Reason and good Dis­course.

Full of admiration remained the good Canon, to heare the composition and medley that Don-Quixote made of truths and fictions together; and at the great notice hee had of all things that might any way cocerne his Knighthood Errant; and therefore he sha­ped him this answere; I cannot denie, Sir Don-Quixote, but that some part of that which you have said is true, specially touching those Spanish Adventurers of whom you have spoken, and will likewise grant you, that there were twelve Peeres of France, but I will not beleeve that they have accomplished all that which the Archbishop Tur­pine [Page] pine hath left written of them; for the bare truth of the affair is, that they were certain Noble men chosen out by the Kings of France, whom they called Peers, because they were all equall in Valour, Qualitie and Worth; or if they were not, it was at least pre­sumed that they were; and they were not much unlike the Militarie orders of Saint Iames or Calatrava, were in request, wherein is presupposed that such as are of the Profession are, or ought to bee valorous and well descended Gentlemen: and as now they say a Knight of Saint Iohn or Alcantara, so in those times they said a Knight of the twelve Peers, because they were twelve equalls chosen to bee of that Military Order. That there was a Cid and a Bernard of Carpio is also doubtlesse; that they have done the Acts recounted of them, I beleeve there is very great cause to doubt. As touching the pin of the good Earl Pierres, and that it is by Babieca his saddle in the Kings Armorie, I confesse that my sin hath made me so ignorant or blinde, that although I have viewed the Saddle very well, yet could I never get a sight of that Pin how great soever you affirm it to be.

Well, it is there without question, quoth Don-Quixote; and for the greater con­firmation thereof, they say it is laid up in a case of Neats leather to keep it from rusting. That may very well so bee, said the Canon: yet by the orders that I have received, I doe not remember that ever I saw it: and although I should grant it to bee there, yet doe I not therefore oblige my self to believe the Histories of all the Amadises, nor those of the other rabblement of Knights which Books doe mention unto us; nor is it reason that so honourable a man, adorn'd with so many good parts and indowed with such a wit, as you are, should beleeve that so many and so strange follies as are writ­ten in the raving Books of Chivalraie, can bee true.

CHAP. XXIII.
Of the discreet contention between Don-Quixote and the Canon, with other accidents.

THat were a Jest indeed, quoth Don-Quixote, that Books which are printed with the Kings licence, and approbation of those to whom their examination was commited, and that are read with universall delight and acceptance, and celebrated by great and little, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, Plebeyans and Gentlemen; and finally, by all kinde of persons of what state or condition soever, should bee so lying and fabulous, spe­cially seeing they have such probability of truth; seeing they describe unto us the Father, Mother, Countrey, Kinsfolk, Age, Town, and Acts of such a Knight or Knights, and that so exactly, point by point, and day by day. Hold your peace, and never speak again such a blasphemie, and beleeve me; for I doe sincerely councell you, what you, as a discreet man, ought to doe herein; and if not, read them but once, and you shall see what delight you shall receive thereby: if not, tell me; what greater pleasure can there bee then to behold (as one would say) even here and before our eyes a great Lake of Pitch boyling-hot, and many Serpents, Snakes, Lizarts, and other kindes of cruell and dreadfull Beasts swimming a thwart it and in every part of it; and that there issues out of the Lake a most lamentable voyce, saying: O thou Knight, whatsoever thou art, which doest behold the fearfull Lake; if thou desirest to obtain the good concealed under these horrid and black waters, show the valour of thy strong brest, and throw thy self into the midest of this sable, and inflamed liquor: for if thou doest not so, thou shall not be worthy to discover the great wonders hidden in the seven Castles of the seven Fates, which are seated under these gloomie waves: And [Page 131] that scarce hath the Knight heard the fearfull voyce, when without entring into any new discourses, or once considering the danger whereinto hee thrusts himself, yea or easing himself of the weight of his ponderous Armour, but only commending himself unto God, and his Ladie Mistrisse, hee plunges into the midest of that burning puddle, and when hee neither cares nor knows what may befall him, hee findes himself in the midest of flourishing Fields, with which the very Elisean Plains can in no sort bee com­pared; There it seems to him that the element is more transparent, and that the Sun shines with a cleerer light then in our Orbe: There offers it self to his greedie and curious eye, a most pleasing Forrest replenished with so green and well-spread. Trees, as the verdure thereof both joyes and quickens the sight; whilest the eares are enter­tained by the harmonious, though artlesse Songs of infinite and enamelled. Birds, which traverse the intricate boughs of that shadie habitation: Here hee discovers a small stream whose fresh waters, resembling liquid Cristall, slides over the small Sands and white little stones, resembling sifted Gold wherein Orientall Pearls are inchaced: There hee discerns an artificiall Fountain wrought of motly Jasper and smooth Marble; and hard by it another rudely and negligently framed, wherein the sundry Cockle-shels with the wreathed white and yellow houses of the Perwinkle and Snail intermingled, and placed after a disorderly manner (having now and then peeces of cleer Cristall and counterfeit Emeralds mingled among them) doe make a work of so gracefull varietie, as Art imitating Nature, doth herein seem to surpasse her.

