Chapter XXVII. Of how the priest and the barber carried out their plan, with other things worth telling in this great history

The priest’s idea did not seem bad to the barber; on the contrary, it seemed so good that they put it into practice at once. They asked the innkeeper’s wife for a skirt and some headdresses, leaving her a new cassock of the priest’s as a pledge. The barber made himself a great beard out of a gray or red ox tail in which the innkeeper kept his comb stuck. The innkeeper’s wife asked them what they wanted those things for. The priest told her in a few words of Don Quixote’s madness, and how that disguise was needed to get him out of the mountains, where he was at the time. The innkeeper and his wife at once realized that the madman was their guest, the one of the balm, and the master of the blanket-tossed squire, and they told the priest everything that had passed between them and him, without keeping quiet about what Sancho kept so quiet. In short, the innkeeper’s wife dressed the priest up so well that nothing more could be asked for: she put on him a woolen skirt covered with bands of black velvet a span wide, all slashed, and a bodice of green velvet trimmed with edgings of white satin, which, bodice and skirt alike, must have been made in the time of King Wamba. The priest would not let them coif him with a headdress, but put on his head a little quilted linen cap he carried for sleeping in at night, and bound his forehead with a garter of black taffeta, and with another garter he made a mask, with which he covered his beard and face very well; he jammed on his hat, which was so big it could serve him as a sunshade, and, wrapping himself in his cape, he got onto his mule sidesaddle, and the barber onto his, with his beard reaching to his waist, between red and white, as being, as has been said, made from the tail of a dun ox.

They took their leave of everyone, and of the good Maritornes, who promised to say a rosary, sinner though she was, so that God might give them good success in so arduous and so Christian a business as the one they had undertaken.

But he had scarcely left the inn when a thought came to the priest: that he had done wrong in dressing himself up in that fashion, since it was an indecent thing for a priest to go about so, even if much hung on it for him; and, telling the barber so, he begged him to change clothes with him, for it was more fitting that the barber should be the damsel in distress, and he would play the squire, and that way his dignity would be less profaned; and that if he would not do it, he had made up his mind to go no farther, even if the devil carried off Don Quixote.

At this point Sancho came up, and at the sight of the two of them in that dress he could not hold back his laughter. In effect, the barber agreed to everything the priest wanted, and, switching their parts in the scheme, the priest went on instructing him in the manner he was to adopt and the words he was to say to Don Quixote to move him and force him to come away with him and give up his fondness for the place he had chosen for his empty penance. The barber answered that, without being given any lesson, he would carry it off to a nicety. He did not want to dress up for the time being, until they were near where Don Quixote was; and so he folded up his clothes, and the priest settled the beard, and they went on their way, with Sancho Panza guiding them; and he went along telling them what had happened to them with the madman they had found in the mountains, keeping quiet, however, about the finding of the valise and everything that was in it; for, simple as he was, the lad was a bit covetous.

The next day they reached the place where Sancho had left the markers of branches to find the spot where he had left his master; and, recognizing it, he told them that this was the way in, and that they might well put on their costumes, if that had any bearing on his master’s deliverance; for they had told him before that going in that guise and dressing in that fashion was the whole point of getting his master out of the bad life he had chosen, and they charged him strictly not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew them; and that if he asked him, as he was bound to, whether he had given the letter to Dulcinea, he was to say yes, and that, since she could not read, she had answered by word of mouth, telling him that, on pain of her displeasure, he was to come to her and see her that very moment, for it was a matter of great importance to her; because with this and with what they meant to tell him they held it a sure thing that they would bring him back to a better life and get him to set off at once on the road to becoming an emperor or a monarch; for as to his becoming an archbishop there was nothing to fear.

Sancho heard all this and stored it carefully in his memory, and he was most grateful to them for their intention of advising his master to be an emperor and not an archbishop, because he was of the opinion that, for granting favors to their squires, emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He also told them it would be a good thing for him to go ahead to look for him and give him his lady’s answer, for that alone would be enough to get him out of that place, without their putting themselves to so much trouble. What Sancho Panza said seemed good to them, and so they decided to wait for him until he came back with news of having found his master.

