Chapter VII. Of the second sally of our good knight Don Quixote of La Mancha

At this point Don Quixote began to shout, saying:

“Here, here, valiant knights! Here is where you must show the might of your valiant arms, for the courtiers are carrying off the best of the tournament.”

Because they ran to answer this noise and uproar, the scrutiny of the rest of the books that remained went no further; and so it is believed that into the fire, unseen and unheard, went La Carolea and León de España, with The Deeds of the Emperor, composed by Don Luis de Ávila, which no doubt must have been among those that were left; and perhaps, had the priest seen them, they would not have suffered so harsh a sentence.

When they reached Don Quixote, he was already out of bed and still at his shouting and his wild talk, slashing and backhanding in every direction, as wide awake as if he had never slept. They seized him in their arms and forced him back into bed; and when he had calmed down a little, he turned to speak to the priest and said:

“Truly, my lord Archbishop Turpin, it is a sore shame to those of us who bear the name of the Twelve Peers to let the courtier knights carry off the victory of this tournament just like that, when we adventurers had won the prize on the three days before.”

“Hush, your grace, my good neighbor,” said the priest, “for God will be pleased to change our luck, and what is lost today will be won tomorrow; and for now let your grace look to your health, for it seems to me you must be overtired, if indeed you are not sorely wounded.”

“Wounded, no,” said Don Quixote, “but bruised and battered, there is no doubt of that; for that bastard Don Roldán has beaten me black and blue with the trunk of an oak, and all out of envy, because he sees that I alone am the rival of his feats. But let me not be called Reinaldos of Montalbán if, once I rise from this bed, I do not make him pay for it, in spite of all his enchantments; and for now, bring me victuals, for I know that is what will serve me best, and leave the business of my revenge to me.”

They did so: they gave him something to eat, and he fell asleep again, and they were left marveling at his madness.

That night the housekeeper burned and reduced to ashes every book there was in the yard and in the whole house, and some must have burned that deserved to be kept in everlasting archives; but their luck would not have it so, nor would the examiner’s sloth; and so the proverb was fulfilled in them that sometimes the just pay for the sinners.

One of the remedies that the priest and the barber prescribed at the time for their friend’s malady was to have the room with the books walled up and plastered over, so that when he got up he would not find them—perhaps, the cause removed, the effect would cease—and to say that an enchanter had carried them off, room and all; and this was done with great speed. Two days afterward Don Quixote rose from his bed, and his first act was to go and see his books; and, since he could not find the room where he had left it, he went about from one place to another looking for it. He would come to where the door used to be, and feel it with his hands, and turn his eyes this way and that all over, never saying a word; but at the end of a good long while he asked the housekeeper which way the room with his books was. The housekeeper, who had been well coached in what she was to answer, said to him:

“What room, or what nothing, is your grace looking for? There’s no room and no books in this house anymore, because the devil himself carried it all off.”

“It wasn’t a devil,” retorted the niece, “but an enchanter who came on a cloud one night, after the day your grace went away from here, and, getting down from a serpent he came riding on, he went into the room, and I don’t know what he did in there, for after a little while out he flew through the roof, leaving the house full of smoke; and when we thought to look and see what he had left done, we saw no book or room at all; only the housekeeper and I remember very well that, as that wicked old man was leaving, he said in a loud voice that, because of a secret grudge he bore the owner of those books and that room, he had done harm in this house that would be seen later on. He also said he was called the sage Muñatón.”

“Frestón, she must have meant,” said Don Quixote.

“I don’t know,” answered the housekeeper, “whether he was called Frestón or Fritón; all I know is that his name ended in -tón.”

“So it is,” said Don Quixote, “for he is a sage enchanter, a great enemy of mine, who bears me ill will, because he knows by his arts and learning that in the course of time I am to come to fight in single combat with a knight whom he favors, and that I am to vanquish him, without his being able to prevent it, and for this reason he tries to cause me all the vexations he can; and I warn him that he will be hard put to gainsay or avoid what is ordained by heaven.”

“Who doubts that?” said the niece. “But who drags your grace, Uncle, into these quarrels? Wouldn’t it be better to stay peacefully in your own house and not go about the world looking for bread finer than wheat, without considering that many go for wool and come back shorn?”