Suddainly he discovers a strong Castle or goodly Palace, whose walles are of beaten gold, the pinacles of Diamonds, the gates of Iacinths; finally, it is of so ex­quisite Workemanship, as although the materials whereof it is built, are no worse then Diamonds, Carbuncles, Rubies, Emeralds, Pearles, and Gold, yet is the Archi­tecture thereof of more estimation and value then they, and is there any more to be seen, after the seeing hereof, then to see sallie out at the Castle gates, a goodly troup of lovely Damzels, whose brave and costly attyre, if I should attempt to describe, as it is laid down in Histories, we should never make an end? and she that seems the chiefest of all, to take presently our bold Knight, that threw himself into the boyling Lake, by the hand, and carry him into the rich Castle or Palace without speaking a word, and cause him to strip himself, as naked, as he was when his Mother bore him, and bathe him in very temperate waters, and afterwards anoint him all over with precious oyntments, and put on him a shirt of most fine, odoriferous, and perfumed Sendall, and then another Damzell to come suddainly, and cast on his back a rich mantle, which they say is wont to be worth, at the very least a rich Citty, yea and more. Then what a sport it is, when they tell us after, that after this he is carried into another Hall, where he finds the tables covered so orderly as he rests amazed? what, to see cast on his hands water distilled all of Amber, and most fragrant flowers? what, to see him seated in a chaire of Ivory? what, to see him served by all the Damzels with marvellous silence? what the setting before him such variety of accares, and those so excellently dressed, as his appetite knowes not to which of them it shall first ad­dresse his hand? what to hear the Musicke which sounds whilst he is at dinner, with­out knowing who makes it, or whence it comes? and after that dinner is ended, and the tables taken away, the Knight to remaine leaning on a chaire, and perhaps picking of his teeth, as the custome is, and on a suddaine to enter at the Hall-door another much more beautifull Damzell then any of the former, and to sit by his side, and be­gin to recount unto him what Castle that is, and how she is inchanted therein, with many other things that amazed the Knight and amazed the Readers. I will not en­large my self any more in this matter, seeing that you may collect out of that which I have said, that any part that is read of any book of a Knight Errant, will delight, and astonish him, that shall peruse it with attention: and therefore I pray you beleeve me, and as I have said already, reade those kinde of books, and you shall finde, that they will exile all the Melancholy that shall trouble you, and rectifie your disposition, if by fortune it be depraved: for I dare affirme of my self, that since I am become a Knight Errant, I am valiant, courteous, liberall, well-manner'd, generous, gentle, bold, [Page] mild, patient, and indurer of labours, imprisonments, and inchantments: and al­though it be but so little a while since I was shut up in a Cage like a mad man, yet doe I hope by the valour of mine arme (heaven concurring, and fortune not crossing me) to see my self within a few daies, the King of some Kingdoms, wherein I may shew the bounty and liberality included within my brest. For in good truth, Sir, a poor man is made unable to manifest the virtue of liberality toward any other, al­though he virtually possesse it himself in a most eminent degree: and the will to gra­tifie, which onely consists of will, is a dead thing, as Faith without Works. For which cause I doe wish, that fortune would quickly present me some occasion whereby I might make my self an Emperour; that I may discover the desire I have to doe good unto my friends, but especially to this my poor Squire, Sancho Panca, who is one of the honestest men in the world, on whom I would faine bestow the Earledome which I promised him many daies past, but that I fear me he will not be able to governe his estate.

Sancho overhearing those last words of his Masters, said Labour you, Sir Don-Quixote, to get me that Earledome as often promised by you, as much longed for by me, and I promise you that I will not want sufficiency to governe it; and though I should, yet have I heard say, that there are men in the world, who take Lordships to farme paying the Lord so much by the yeer, and undertaking the care of the go­vernment thereof, whilst the Lord himself with outstretched legs doth live at his ease; enjoying the rents they bring him, and caring for nothing else: and so will I do, and will not stand wracking it to the utmost, but presently desist from all administration and live merily upon my Rent, like a young Duke; and so let the World wag and goe how it will. That, friend Sancho, is to bee understood, quoth the Canon, of enjoying the Revenues; but as concerning the administration of Justice, the Lord of the Seig­niory is bound to look to it; in that is required a sufficiencie and abilitie to govern, and above all, a good intention to deal justly, and determine rightly; for if this bee wanting when wee begin, our means and ends will alwaies bee subject to errour: And therefore is God wont as well to further the good Designes of the simple, as to disfavour the bad ones of those that be wittily wicked.

I understand not those Philosophies, quoth Sancho Panca; but this I know well, that I would I had as speedily the Earldome, as I could tell how to govern it; for I have as much Soul as another, and as much Body as hee that hath most; and I would bee as absolute a King in my estate, as any one would bee in his; and being such, I would doe what I liked; and doing what I liked, I would take my pleasure; and taking my pleasure, I would bee content; and when one is content, hee hath no more to desire; and having no more to desire, the matter were ended: and then come the state when it will, or farewell it, and let us behold our selves, as one blinde man said to another. They are no bad Philosophies which thou comest out with, kinde Sancho, quoth the Canon; but yet for all that there is much to bee said concerning this matter of Earldomes. To that Don-Quixote replyed, I know not what more may bee said, only I govern my self by the example of Amadis de Gaule, who made his Squire Earl of the firm Island; and therefore I may without scruple of conscience make Sancho Panca an Earl; for hee is one of the best Squires that ever Knight Errant had. The Canon abode amazed at the well compacted and orderly ravings of Don-Quixote; at the manner wherewith hee had deciphred the Adventure of the Knight of the Lake; at the impression which his lying Books had made into him: and finally hee wondred at the simplicity of Sancho Panca, who so earnestly desired to bee made Earl of the County his Lord had promised him.