Sancho went in among those ravines of the mountains, leaving the two of them in one through which there ran a small, gentle brook, pleasantly and coolly shaded by other rocks and some trees that stood about it. The heat, and the day on which they arrived there, were those of the month of August, when the heat in those parts is apt to be very great; the hour, three in the afternoon: all of which made the spot the more pleasant and invited them to wait there for Sancho’s return, as they did.

While the two of them were there, then, at their ease in the shade, there reached their ears a voice which, with no sound of any instrument to accompany it, rang out sweet and delightful, at which they were not a little amazed, for it seemed to them that this was no place where there could be anyone who sang so well. For, though it is commonly said that in woods and fields one comes across shepherds with exquisite voices, these are more the exaggerations of poets than truths; and the more so when they noticed that what they heard sung were verses not of rustic herdsmen but of polished courtiers. And this truth was confirmed by the verses they heard, which were these:

Who is it that spoils my joys?
Disdain.
And who is it that swells my grief?
Jealousy.
And who is it that tries my patience?
Absence.
And so, in this my malady
no remedy is to be had,
for all my hope is put to death
by disdain, jealousy, and absence.
Who is it that brings me this pain?
Love.
And who is it that spurns my glory?
Fortune.
And who consents to my lament?
Heaven
And so I live in fear to die
of this strange ill, since to my harm
they swell and grow, all three of them,
love, fortune, and heaven above.
Who will make my fortune better?
Death.
And love’s good, who can attain it?
Change.
And its ills, who is it cures them?
Madness.
And so it is not sense at all
to try to cure the passion’s pain
when all the remedies there are
are death, and change, and madness.

The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the singer filled the two listeners with wonder and delight, and they kept still, waiting to see whether they would hear anything more; but, seeing that the silence lasted for some time, they decided to go out and look for the musician who sang with so fine a voice. And, as they were about to do so, the same voice kept them from moving, for it reached their ears again, singing this sonnet:

Sonnet

O holy friendship, you who on light wings,
leaving your semblance here upon the ground,
among the blessed souls, into the sky
rose up rejoicing to the empyrean halls,
from there, whenever you will, you point us out
true peace concealed beneath a covering veil,
through which at times there glimmers forth the zeal
of good works that in the end turn out bad.
Leave heaven, O friendship, or do not allow
deceit to dress itself in your livery,
in which it ruins every sincere intent;
for if you do not strip your semblance from it,
the world must soon behold itself at war
in the discordant chaos of the first.

The song ended with a deep sigh, and the two waited attentively again to see whether more would be sung; but, seeing that the music had turned to sobs and pitiful moans, they agreed to find out who the sorrowful man was, as excellent in his voice as he was doleful in his groans; and they had not gone far when, turning the point of a rock, they saw a man of the same build and appearance as Sancho Panza had described to them when he told them the tale of Cardenio; and this man, when he saw them, without being startled, stood still, with his head bowed on his breast like a man lost in thought, without raising his eyes to look at them more than the first time, when they came upon him unexpectedly.

The priest, who was a well-spoken man (as one who already knew of his misfortune, for he had recognized him by the description), went up to him, and with few but very sensible words begged and urged him to leave so wretched a life, lest he lose it there, which was the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then in his full senses, free of that raging fit that so often carried him out of himself; and so, seeing the two of them in dress so unlike that of the people who went about those wildernesses, he could not help being somewhat amazed, and the more so when he heard that they had spoken to him of his affairs as of something known—for the words the priest said to him gave him to understand as much—; and so he answered in this manner: “I see very well, gentlemen, whoever you may be, that heaven, which takes care to succor the good, and often even the wicked, sends me, undeserving as I am, in these places so remote and so far from the common dealings of men, certain persons who, setting before my eyes with lively and varied reasons how unreasonable I am in leading the life I lead, have tried to draw me out of it to a better place; but, since they do not know that I know that on coming out of this harm I must fall into a greater one, they must perhaps take me for a man of feeble reasoning, and even, what would be worse, for one of no judgment at all. And it would be no wonder if it were so, for it is plain to me that the force of the imagination of my misfortunes is so intense, and has such power to destroy me, that, without my being able to do anything to prevent it, I come to be like a stone, bereft of all good sense and awareness; and I come to realize this truth when some people tell me of the things I have done while that terrible fit has the mastery of me, and show me signs of them, and I can do no more than grieve in vain and curse my fortune to no purpose, and give as the excuse for my madness the telling of its cause to all who will hear it; for when sensible people see what the cause is, they will not wonder at the effects, and if they give me no remedy, at least they will lay no blame on me, their annoyance at my wildness turning into pity for my misfortunes. And if you, gentlemen, come with the same intention that others have come with, before you go any further with your sensible persuasions, I beg you to hear the account, which has no counting, of my misadventures; for perhaps, once you have understood it, you will spare yourselves the trouble you would take in consoling an ill that is beyond all consolation.”

