Chapter X. Of what further befell Don Quixote with the Biscayan, and of the danger he found himself in with a mob of Yangüeses

By this time Sancho Panza had got up, somewhat roughed up by the friars’ lads, and had been watching his master Don Quixote’s battle closely, praying to God in his heart that it might please Him to give him the victory, and that in it his master might win some isle and make him its governor, as he had promised him. Seeing, then, that the fray was over and that his master was about to climb back onto Rocinante, he came up to hold the stirrup for him; and before he mounted, he went down on his knees in front of him, took his hand, kissed it, and said to him:

“May it please your grace, my lord Don Quixote, to give me the government of the isle that has been won in this fierce fray; for however big it may be, I feel I have it in me to govern it as well as anyone who ever governed isles in this world.”

To which Don Quixote replied:

“Mark this, brother Sancho: this adventure and others like it are not adventures of isles but of crossroads, in which nothing is won but a broken head or one ear the fewer. Have patience, for adventures will come along in which I can make you not only a governor but something higher still.”

Sancho thanked him heartily, and, kissing his hand once more and the skirt of his coat of mail, helped him up onto Rocinante; and he got up on his ass and began to follow his master, who, at a brisk pace, without taking his leave of the ladies in the coach or saying another word to them, went into a wood that lay close by. Sancho followed him at his donkey’s best trot, but Rocinante went so fast that Sancho, seeing himself left behind, was forced to shout to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, and he, as soon as he arrived, said to him:

“It seems to me, sir, it would be wise for us to go and take sanctuary in some church; for, the way that man you fought with was left, it wouldn’t be surprising if they gave word of it to the Holy Brotherhood and they arrested us; and on my faith, if they do, before we get out of jail we’ll have sweated our tails off.”

“Hush,” said Don Quixote. “And where have you ever seen or read that a knight-errant was brought before the law, however many homicides he had committed?”

“I don’t know anything about hommyspites,” answered Sancho, “and I never in my life held one against anybody; all I know is that the Holy Brotherhood has a say over those who fight in the open country, and I don’t meddle in the other thing.”

“Then do not worry, my friend,” answered Don Quixote, “for I will rescue you from the hands of the Chaldeans, much more from those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, on your life: have you seen a more valiant knight than I in all the known face of the earth? Have you read in histories of any other who has or ever had more spirit in attacking, more breath in persevering, more skill in wounding, or more craft in overthrowing?”

“The truth is,” answered Sancho, “that I’ve never read any history at all, because I can’t read or write; but what I will dare to bet is that I’ve never in my born days served a bolder master than your grace, and God grant these bold deeds aren’t paid for where I said. What I beg of your grace is that you look after yourself, because a lot of blood is coming from that ear; and I’ve got lint here and a little white ointment in the saddlebags.”

“All that would be quite unnecessary,” answered Don Quixote, “if I had remembered to make a flask of the balm of Fierabrás, for with a single drop of it we would save both time and medicines.”

“What flask and what balm is that?” said Sancho Panza.

“It is a balm,” answered Don Quixote, “whose recipe I have in my memory, and with which there is no need to fear death, nor any thought of dying of any wound. And so, when I make it and give it to you, you have nothing more to do but this: when you see that in some battle they have cut me in two through the middle of the body (as very often happens), you will take the part of the body that has fallen to the ground, neatly and with great care, before the blood congeals, and set it on the other half that is left in the saddle, taking care to fit it evenly and exactly; then you will give me just two swallows to drink of the balm I have spoken of, and you will see me sounder than an apple.”

“If there’s such a thing,” said Panza, “I give up here and now the government of the promised isle, and I want nothing else in payment for my many good services but for your grace to give me the recipe for that extraordinary liquor; for I reckon an ounce of it would fetch more than two reales anywhere, and I don’t need any more than that to live out this life in honor and ease. But the thing to know now is whether it costs much to make.”

“For less than three reales you can make three azumbres,” answered Don Quixote.

“Sinner that I am!” replied Sancho. “Then what is your grace waiting for to make it and teach it to me?”

“Hush, my friend,” answered Don Quixote, “for greater secrets I mean to teach you and greater favors to do you; and for now, let us see to our wounds, for my ear hurts more than I would like.”