By this time the Canons Serving-men, which had gone to the Inne for the sumpture Mule, were returned, and making their Table of a Carpet and of the green grasse of that Meddow, they sate down under the shadow of the Trees and did eate there, to the end that the Wain-man might not lose the commoditie of the Pasture, as wee have said before; And as they sate at dinner, they suddainly heard the sound of a little Bell issuing from among the Bryers and Brambles that were at hand; and instantly after they saw [Page 132] come out of the Thicket a very fair shee-Goate, whose hide was powdred all over with black, white & brown spots: after her followed a Goat-heard crying unto her, and in his language, bidding her stay or return to the Fold; but the fugitive Goat, all affrighted and fearfull, ran towards the companie, and as it were seeking in her dumbe manner to bee protected, strayed neer unto them: Then did the Goat-heard arive; and laying hold of her hornes (as if shee had been capable of his reprehension) said unto her; O yee wanton Ape, yee spotted Elfe; how come yee to halt with me of late dayes? What Wolves doe skarre your daughter? Will you not tell me, fair, what the matter is? But what can it be other then that you are a female, and therefore can never bee quiet? A foul evill take your conditions, and all theirs whom you so much resemble: Turn back, love, turn back, and though you bee not so content withall, yet shall you at least bee more safe in your own Fold, and among the rest of your fellows: for if you that should guide and direct them, goe thus distracted and wandring, what then must they doe? what will become of them?

The Goat-heards words did not a little delight the hearers, but principally the Ca­non, who said unto him, I pray thee, good fellow, take thy rest heere a while, and doe not hasten that Goat so much to her Fold for seeing she is a female, as thou sayest, she will follow her naturall instinct, how much soever thou opposest thy selfe unto it: take therefore that bit, and drink a draught wherewithall thou maiest temper thy choller, and the Goate will rest her the whilst: and saying so, he gave him the hinder quarter of a cold Rabbet: which he receiving, rendered him many thanks and drinking a draught of wine, did pacifie himself, and said presently after, I would not have you, my Masters, account me simple, although I spoke to this beast in so earnest a fashion; for in truth the words which I used unto her, were not without some mistery, I am indeed rustick, and yet not so much, but that I know how to converse with men, and with beasts. I beleeve that easily, quoth the Curate, for I know already by experience, that the woods breed learned men, and sheep-coats containe Philosophers. At the least, Sir, replyed the Goat-heard, they have among them experienced men: and that you may give the more credit to this truth, and as it were, touch it with your owne hands, (although till I be [...]idden, I may seeme to invite my self) I will, if you please to hear me but a while, relate unto you a very true accident, which shall make good what this Gentleman (pointing to the Curate) and my self have affirmed. To this Don-Quixote answered, Because the case doth seem to have in it some shadow of Knightly adventures, I will for my part listen unto thee with a very good will, and I presume that all these Gentlemen will doe the like, so great is their discretion, and desire to know curious novelty which amaze, delight, and entertain the senses, as I doe certainly beleeve thy history will. Therefore begin it, friend, and all of us will lend our eares unto it. I except mine, quoth Sancho; for I will goe with this Pastie unto that little streame, where I mean to fill my self for three daies; for I have heard my Lord Don-Quixote say, that a Knight Errants Squire must eate when he can, and alwaies as much as he can, because that oftentimes they enter by chance into some, wood so intricate, as they cannot get out of it again in five or six daies: and if a mans panch be not then well stuffed, or his wallet well stored, he may there remaine, and be turned, as many times it happens, into mummy. Thou art in the right of it, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote: goe therefore where thou wilt, and eate what thou maiest; for I am already satisfied, and only want refection for my minde, which now I will give it by listening to this good fellow. The same will we also give unto ours, quoth the Canon, who therewithall intreated the Goat-heard to keepe pro­mise, and begin his [...]ale. Then he stroking once or twice his pretty Goat, (which he yet held fast by the horns) said thus, Lie down, pide fool, by me, for we shall have time enough to return home againe. It seemed that the Goat understood him; for as soone as her Master sate, downe, shee quietly stretched her self along by him, and looking him in the face, did give to understand, that shee was attentive to what he was saying; And then he began his history in this manner.

CHAP. XXIV.
Relating that which the Goat-heard told to those that carried away Don-Quixote.