The two, who wanted nothing more than to learn from his own lips the cause of his harm, begged him to tell it, offering to do nothing but what he wished, for his remedy or comfort; and with this the sorrowful gentleman began his pitiful story, in almost the same words and steps in which he had told it to Don Quixote and the goatherd a few days before, when, on account of Master Elisabat and Don Quixote’s punctiliousness in upholding the decorum of chivalry, the tale was left unfinished, as the history has already told. But now good fortune willed that the fit of madness held off and gave him room to tell it to the end; and so, coming to the passage of the note that Don Fernando had found in the book of Amadís of Gaul, Cardenio said he had it well in his memory, and that it went like this:

“‘Luscinda to Cardenio

“‘Every day I discover in you merits that oblige and compel me to esteem you more; and so, if you would release me from this debt without foreclosing on my honor, you may very well do it. I have a father who knows you and loves me well, and who, without forcing my will, will fulfill the wish it is right that you should have, if you esteem me as you say and as I believe.’ By this note I was moved to ask for Luscinda’s hand, as I have already told you, and it was through this note that Luscinda came to be held by Don Fernando to be one of the most sensible and clever women of her time; and this note was the one that put into him the desire to destroy me before mine could take effect. I told Don Fernando what Luscinda’s father was waiting for, which was that my father should ask him for her, which I did not dare to say to my father, fearing that he would not agree to it, not because he did not know well the quality, goodness, virtue, and beauty of Luscinda, and that she had gifts enough to ennoble any other lineage in Spain, but because I understood him to wish that I should not marry so soon, until he saw what Duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I told him that I did not venture to tell my father, as much because of that difficulty as because of many others that daunted me, without my knowing what they were, except that it seemed to me that what I desired was never to come to pass.

“To all this Don Fernando’s answer was that he would see to speaking with my father himself and bring him to speak to Luscinda’s. O ambitious Marius, O cruel Catiline, O villainous Sulla, O lying Galalón, O traitorous Vellido, O vengeful Julián, O covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel, vengeful, and lying one, what disservice had this unhappy man done you, who with such frankness revealed to you the secrets and joys of his heart? What offense did I give you? What words did I say to you, or what counsel did I give you, that were not all directed to increasing your honor and your profit? But what am I complaining of, wretch that I am? For it is a certain thing that when misfortunes are borne along by the current of the stars, since they come from on high downward, plunging with fury and violence, there is no force on earth that can stop them nor human skill that can forestall them. Who could have imagined that Don Fernando, an illustrious gentleman, sensible, bound to me by my services, with power to obtain whatever his amorous desire might ask of him wherever it might fix itself, would grow so inflamed, as the saying goes, as to take from me my one ewe lamb, which I did not yet even possess? But let these reflections be set aside, as useless and unprofitable, and let us knot together the broken thread of my unhappy story.