Sancho took lint and ointment out of the saddlebags. But when Don Quixote came to see his broken helmet, he thought he would lose his mind, and, laying his hand on his sword and lifting his eyes to heaven, he said:

“I swear by the Creator of all things and by the holy four Gospels, where they are written out at greatest length, to lead the life that the great Marquis of Mantua led when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Valdovinos, which was not to eat bread off a tablecloth nor take his pleasure with his wife, and other things which, though I do not remember them, I here hold as spoken, until I have taken full vengeance on him who did me so foul a wrong.”

Hearing this, Sancho said to him:

“Mind, your grace, my lord Don Quixote, that if the knight did what he was told and went to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will already have done his duty, and he doesn’t deserve any other punishment unless he commits a new crime.”

“You have spoken and pointed it out very well,” answered Don Quixote, “and so I annul the oath as far as concerns taking any fresh vengeance on him; but I make the oath again and confirm it, to live the life I have described until I wrest from some knight, by force, another helmet as fine and as good as this one. And do not think, Sancho, that I do this idly, like smoke from straw, for I have someone to imitate in it; this very thing happened, to the letter, over Mambrino’s helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear.”

“Let your grace send such oaths to the devil, my master,” replied Sancho, “for they are very bad for the health and very harmful to the conscience. Or else tell me now: if we happen not to come across a man armed with a helmet for many days, what are we to do? Is the oath to be kept in spite of so many inconveniences and discomforts, such as sleeping in your clothes and not sleeping in a town, and a thousand other penances that the oath of that mad old Marquis of Mantua held, which your grace wants to renew now? Look carefully, your grace, for along all these roads you don’t find armed men, only muleteers and carters, who not only don’t wear helmets but maybe have never heard the word in all the days of their lives.”

“You are wrong in that,” said Don Quixote, “because we will not have been two hours at these crossroads before we see more armed men than those who came against Albraca to conquer Angelica the Fair.”

“All right, then, so be it,” said Sancho, “and God grant it turns out well for us, and that the time comes soon to win this isle that’s costing me so dear, and then let me die.”

“I have told you already, Sancho, not to give that any thought; for if an isle should fail us, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or that of Soliadisa, which will fit you like a ring on your finger; and what is more, since they are on dry land, you ought to be all the happier. But let us leave this for its proper time, and see whether you have anything in those saddlebags for us to eat, because we will soon go in search of some castle where we can lodge tonight and make the balm I told you about; for I swear to God my ear is hurting me badly.”

“I’ve got an onion here, and a bit of cheese, and I don’t know how many crusts of bread,” said Sancho, “but they aren’t dishes fit for so valiant a knight as your grace.”

“How poorly you understand it!” answered Don Quixote. “I would have you know, Sancho, that it is the pride of knights-errant not to eat for a month; and when they do eat, to eat whatever comes most readily to hand; and you would be certain of this if you had read as many histories as I have; for though there have been a great many, in none of them have I found any account of knights-errant eating, unless by chance and at some sumptuous banquets that were given for them, and the rest of their days they lived on flowers. And although it is understood that they could not get by without eating and without doing all the other things nature requires, because, in effect, they were men like us, it must also be understood that, since they spent most of their lives wandering through forests and wildernesses, and without a cook, their most ordinary food would be country fare, such as what you are offering me now. So, Sancho, my friend, do not let what gives me pleasure trouble you. Nor would you wish to make the world anew, or lift knight-errantry off its hinges.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” said Sancho, “for, since I can’t read or write, as I’ve said before, I don’t know the rules of the knightly profession and they never crossed my mind; and from now on I’ll stock the saddlebags with every kind of dried fruit for your grace, since you are a knight, and for myself, since I’m not, I’ll stock them with other things that have wings and more substance to them.”

“I do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that knights-errant are obliged to eat nothing but the fruits you speak of, only that their commonest fare must have been those fruits and some herbs they came upon in the fields, herbs they knew and that I know as well.”

“It’s a fine thing,” answered Sancho, “to know those herbs, for, the way I’m beginning to picture it, someday we’ll need to make use of that knowledge.”

And, taking out at this what he said he had brought, the two of them ate in good peace and company. But, eager to find somewhere to lodge that night, they very quickly finished their poor dry meal. Then they mounted and made haste to reach a town before nightfall; but the sun failed them, and with it the hope of reaching what they wanted, beside some goatherds’ huts, and so they decided to spend the night there; for as much as it grieved Sancho not to reach a town, it pleased his master to sleep under the open sky, because it seemed to him that each time this happened to him he was performing an act of possession that made the proof of his knighthood easier.