THere is a Village distant some three leagues from this Valley, which al­beit it bee little, is one of the richest of this Commark: Therein some­time did dwell a wealthie Farmer of good respect, and so good, as although Reputation and Riches are commonly joyned together, yet that which hee had was rather got him by his Virtue, then by any Wealth hee possessed: But that which did most accumulate his hap­pinesse (as hee himself was wont to say) was, that hee had a Daughter of so accom­plished Beauty, so rare Discretion, Comelinesse, and Virtue, that as many as knew and beheld her, admired to see the passing indowments wherewith Heaven and Nature had inriched her. Being a child shee was fair, and increasing dayly in feature; shee was at the age of sixteen most beautifull: the fame whereof extended it self over all the bor­dering Villages: But why say [...] I the bordering Villages alone if it spread it self over the farthest Cities yea, and entred into the Kings Pallace, and into the cares of all kinde of People; so that they came from all parts to behold her as a rare thing, and patterne of miracles? Her father did carefully keep her, and shee likewise heeded her self; for their is neither Guard, Lock nor Bolt able to keep a Mayden better then is her own warinesse and care: The Wealth of the Father and Worth of the Daughter moved divers, as well of his own Village as Strangers, to demand her to wife; but hee (as one whom the disposall of so rich a Jewell most neerly concerned) was much perplexed, and unable to determine on whom, among such an infinite number of importunate Wooers, hee might bestow her: Among others that bore this good will towards her, I my self was one to whom they gave many and very great hopes of good successe, the knowledg that her Father had of me, my birth in the same village, my descent honest, and blood untainted, flourishing in years, very rich in goods, and no lesse in gifts of the minde. Another of the same Village and Qualities was also a Suiter unto her; which was an occasion to hold her in suspence, and put his will in the ballance, deeming, as hee did, that shee might be bestowed on either of us two: and that hee might bee rid of that doubt, hee resolved to tell it to Leandra (for so doe they call the rich Maid which hath brought me to extream misery) noting discreetly, that seeing wee both were equall [...], it would not bee amisse to leave in his dear Daughters power the making choyce of whether shee liked-best; A thing worthy to bee noted by all those Parents that would have their Children marry: Wherein my meaning is not that they should per­mit them to make a bad or base choyce; but that they propound certain good ones, and refer to their liking which of them they will take. I know not what was the liking of Leandra, but only know this, That the Father posted us off, by alledging the over­green yeers of his Daughter, and using generall terms which neither obliged him nor discharged us. My rivall was called Anselmo, and my self Eugenio: that you may also have some justice of the persons which were Actors in this Tragedie, whose con­clusion is yet depending, but threatens much future disaster.

About the very same time there arrived to our Village one Vincente of the Rose, son to a poor labourer of the same place, which Vincente returned as then from I [...]ly and divers other Countries wherein hee had been a Souldier; for being of some twelve yeers of age a certain Captain, that with his Companie passed along by our Village, did carry him away with him, and the Youth, after a doozen yeers more, came back again attired like a Souldier, and painted with a hundred colours, full of a thousand devices of Cristall, five steel chains: To day he would put on some gay thing, the next day [Page 133] some other, but all of them slight painted, and of little weight, lesse worth. The clown­ish people which are naturally malicious, and if they have but ever so little idlenesse or leisure, become malice it self, did note and reckon up all his braveries and Jewels, and found that he had but three suits of apparell of different colours, with garters and stockings answerable to them; but hee used so many disguisements, varieties, trans­formations and inventions, which they, as if they had not counted them all, some one would have sworn that hee had made shew of more then ten suits of apparell, and more then twentie plumes of feathers: and let not that which I tell you of the appa­rell bee counted impertinent, or from the matter; for it makes a principall part in the History. Hee would sit on a bench that stood under a great Poplar Tree in the midst of the Market place, and there would hold us all with gaping mouthes, listening to the gallant Adventures and resolute Acts he recounted unto us: There was no Land in all the World whose soile hee had not trodden on, no Battell wherein hee had not been present; hee had slain more Moors then the Kingdomes of Morocco and Tuney contained, and undertaken more single Combats, as hee said, then ever did either Gant, Luna, or Diego Garcia de Paredes, and a thousand others whom hee named; and yet he still came away with the victory, without having ever left one drop of blood. On the other side hee would shew us signes of wounds, which although they could not be discerned, yet would hee perswade us that they were the marks of bullets which hee received in divers Skermishes and Warrs. Finally, hee would thou his equalls, and those which knew him very well, with marvellous arrogancie; and said that his Arme was his Father, his works his Linage, and that beside his being a Souldier hee ought not a whit to the King: To these his arrogancies was annext some superficiall skill in Mu­sick, for hee could scratch a little on a Gyttern, and some would say that hee made it speak: but his many graces made not a stop there; for hee had likewise some sha­dows of Poetry, and so would make a Ballad of a league and a half long upon every toy that hapned in the Village.