“I say, then, that Don Fernando, finding my presence a hindrance to putting his false and wicked design into execution, decided to send me to his elder brother, on the pretext of asking him for some money to pay for six horses, which, on purpose, and solely to this end, that I should be away (so as to be better able to carry out his evil intent), he bought on the very day he offered to speak to my father, and he wanted me to go for the money. Could I have foreseen this treachery? Could I, by any chance, have hit upon imagining it? No, indeed; on the contrary, with the greatest pleasure I offered to set out at once, pleased with the good bargain made. That night I talked with Luscinda, and gave her an account of the arrangement made with Don Fernando, and that she should have firm hope that our good and just desires would take effect. She told me, as unsuspecting as I was of Don Fernando’s treachery, to try to come back soon, for she believed the fulfillment of our wishes would take no longer than it would take my father to speak to hers. I do not know what it was, but as soon as she had said this to me her eyes filled with tears and a lump stuck in her throat, which would not let her speak a word of many others that it seemed to me she was trying to say to me.

“I was amazed at this new turn, never before seen in her, for we always spoke, whenever good fortune and my diligence allowed it, with every gladness and pleasure, without mingling in our talk tears, sighs, jealousies, suspicions, or fears. It was all my extolling my good fortune, since heaven had given her to me as my lady: I exaggerated her beauty, I marveled at her worth and understanding. She paid me back in kind, praising in me what, as a woman in love, seemed to her worthy of praise. Along with this, we told each other a hundred thousand trifles and doings of our neighbors and acquaintances, and the farthest my boldness went was to take, almost by force, one of her beautiful white hands and bring it to my lips, as far as the narrowness of a low grating that divided us allowed. But on the night before the sad day of my departure she wept, moaned, and sighed, and went away, and left me full of confusion and alarm, astonished at having seen such new and such sad signs of grief and feeling in Luscinda. But, so as not to destroy my hopes, I put it all down to the force of the love she had for me and to the grief that absence is apt to cause in those who love each other well.

“In the end I set out, sad and thoughtful, my soul full of fancies and suspicions, without knowing what I suspected or fancied: clear signs that showed me the sad event and misfortune that was in store for me. I arrived at the place I had been sent to. I gave the letters to Don Fernando’s brother. I was well received but not well dispatched, for he ordered me to wait, much to my displeasure, eight days, and in a place where the duke, his father, would not see me, because his brother had written asking him to send him a certain sum of money without the duke’s knowledge. And it was all a contrivance of the false Don Fernando, for his brother did not lack the money to send me off at once. This was an order and command that put me in a mind to disobey it, since it seemed impossible to me to sustain life for so many days in Luscinda’s absence, and the more so having left her in the sadness I have told you of; but, for all that, I obeyed, like a good servant, though I saw that it was to be at the cost of my health.

“But four days after I arrived there, a man came looking for me with a letter, which he gave me, and from the superscription I knew it was from Luscinda, because the hand was hers. I opened it fearful and alarmed, believing that it must be something great that had moved her to write to me while I was away, since when I was near she seldom did so. Before reading it, I asked the man who had given it to him and how long he had taken on the road. He told me that by chance, as he was passing along a street of the city at noon, a very beautiful lady had called to him from a window, her eyes full of tears, and that in great haste she had said to him: ‘Brother, if you are a Christian, as you appear, for the love of God I beg you to take this letter at once, this very moment, to the place and the person written on the superscription, for all of it is well known, and in this you will do a great service to Our Lord; and, so that you may not lack the means to do it, take what is in this handkerchief.’ ‘And, saying this, she threw down to me from the window a handkerchief in which were tied up a hundred reales and this gold ring I have here, together with that letter I have given you. And then, without waiting for my answer, she left the window; though first she saw me take the letter and the handkerchief, and I told her by signs that I would do as she asked. And so, finding myself so handsomely rewarded for whatever trouble I might take in bringing it to you, and knowing by the superscription that you were the one it was sent to, for I, sir, know you very well, and moved besides by the tears of that beautiful lady, I resolved not to trust it to anyone else but to come and give it to you myself; and in the sixteen hours since it was put in my hands I have covered the road, which, as you know, is eighteen leagues long.’