“Oh, my niece,” answered Don Quixote, “how far out you are in your reckoning! Before anyone shears me, I will have plucked and pulled out the beards of all who dare imagine touching the tip of a single hair of mine.”

The two did not want to answer him any further, because they saw his anger kindling.

The fact is, then, that he stayed at home a fortnight, very quietly, without showing any sign of wanting to repeat his first follies, and during those days he had most amusing exchanges with his two friends the priest and the barber, about his saying that what the world needed most was knights-errant and the revival in it of knight-errantry. The priest sometimes contradicted him and other times gave in, because unless he kept up this device there was no coming to terms with him.

During this time Don Quixote worked on a farmer who was a neighbor of his, an honest man—if that title can be given to one who is poor—but with very little salt in his pate. In short, he told him so much, and persuaded and promised him so much, that the poor peasant made up his mind to go off with him and serve him as squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told him that he should be glad to come with him, because some time an adventure might befall him in which, before you could brush off a straw, he might win some isle, and leave him as its governor. With these promises and others like them, Sancho Panza, for that was the farmer’s name, left his wife and children and hired himself out as his neighbor’s squire.

Don Quixote then set about raising money; and by selling one thing and pawning another, and selling them all for less than they were worth, he got together a reasonable sum. He also provided himself with a buckler, which he borrowed from a friend of his, and, patching up his broken helmet as best he could, he let his squire Sancho know the day and hour he meant to set out, so that he could supply himself with whatever he saw he would most need. Above all he charged him to bring saddlebags; and Sancho said he would, and that he also meant to take a very good donkey he had, because he was not used to going much on foot. About the donkey Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying to recall whether any knight-errant had ever brought along a squire riding assback, but none came to his mind; but, for all that, he decided that Sancho should bring the donkey, intending to provide him with a more honorable mount when the chance came, by taking the horse of the first discourteous knight he met. He supplied himself with shirts and with the other things he could, according to the advice the innkeeper had given him; and when all this was done and seen to, without Panza saying goodbye to his children and wife, or Don Quixote to his housekeeper and niece, they slipped out of the village one night without anyone seeing them; and that night they traveled so far that by dawn they felt sure they would not be found even if anyone came looking for them.

Sancho Panza rode along on his donkey like a patriarch, with his saddlebags and his wineskin, and with a great longing to see himself governor of the isle his master had promised him. Don Quixote chanced to strike out on the same route and road as on his first journey, which was across the plain of Montiel, where he rode with less discomfort than the last time, because, as it was early in the morning and the sun’s rays struck them slantwise, they did not tire them. At this point Sancho Panza said to his master:

“Mind, your grace, sir knight-errant, that your grace doesn’t forget what you’ve promised me about the isle; for I’ll know how to govern it, however big it may be.”

To which Don Quixote answered him:

“You must know, Sancho Panza, my friend, that the knights-errant of old very commonly made their squires governors of the isles or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that so gracious a usage shall not lapse on my account; rather, I mean to outdo them in it: for they sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited until their squires were old; and then, when they were worn out with serving and with enduring bad days and worse nights, they gave them some title of count, or at the most of marquis, of some valley or province of no great account; but if you live and I live, it may very well be that before six days are out I shall win such a kingdom as has others joined to it, which would be just the thing for crowning you king of one of them. And do not think that much, for things and chances befall such knights in ways so never seen or thought of that I might easily give you even more than I promise.”

“In that case,” answered Sancho Panza, “if I were to become a king by one of those miracles your grace talks about, then at the very least Juana Gutiérrez, my better half, would come to be queen, and my children princes.”

“Well, who doubts it?” answered Don Quixote.

“I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza, “because I’m of the opinion that, even if God rained kingdoms down on the earth, not one of them would sit well on the head of Mari Gutiérrez. Let me tell you, sir, she isn’t worth two maravedís as a queen; countess would suit her better, and even that with God’s help.”

“Leave it to God, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “for He will give her what suits her best; but do not humble your spirit so far as to come to be content with anything less than being made governor of a province.”

“I won’t, sir,” answered Sancho, “especially having so grand a master in your grace, who will know how to give me everything that’s good for me and that I can carry.”