This Souldier therefore whom I have deciphred, this Vincente of the Rose, this Brag­gard, this Musician, this Poet, eyed and beheld many times by Leandra from a certain window of her house that looked into the Market-place; and the golden shew of his Attire enamoured her, and his Ditties inchanted her; for hee would give twenty Copies of every one hee composed: The report of his worthy acts, beautified by him­self, came also unto her eares; and finally (for so it is likely the Divill had ordered the matter) shee became in Love with him before hee presumed to think once of solliciting her. And, as in Love adventures, no one is accomplished with more facilitie then that which is favoured by the womans desire; Leandra and Vincente made a short and easie agreement: and e're any one of her Suiters could once suspect her desires, shee had fully satisfied them, abandoned her deer and loving Fathers house (for her Mother lives not) and running away from the Village with the Souldier, who departed with more Triumph from that Enterprise then from all the others which hee had arrogated to himself. The accident amazed all the Town; yea, and all those to whom the ru­mour thereof arrived were astonished, Anselmo amazed, her Father sorrowfull, her Kinsfolk ashamed. The ministers of Justice carefull, and the Troupers ready to make pursuit; all the wayes were laid, and the Woods, and every other place neerly search­ed; and at the end of three dayes they found the lustfull Leandra hidden in a Cave within a Wood, naked in her smock, and despoyled of a great summe of Money, and many precious Jewels which shee had brought away with her: They returned her to her dolefull Fathers presence, where asking how shee became so dispoyled, she pre­sently confessed, that Vincent of the Rose had deceived her: for having passed his word to make her his Wife, hee perswaded her to leave her Fathers house, and made her be­leeve that hee would carrie her to the richest and most delightfull Citie of the World, which was Naples: And that shee through indiscretion and his fraud, had given credit to his words, and robbing her Father, stole away with him the very same night that shee was missed; and that hee carried her to a very rough Thicket, and shut her up in that Cave wherein they found her: She also recounted how the Souldier, without touch­ing [Page] her honour, had rob'd her of all that shee carried, and leaving her in that Cave, was fled away; which successe strook us into greater admiration then all the rest; for wee could hardly bee induced to beleeve the young gallants continencie; but shee did so earnestly protest it, as it did not a little comfort her comfortlesse Father, who made no reckoning of the Riches hee had lost, seeing his Daughter had yet reserved that Jewell, which being once gone, could never again bee recovered. The same day that Leandra appeared, shee also vanished out of our sights, being conveighed away by her Father, and shut up in a Nunnerie at a certain Town not farre off, hoping that time would obliterate some part of the bad opinion already conceived of his Daughters facilitie. Leandra her youth served to excuse her errour, at least with those which gained nothing by her beeing good or ill; but such as knew her discretion and great wit, did not attribute her sinne to ignorance, but rather to her too much lightnesse, and the naturall infirmitie of that Sexe, which for the most part is inconsiderate and slipperie. Leandra being shut up, Anselmo's eyes lost their light, or at least beheld not any thing that could delight them: and mine remained in darknesse without light that could addresse them to any pleasing object in Leandra's absence. Our griefs increased; our patience diminished; wee cursed the Souldiers Ornaments; and abhord her Fathers want of looking to her: To bee brief, Anselmo and my self resolved to abandon the Village and come to this Valley, where hee feeding a great flock of Sheep of his own, and I as copious a Heard of Goats of mine, wee passe our lives among these Trees, giving vent to our passions, either by singing together the beautifull Leandra's praises or dispraises; or by sighing alone, and alone communicating our quarrelsome complaints with Hea­ven. Many others of Leandra's Suitors have since, by our example, come to these in­tricate Woods, where they use our very exercise; and they are so many, as it seems that this place is converted into the Pastorall Arcadia; it is full of Sheepheards and Sheep-Folds; and there is no one part thereof wherein the name of the beautifull Leandra resoundeth not: There one doth curse her, and termeth her humours, inconstant and dishonest: another condemns her of being so facile and light: some one absolves and pardons her: another condemns and despises her, and celebrates her beautie: another execrates her disposition: and finally, all blame, but yet adore her; and the raving distraction of them all doth so farre extend it self, as some one complains of disdain that never spoke word unto her: and some one laments and feels the inraged fits of jea­lousie, though shee never ministred any occasion thereof; for, as I have said, her sinne was known before her desires: There is no Clift of a Rock, no Bank of a Stream, nor Shadow of a Tree without some Sheepheard or other, that breaths out his misfortunes to the silent air. The Eccho repeats Leandra's name, wheresoever it can be formed: The Woods resound Leandra: The Brooks doe murmur Leandra: and Leandra holds us all perplexed and inchanted, hoping without hope, and fearing without knowledge what wee fear.

And among all this Flock of frantick men, none shews more or lesse judgement then my companion Anselmo, who having so many other Titles under which hee might plain him, only complains of absence, and doth to the sound of a Rebeck (which hee handles admirably well) sing certain dolefull Verses, which fully discover the excellen­cie of his conceit. I follow a more easie, and (in mine opinion) a more certain way, to wit, I rayle on the lightnesse of Women, on their inconstancie, double dealing, dead promises, crack'd trust, and the small discretion they shew in placing of their affections; and this, Sir, was the occasion of the words and reasons I lately used to this Goat, whom I doe esteem but little, because shee is a female, although shee bee otherwise the best of all my Heard. And this is the Historie which I promised to tell you, wherein if I have been prolixe, I will bee altogether as large in doing you any service; for I have here at hand my Cabine, and therein store of fresh Milk, and savory Cheese, with many sorts of excellent Fruit, no lesse agreeable to the sight then pleasing to the taste.

CHAP. XXV.
Of the falling out of Don-Quixote and the Goat-heard: with the adventure of the disciplinants, to which the Knight gave end to his cost.

THe Goat-heards tale bred a generall delight in all the hearers, but specially in the Canon, who did very exactly note the manner wherewithall he delivered it, as different from the stile or discourse of a rude Goat-heard, as approaching to the discretion of a perfect Courtier; and therefore he said, that the Curate had spoken very judiciously, in affirming that the woods bred Learned men: all of them made boun­tifull tenders of their friendship and service to Engenio, but he that enlarged himself more then the rest, was Don-Qui­xote, who said unto him, Certes, friend Goat-heard, if I were at this time able to undertake any adventure, I would presently set forward, and fall in hand with it to doe you a good turn, and I would take Leandra out of the Monastery (wherein without doubt she is restrained against her will) in despight of the Lady Abbesse, and all those that should take her part; and would put her into your hands, to the end you might dispose of her at your pleasure, yet still observing the Lawes of Knight-hood which command, that no man doe any wrong, and offer violence unto a Damzell: yet I hope in our Lord God, that the skill of a malicious inchanter shall not be of such force, but that the science of a better meaning wizard shall prevaile against him; and whensoever that shall befall, I doe promise you my helpe and favour, as I am bound by my profession, which cheifly consists in asisting the weak and distressed.