“While the grateful new courier was telling me this, I hung on his words, my legs trembling so that I could hardly stand. In effect, I opened the letter and saw that it contained these words: ‘The promise Don Fernando gave you to speak to your father so that he would speak to mine, he has kept more to his own pleasure than to your profit. Know, sir, that he has asked for me as his wife, and my father, carried away by the advantage he thinks Don Fernando has over you, has agreed to what he wants, and so earnestly that two days from now the betrothal is to take place, so secretly and so privately that none are to witness it but the heavens and a few of the household. Imagine the state I am in; if it suits you to come, consider it; and whether I love you or not, the outcome of this business will give you to understand. May it please God that this reaches your hands before mine finds itself bound to the hand of one who knows so ill how to keep the faith he promises.’ These, in sum, were the words the letter contained, and they were what made me set out at once, without waiting for any other answer or any other money; for I saw very clearly then that it was not the buying of horses but the buying of his own pleasure that had moved Don Fernando to send me to his brother. The anger I conceived against Don Fernando, together with the fear of losing the treasure I had won with so many years of service and longing, lent me wings, for, almost as if flying, the next day I was in my own city, at the very hour and moment that suited for going to speak with Luscinda. I went in secretly, and left a mule I had come on at the house of the good man who had brought me the letter; and fortune willed that my luck should then be so good that I found Luscinda at the grating, the witness of our love. Luscinda knew me at once, and I knew her; but not as she ought to have known me and I to have known her. But who is there in the world who can boast of having fathomed and understood the confused thoughts and changeable nature of a woman? No one, certainly.

“I say, then, that as soon as Luscinda saw me, she said to me: ‘Cardenio, I am dressed for my wedding; Don Fernando the traitor and my father the covetous are already waiting for me in the hall, with other witnesses, who will sooner be witnesses of my death than of my betrothal. Do not be troubled, my friend, but try to be present at this sacrifice, which, if it cannot be prevented by my words, I carry a hidden dagger that can prevent more determined force, putting an end to my life and a beginning to your knowing the love I have borne you and bear you.’ I answered her, troubled and in haste, afraid I would not have time to answer her: ‘Let your deeds, my lady, make your words true; for if you carry a dagger to prove yourself, here I carry a sword to defend you with it or to kill myself if fortune goes against us.’ I do not think she could hear all these words, because I heard them calling her in haste, for the bridegroom was waiting. With this the night of my sadness closed in, the sun of my gladness set: I was left with no light in my eyes and no reason in my understanding. I could not manage to go into her house, nor could I move in any direction; but, considering how much my presence mattered for whatever might happen in that case, I took heart as much as I could and went into her house. And, as I already knew all its ways in and out very well, and the more so with the commotion that was secretly going on in it, no one noticed me. So, without being seen, I had the chance to put myself in the recess made by a window of the same hall, which was covered by the ends and borders of two tapestries, between which I could see, without being seen, everything that was done in the hall.

“Who could tell now the leaps my heart gave while I was there, the thoughts that came to me, the reflections I made? They were so many and of such a kind that they cannot be told, nor is it even right that they should be. It is enough that you should know that the bridegroom came into the hall with no other finery than the ordinary clothes he usually wore. He had as his groomsman a first cousin of Luscinda’s, and in the whole hall there was no one from outside, only the servants of the house. A little after, Luscinda came out of a dressing room, accompanied by her mother and two of her maids, as well adorned and arrayed as her rank and beauty deserved, and as one who was the perfection of courtly elegance and splendor. My suspense and rapture did not give me room to look at and note in detail what she was wearing; I could only make out the colors, which were crimson and white, and the glitter that the stones and jewels of her headdress and of her whole gown gave off, all of which was outdone by the singular beauty of her lovely golden hair, such that, vying with the precious stones and with the lights of four torches that were in the hall, it offered more brightness to the eyes. O memory, mortal enemy of my rest! What good does it do to paint for me now the matchless beauty of that adored enemy of mine? Would it not be better, cruel memory, to remind me and set before me what she did then, so that, moved by so manifest a wrong, I may seek, if not vengeance, at least to lose my life? Do not weary, gentlemen, of hearing these digressions I make; for my grief is not one of those that can or should be told briefly and in passing, since each circumstance of it seems to me worthy of a long discourse.”

To this the priest answered him that not only were they not weary of hearing him, but the small details he told gave them great pleasure, being such that they deserved not to be passed over in silence, and the same attention as the main part of the tale.

“I say, then,” Cardenio went on, “that, when everyone was in the hall, the parish priest came in, and, taking the two of them by the hand to do what is required in such an act, when he said, ‘Do you, Señora Luscinda, take Señor Don Fernando, who is here present, for your lawful husband, as Holy Mother Church commands?’ I thrust my whole head and neck out from between the tapestries, and with ears straining and soul in turmoil I set myself to listen to what Luscinda answered, awaiting from her answer the sentence of my death or the confirmation of my life. Oh, if only I had dared to come out then, crying aloud: ‘Ah, Luscinda, Luscinda, see what you are doing, consider what you owe me, see that you are mine and cannot be another’s! Mark that your saying yes and my life’s ending must be all at one moment. Ah, traitor Don Fernando, robber of my glory, death of my life! What do you want? What do you seek? Consider that you cannot, as a Christian, reach the end of your desires, for Luscinda is my wife and I am her husband.’ Ah, madman that I am, now that I am absent and far from the danger, I say that I ought to have done what I did not do! Now that I have let my dear treasure be stolen, I curse the robber, on whom I could have taken vengeance if I had had the heart for it as I have it for complaining! In the end, since I was a coward and a fool then, it is no great thing that I should die now ashamed, repentant, and mad.

“The priest was waiting for Luscinda’s answer, and she was a good while in giving it, and, when I thought she was drawing the dagger to prove herself, or loosing her tongue to speak some truth or disclosure that would turn out to my advantage, I hear her say in a faint and feeble voice, ‘I do’; and Don Fernando said the same; and, as he gave her the ring, they were bound in an indissoluble knot. The bridegroom came to embrace his bride, and she, putting her hand on her heart, fell fainting into her mother’s arms. It remains now to tell what state I was left in, seeing, in the yes I had heard, my hopes mocked, Luscinda’s words and promises false: deprived of all chance of ever recovering the good I had lost in that instant. I was left without counsel, forsaken, as it seemed to me, by all of heaven, made an enemy of the earth that sustained me, the air denying me breath for my sighs and the water moisture for my eyes; only the fire grew in such a way that I was all burning with rage and jealousy.

“Everyone was thrown into commotion by Luscinda’s fainting, and, as her mother unfastened her bodice to give her air, there was found in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando took at once and began to read by the light of one of the torches; and, when he had finished reading it, he sat down in a chair and put his hand to his cheek, with the look of a man deep in thought, without attending to the remedies being applied to his bride to bring her out of her faint. Seeing the whole household in commotion, I ventured to come out, whether I was seen or not, determined, if they saw me, to do some wild thing such that the whole world would come to understand the just indignation of my breast in the punishment of the false Don Fernando, and even of the fickle, swooning traitress. But my fate, which must be keeping me for greater ills, if it is possible there can be any, ordained that at that moment I should have a surplus of the reason that has failed me ever since; and so, without wishing to take vengeance on my greatest enemies (which, since they were so far from thinking of me, would have been easy to take), I chose to take it with my own hand and carry out on myself the punishment they deserved; and perhaps with even more rigor than would have been used with them if I had killed them then, for the death that comes suddenly soon ends the pain; but the one that is drawn out with torments always kills without ending life. In the end, I came out of that house and went to the house of the man where I had left the mule; I had him saddle it for me, and without taking leave of him I mounted it and rode out of the city, not daring, like another Lot, to turn my face to look at it; and when I found myself alone in the open country, and the darkness of the night hid me and its silence invited me to lament, without regard or fear of being heard or recognized, I gave rein to my voice and loosed my tongue in so many curses on Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if with them I could make amends for the wrong they had done me. I gave her the titles of cruel, of ungrateful, of false and thankless; but, above all, of covetous, since my enemy’s wealth had closed the eyes of her heart, to take her from me and give her to the one with whom fortune had shown itself more liberal and open-handed; and, in the midst of the torrent of these curses and reproaches, I would excuse her, saying it was no great thing that a maiden kept close in her parents’ house, brought up and always used to obeying them, should have chosen to comply with their wishes, since they were giving her as a husband a gentleman so distinguished, so rich, and so handsome that, had she refused to accept him, it might have been thought either that she had no sense or that her heart was set elsewhere: a thing that would do so much harm to her good name and reputation. Then I would turn around and say that, if she had said that I was her husband, they would have seen that she had not made so bad a choice in choosing me that they would not have excused her, for before Don Fernando presented himself they themselves could not have managed to wish, if they measured their wish by reason, for a better husband for their daughter than me; and that she could well, before putting herself in the forced and final strait of giving her hand, have said that I had already given her mine; for I would have come forward and agreed to everything she might have thought of pretending in this case.