The Goat-heard beheld him, and seeing the Knight so ill arrayed, and of so evil-favoured a countenance, he wondred, and questioned the Barber, who sate neere to him, thus: I pray you, Sir, who is this man, of so strange a figure, and that speaks so odly? Who else should he be, answered ehe Barber, but the famous Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the righter of wrongs, the redresser of injuries, the protector of Dam­zels, the affrighter of Giants, and the overcommer of battels? That which you say of this man, answered the Goat-heard, is very like that which in Books of Chivalry is written of Knights Errant; who did all those things which you apply to this man: and yet I beleeve that either you jest, or else that this Gentlemans head is voyde of braines.

Thou art a great villaine, said Don-Quixote, and thou art he whose pate wants braines; for mine is fuller then the very, very whores that bore thee; and saying so, and snatching up a loaf of bread that stood by him, he raught the Goat-heard so furious a blow withall, as it beat his nose flat to his face: but the other, who was not acquainted with such jests, and saw how ill he was handled, without having respect to the Carpet, Napkins, or those that were eating, he leaped upon Don-Quixote, and taking hold of his coller with both the hands, would certainly have strangled him, if Sancho Panca had not arrived at that very instant, and taking him fast behind, had not thrown him backe on the Table, crushing dishes, breaking glasses, and shed­ding, and overthrowing all that did lie upon it. Don-Quixote seeing himself free, returned to get upon the Goat-heard, who all besmeared with blood, and trampled to peeces under Sancho's feet, groped here and there groveling as he was for some knif or other, to take a bloody revenge withall, but the Canon and Curate prevented his purpose; and yet, by the Barbers assistance, he got under him Don-Quixote, on whom he rained such a showre of buffets, as he powred as much blood from the poor [Page] Knights face, as had done from his owne. The Canon and Curate were ready to burst for laughter: the Troupers danced for sport; every one hissed, as men use to doe when Dogs fall out, and quarrell together: onely Sancho Panca was wood, be­cause he could not get from one of the Canons Serving-men, who withheld him from going to helpe his Master. In conclusion, all being very merry, save the two Buffetants, that tugged one another extremely, they heard the sound of a Trumpet, so dolefull, as it made them turne their faces towards that part from whence it seemed to come. But hee that was most troubled at the noyse thereof, was Don-Quixote, who although hee was under the Goatheard full sore against his Will, and by him exceedingly bruised and battered, yet said unto him; Brother Devill (for it is impossible that thou canst bee any other, seeing that thou hast had valour and strength to subject my forces) I pray the let us make truce for one only houre; for the dolorous sound of that Trumpet which toucheth our Eares, doth (mee thinks) invite mee to some new Adventure. The Goateheard, who was weary of buffeting, and being beaten, left him off inconti­nently, and Don-Quixote stood up, and turned himselfe towards the place from whence he imagined the noyse to proceede, and presently hee espyed descending from a certaine height many men apparelled in white like disciplinants. The matter in­deed was, that the clowds had that yeer denied to bestow their deaw on the Earth, and therefore they did institute Rogations, Processions, and Disciplines, throughout all that Countrey, to desire Almighty God to open the hands of his Mercy, and to be­stowe some Rain upon them. And to this effect, the People of a Village, neere unto that place, came in Procession to a devout Eremitage, builded upon one of the Hills that invironed that Valley.

Don-Quixote noting the strange attyre of the Disciplinants, without any calling to memorie how hee had often seen the like before, did forthwith imagine that it was some new Adventure, and that the tryall thereof only appertayned to him, as to a Knight Errant; and this his presumption was fortified the more, by beleeving that an Image which they carried all covered over with black, was some principall Lady whom those miscreants and discourteous Knights did beare away perforce. And assoone as this fell into his braine, hee leaped lightly towards Rozinante, that went feeding up and downe the Plaines, and dismounting from his pummell the bridle, and his Target that hanged thereat, hee bridled him in a trice; and taking his Sword from Sancho, got instantly upon his horse, and then imbracing his Target, said in a loud voice to all those that were present: You shall now see, O valorous company; how important a thing it is, to have in the world such Knights as professe the order of Chivalrie errant. Now I say, you shall discerne by the freeing of that good Ladie, who is there caryed Captive a­way, whether Knights Adventurous are to bee held in prize; and saying so, hee struck Rozinante with his heeles (for spurres hee had none) and making him to gallop (for it is not read in any part of this true Historie, that Rozinante did ever passe one formall or full careere) hee posted to encounter the Disciplinants, although the Curate, Canon and Barber did what they might to withhold him, but all was not possible, and much lesse could hee bee deteined by these outcryes of Sancho, saying whither doe you goe, Sir Don-Quixote? What Devills doe you beare in your Breast, that incite you to run thus against the Catholique Faith? See Sir, unfortunate that I am, how that is a Pro­cession of Disciplinants, and that the Lady whom they beare, is the blessed Image of the immaculate Virgin: Looke Sir what you doe, for at this time it may well bee said, that you are not you know what. But Sancho laboured in vaine; for his Lord rode with so greedie a desire to encounter the white men, and deliver the moorning Lady, as he heard not a word, and although hee had, yet would hee not then have returned back at the Kings commandement. Being come at last, neere to the Procession, and stopping Ro­zinante (who had already a great desire to rest himselfe a while) hee said with a trou­bled and hoarse voice; O you that cover your faces, perhaps because you are not good men, give eare and listen to what I shall say. The first that stood at this alarm, were those which carried the Image; and one of the foure Priests which sung the Letanies, beholding the strange shape of Don-Quixote, the leanenesse of Rozinante, and other [Page 135] circumstances worthy of laughter, which hee noted in our Knight, returned him quick­ly this answere; Good Sir, if you would say any thing to us, say it instantly, for these honest men, as you see, are toyled extremely, and therefore wee cannot, nor is it rea­son wee should stand lingring to heare any thing, if it bee not so briefe as it may bee de­livered in two words; I will say it in one, said Don-Quixote, and it is this; That you doe forthwith give liberty to that beautifull Lady, whose teeres and pittifull semblanco cleerely denote that you carry her away against her. Will, and have done her some nota­ble injury; and I, who was born to right such wrongs, will not permit her to passe one step forward, untill she be wholly possessed of the freedom she doth so much desire and deserve. All those that overheard Don-Quixote, gathered by his words that he was some distracted man, and therefore began to laugh very heartily, which laughing seemed to add gun-powder to his choler; for laying his hand on his Sword, without any more words, he presently assaulted the Image-carriers; one whereof, leaving the charge of the burthen to his fellowes, came out to encounter the Knight with a wooden forke (whereon he supported the Beere whensoever they made a stand) and receiving upon it a great blow which Don-Quixote discharged at him, it parted the Forke in two; and yet hee with the peece that remained in his hand, returned the Knight such a thwack up­on the shoulder, on the Sword side, as his Target not being able to make resistance a­gainst that rusticall Force, poore Don-Quixote was overthrowne to the ground, and ex­tremely bruised.

Sancho Panca (who had followed him puffing and blowing as fast as hee could) seeing him overthrown, cried to his adversarie that hee should strike no more; for hee was a poor inchanted Knight that had never all the dayes of his life done any man harme; but that which detained the Swain was not Sancho's out-cries, but to see that Don-Quixote stirred neither hand nor foot; and therefore beleeving that hee had slain him, hee tucked up his Coat to his girdle as soon as hee could, and fled away thorow the Fields like a Deer. In the mean while Don-Quixotes Companions did hasten to the place where hee lay, when those of the Procession seeing them (but principally the Troopers of the Holy-Brotherhood with their Cross-hows) runne towards them, did fear some disastrous successe; and therefore they gathered together in a troop about the Image, and lifting up their hoods, and laying fast hold on their Whips, and the Priests on their Tapers, they attended the assault, with resolution both to defend them­selves, and offend the assaylants if they might: But Fortune disposed the matter bet­ter then they expected; for Sancho did nothing else then throw himself on his Lords Body, making over him the most dolorous and ridiculous lamentation of the world, and beleeving that hee was dead. The Curate was known by the other Curate that came in the procession; and their acquaintance appeased the conceived fear of the two squadrons: The first Curate, in two words, told the other what Don-Quixote was; and therefore hee, and all the crue of the Disciplinants went over to see whe­ther the poor Knight were dead or alive; and then might heare Sancho Panca with the tears in his eyes, bewayling him in this manner: O flowre of Chivalrie who hast with one blow alone ended the Career of thy so well bestowed Peers! O renown of this linage, the honour and glorie of all the Mancha! yea, and of all the world be­side! which seeing it wanteth thee, shall remain full of miscreants, secure from being punished for their misdeeds! O liberall beyond all Alexanders, seeing thou hast given me only for eight moneths service, the best Island that the Sea doth compasse or ingyrt! O humble to the proud, and stately to humbled, undertaker of perills, in­durer of affronts, enamoured without cause, imitater of good men, whip of the evill, enemie of the wicked, and in conclusion Knight Errant, then which no greater thing may be said!

Don-Quixote was called again to himself by Sancho his out-cries, and then the first word that ever hee spake was: Hee that lives absented from thee, most sweet Dulcinea, is subject to greater miseries then this: Help me, friend Sancho, to get up into the in­chanted Chariot again; for I am not in plight to oppresse Rozinantes Saddle, having this shoulder broken all into peeces. That I will doe with a very good will, my deer Lord, [Page] replyed the Squire; and let us return to my Village, with those Gentlemen, which desire your welfare so much; and there wee will take order for some other voyage, which may bee more profitable and famous then this hath been. Thou speakest reasonable Sancho quoth Don-Quixote; and it will be a great wisdome to let over passe the crosse aspect of those Planets that raig [...]e at this present. The Canon, Curate and Barber commended his resolution: and so having taken delight enough in Sancho Panca's simplicitie, they planed Don-Quixote, as before, in the Team, The Processioners re­turning into their former order, did prosecute their way: The Goat-heard took leave of them all: The Troopers would not ride any farther; and therefore the Curate satisfied them for the pains they had taken. The Canon intreated the Curate to let him understand all that succeeded of Don-Quixote, to wit, whether hee amended of his frenzie or grew more distracted; and then hee took leave to continue his Journey. Lastly, all of them departed, the Curate, Barber, Don-Quixote, Sancho Panca; and the good Rozinante only remaining behinde: Then the Wa [...] man yoked his Oxen, and accommodated the Knight on a Bottle of Hay [...] and afterwards followed on in his wonted slow manner, that way which the Curate directed. At the end of two dayes they arrived to Don-Quixotes Village, into which they entred about noon: this befell on a Sunday, when all the People were in the Market stead, thorow the middle whereof Don-Quixotes Cart did passe: all of them drew neer to see what came in it, and when they knew their Countrey man they were marvellously astonished: the whilest a little Boy ran home before, to tell the old Wife and the Knights Niece, that their Lord and Uncle was returned very lean, pale, disfigured, and stretcht all along on a bundle of Hay.