“In the end I concluded that little love, little judgment, great ambition, and a longing for grandeur had made her forget the words with which she had deceived me, beguiled me, and kept me up in my firm hopes and honorable desires. With these cries and in this restlessness I traveled for what remained of that night, and at dawn I came upon an entrance to these mountains, through which I traveled for another three days, with no path or road at all, until I came to stop at some meadows, I do not know on which side of these mountains they lie, and there I asked some herdsmen which way the roughest part of these mountains lay. They told me that it lay this way. I made my way toward it at once, intending to end my life here, and, as I entered these rugged places, my mule fell dead of weariness and hunger, or, what I rather believe, to rid itself of so useless a burden as it carried in me. I was left on foot, overcome by nature, pierced with hunger, without having anyone to succor me, or thinking to look for one.

“In that way I lay I do not know how long, stretched on the ground, at the end of which I got up no longer hungry, and found beside me some goatherds, who no doubt must have been the ones who relieved my need, for they told me how they had found me, and how I was saying such nonsense and wild things that I gave clear signs of having lost my wits; and I have felt in myself, ever since, that I do not always have them whole, but so worn and weak that I do a thousand mad things, tearing my clothes, crying out in these wildernesses, cursing my fortune and repeating in vain the beloved name of my enemy, with no other reasoning or intention at such times than to try to end my life by crying out; and when I come to myself, I find myself so tired and bruised that I can hardly move. My most usual dwelling is the hollow of a cork oak large enough to shelter this miserable body. The cowherds and goatherds who go about these mountains, moved by charity, sustain me, putting food along the paths and on the rocks where they think I may happen to pass and find it; and so, though I may lack my wits at such times, natural need makes me know my food, and wakes in me the desire to want it and the will to take it. At other times they tell me, when they meet me in my senses, that I go out onto the roads and take it by force from the shepherds who are bringing it from the village to the folds, even though they would give it to me willingly. In this way I pass my wretched and extreme life, until heaven is pleased to bring it to its final end, or to put it into my memory not to remember the beauty and the treachery of Luscinda and the wrong done by Don Fernando; for if heaven does this without taking my life, I shall turn my thoughts to better reasoning; if not, there is nothing to do but pray it to have mercy absolutely on my soul, for I feel in myself no strength or power to draw my body out of this strait in which, by my own choice, I have chosen to put it. This, O gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortune: tell me if it is such that it can be told with less feeling than you have seen in me; and do not weary yourselves persuading me or advising me of what reason may tell you could be good for my remedy, for it will do me as much good as the medicine prescribed by a famous physician does the sick man who will not take it. I want no health without Luscinda; and, since she chose to belong to another, being, or having the duty to be, mine, let me choose to belong to misfortune, when I might have belonged to good fortune. She chose, by her fickleness, to make my ruin stable; I shall choose, by seeking to ruin myself, to content her will, and it will be an example to those to come that I alone lacked what all the unfortunate have in plenty, for whom the impossibility of having consolation is usually a consolation, and in me is the cause of greater sorrows and ills, because I even think they will not end with death.”

Here Cardenio brought to an end his long discourse and his story, as unhappy as it was full of love. And, just as the priest was getting ready to offer him some words of comfort, a voice came to their ears and cut him short, and in pitiful accents they heard it say what shall be told in the fourth part of this narrative, since here the wise and careful historian Cide Hamete Benengeli brought the third to an end.