It would have moved one to compassion, to have heard the lamentations and out­cries then rais'd by the two good Women, the blows they gave themselves, and the curses and exe [...]rations which they powred out against all Books of Knighthood; all which was again renewed, when they saw Don-Quixote himself entred in at their doors. At the news of this his arrivall Sancho Panca's Wife repaired also to get some tydings of her goodman; for she had learned that he was gone away with the Knight, to serve him as his Squire, and as soon as ever she saw her Husband, the question she asked him was, whether the Asse were in health or no? Sancho, answered that he was come in better health then his Master. God be thanked, quoth she, who hath done me so great a favour: but tell me now, friend, What profit hast thou reaped by this thy Squireship? What Peticoat hast thou brought me home? What Shoos for thy little Boyes? I bring none of these things, good wife, quoth Sancho, although I bring o­ther things of more moment and estimation. I am very glad of that, quoth his Wife, shew me those things of more moment and estimation, good friend: for I would sayne see them, to the end that this heart of mine may be cheered, which hath been so swolne and sorrowfull, all the time of thine absence. Thou shalt see them at home, quoth Sancho, and therefore rest satisfied for this time; for and it please God, that we travaile once againe to seek Adventures, thou shalt see me shortly after an Earle, or Governour of an Island, and that, not of every ordinary one [...]neither, but of one of the best in the World. I pray God, Husband, it may be so, (replyed she) for we have very great need of it. But what means that Island? for I understand not the word. Honey is not made for the Asses mouth, quoth Sancho: Wife thou shalt know it in good time, yea, and shalt wonder, to hear the title of Ladyship given thee by all thy Vassals. What is that thou speakest, Sancho, of Lordships, Islands, and Vassalls? Answered Ioane Panca (for so was she called, although her Husband and she were not Knisfolk; but by reason that in the Mancha, the Wives are usually called after their Husbands Sirname) Doe not busie thy self, Ioane, quoth Sancho, to know these things on such a sudden; let it suffice that I tell thee the truth, and therewithall sow up thy mouth. I will onely say thus much unto thee, as it were by the way, that there is no­thing in the World so pleasant, as for an honest man to be the Squire of a Knight Er­rant, that seeks Adventures. It is very true, that the greatest number of Adventures found out succeeded not to a mans satisfaction so much as he would desire: for of a [Page 136] hundred that are incountred, the ninety and nine are wont to be crosse and untoward ones; I know it by experience, for I have come away my self out of some of them well canvassed, and out of others well beaten. But yet for all that, it is a fine thing to ex­pect events, traverse Groves, search Woods, tread on Rocks, visit Castles, and lodge in Innes at a mans pleasure, without paying the Devill a crosse.

All these Discourses passed between Sancho Panca, and his wife Ioane Panca, whilst the old woman and Don-Quixotes Niece did receive him, put off his clothes, and lay him down in his ancient bed: he looked upon them very earnestly, and could not con­jecture where he was. The Curate charged the Niece to cherish her Uncle very care­fully, and that they should look well that he made not the third escape; relating at large all the adoe that they had to bring him home. Here both the women renewed their exclamations: their execreations of all Books of Knighthood here came to be rei­terated: here they besought Heaven to throw down into the very Center of the bot­tomlesse Pit, the out-cryes of so many lies and ravings: Finally, they remained per­plexed and timorous, that they should lose again their Master and Uncle, as soon as he was any thing recovered; and it befell just as they suspected: but the Authour of this History, although he have with all diligence and curiosity inquired after the Acts atcheived by Don-Quixote in his third sally to seek Adventures, yet could he never attaine (at least by authenticall Writings) to any notice of them: Only Fame hath left in the memories of the Mancha, that Don-Quixote after his third escape, was at Saragosa; and present at certain famous Justs made in that Citty; and that therein befell him events most worthy of his valour and good wit: But of his end he could finde nothing, nor ever should have known ought, if good fortune had not offered to his view an old Phisician, who had in his custodie a leaden Box, which as hee affirmed, was found in the ruines of an old Eremitage, as it was a repayring; in which Box were certaine scroles of Parchment written with Gothicall Characters, but contayning Casti­lian verses, which comprehended many of his Acts, and specified Dulcinea of Toboso her beautie; decyphered Rozinante, and intreated of Sancho Panca's fidelitie; as also of Don-Quixotes Sepulchre, with sundry Epitaphs and Elogies of his Life and Man­ners, and those that could bee read and copied out throughly, were those that are here set downe by the faithfull Authour of this new and unmatched Relation: Which Authour demands of the Readers no other guerdon, in regard of his huge travaile spent in the search of all the old Records of the Mancha, for the bringing thereof unto light, but that they will daigne to afford it as much credit as discreete men are wont to give unto Bookes of Knighthood, which are of so great Reputation now a dayes in the World; for herewith hee will rest most fully contented, and satisfied; and withall encouraged to publish and seeke out for other Discourses, if not altogether so true as this, at least of as great, both Invention and Recreation. The first words written in the Scrole of Parchment, that was found in the leaden Box, were these.

These were the Verses that could bee read: As for the rest, in respect that they were half consumed and eaten away by time, they were delivered to a Scholler, that he might, by conjectures declare their meaning; and wee have had intelligence that hee hath done it, with the cost of many nights watching, and other great paines, and that hee means to publish them; and also gives hope of a third Sallie made by Don-Quixote.