Chapter XLII. Which deals with what further happened at the inn, and with many other things worth knowing

With these words the captive fell silent, and Don Fernando said to him:

“Truly, Señor Captain, the way in which you have told this strange story has been such that it matches the novelty and strangeness of the events themselves. It is all extraordinary and rare, and full of incidents that amaze and hold in suspense whoever hears them; and so great is the pleasure we have had in listening to it that, even if tomorrow’s dawn found us still occupied with the same tale, we should be glad to have it begun over again.”

And, as he said this, Don Fernando and all the others offered him their services with everything in their power, in words and speeches so warm and so sincere that the captain was well satisfied of their goodwill. Don Fernando above all made him an offer: if he cared to return with him, Don Fernando would have his brother the marquis stand godfather at Zoraida’s baptism, and, for his own part, would fit him out in such a way that he could enter his own country with the dignity and comfort due to his person. The captive thanked him most courteously for all of it, but would not accept any of his generous offers.

By now night was coming on, and, as it closed in, a coach arrived at the inn with some men on horseback. They asked for lodging; to which the innkeeper’s wife replied that there was not a span of space free in the whole inn.

“Well, even so,” said one of the horsemen who had come in, “there must be room for the lord judge who is coming here.”

At this title the hostess was flustered, and said:

“Sir, the trouble is that I have no beds: if his grace the lord judge brings one with him, as he surely must, let him come in and welcome, for my husband and I will move out of our own room to make his grace comfortable.”

“So be it, then,” said the squire.

But by this time a man had already stepped out of the coach whose clothes at once declared his office and position, for the long gown he wore, its sleeves ruffled, showed him to be a judge, as his servant had said. He was leading by the hand a young lady of about sixteen, as it seemed, dressed for traveling, so elegant, so beautiful, and so graceful that the sight of her filled everyone with admiration; so much so that, had they not seen Dorotea and Luscinda and Zoraida, who were in the inn, they would have believed that another such beauty as this young lady’s would hardly be found. Don Quixote was present when the judge and the young lady came in, and, as soon as he saw him, he said:

“Your grace may enter and take your ease in this castle in all security; for, though it is cramped and poorly furnished, there is no cramping or discomfort in the world that will not make room for arms and letters, and all the more if arms and letters have beauteousness for their guide and leader, as your grace’s letters have it in this fair damsel, before whom not only should castles open and show themselves, but crags should part asunder and mountains divide and bow down to give her welcome. Enter, your grace, I say, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to keep company with the heaven your grace brings with you; here you will find arms at their height and beauty at its utmost.”

The judge was amazed at Don Quixote’s speech, and began to look at him very closely, marveling no less at his figure than at his words; and, before he could find any words of his own with which to answer him, he was amazed all over again when he saw before him Luscinda, Dorotea, and Zoraida, who, at the news of the new guests and at what the innkeeper’s wife had told them of the young lady’s beauty, had come out to see her and receive her. But Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest made him plainer and more courtly offers. In effect, the lord judge went in bewildered as much by what he saw as by what he heard, and the beauties of the inn bade the beautiful young lady welcome.

In short, the judge saw clearly that all those who were there were people of rank; but Don Quixote’s build, face, and bearing baffled him; and, when courteous offers had passed among them all and the accommodation of the inn had been looked into, what had been arranged before was arranged again: that all the women should go into the attic already mentioned, and that the men should stay outside, as if on guard over them. And so the judge was content that his daughter, for that was who the young lady was, should go with those ladies, which she very gladly did. And with part of the innkeeper’s narrow bed, and half of the one the judge had brought, they made themselves more comfortable that night than they had expected.

The captive, whose heart had leaped from the moment he saw the judge, with a foreboding that this was his brother, asked one of the servants who had come with him what his name was and whether he knew what part of the country he was from. The servant answered that his name was the licentiate Juan Pérez de Viedma, and that he had heard that he was from a village in the mountains of León. With this report, and with what he himself had seen, he was fully convinced that this was his brother, who had followed letters on his father’s advice; and, excited and happy, calling Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest aside, he told them what was going on, assuring them that the judge was his brother. The servant had also told him that he was on his way to the Indies, appointed judge of the High Court of Mexico. He learned as well that the girl was the judge’s daughter, that her mother had died bringing her into the world, and that he had been left very rich with the dowry that stayed with him in the house along with the daughter. He asked their advice on what means he should use to make himself known, or to find out first whether, once he had made himself known, his brother, seeing him poor, would be ashamed of him or would receive him with a kind heart.

“Leave it to me to make that trial,” said the priest; “all the more since there is no reason to think anything but that you, Señor Captain, will be very well received; for the worth and good sense your brother shows in his fine looks give no sign that he is arrogant or ungrateful, or that he will not know how to give the turns of fortune their proper weight.”

“For all that,” said the captain, “I should like to make myself known to him not all at once, but in a roundabout way.”

“I tell you,” answered the priest, “that I will contrive it in such a way that we shall all be satisfied.”

By this time supper was ready, and everyone took a seat at the table but the captive and the ladies, who had their supper apart in their own room. In the middle of the meal the priest said:

“I had a comrade of the same name as your grace, Señor Judge, in Constantinople, where I was a captive for some years; and this comrade was one of the bravest soldiers and captains in the whole Spanish infantry; but as much as he had of courage and valor, so much did he have of ill fortune.”

“And what was this captain’s name, sir?” asked the judge.

“His name was,” answered the priest, “Ruy Pérez de Viedma, and he was a native of a village in the mountains of León; and he told me something that had happened to his father and his brothers which, had it not been told me by a man as truthful as he was, I would have taken for one of those tales old women tell by the fire in winter. For he told me that his father had divided his property among the three sons he had, and had given them certain advice better than Cato’s. And I can tell you that the son who chose to go to the wars had done so well that in a few years, by his valor and courage, with no other arm to help him than that of his own great merit, he rose to be a captain of infantry, and saw himself on the road and in the running to be made a camp master before long. But fortune was against him, for where he might have hoped to find it good, there he lost it, losing his freedom in that most happy battle where so many won theirs back, which was the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine at La Goleta, and afterward, by different turns of fortune, we found ourselves comrades in Constantinople. From there he went to Algiers, where I know that one of the strangest things that ever happened in the world befell him.”

From here the priest went on, and, with brief concision, told what had happened between Zoraida and his brother; to all of which the judge was so attentive that never had he been such an oidor, such a hearer, as then. The priest went only as far as the point when the French stripped the Christians who were in the boat, and the poverty and want in which his comrade and the beautiful Moorish woman had been left; of whom he had never learned what had become, whether they had reached Spain or the French had taken them away to France.

The captain was listening to everything the priest said from a little way off, and watching every movement his brother made; and the judge, seeing that the priest had now come to the end of his story, heaved a deep sigh, and, his eyes filling with tears, said:

“Oh, sir, if you only knew what news you have told me, and how closely it touches me, so that I am forced to show it by these tears that, against all my judgment and restraint, are coming from my eyes! That valiant captain you speak of is my elder brother, who, being stronger and of higher thoughts than I or another younger brother of mine, chose the honorable and worthy calling of war, which was one of the three roads our father put before us, as your comrade told you in what, to your mind, was an old wives’ tale you heard from him. I followed letters, in which God and my own diligence have brought me to the rank you see me in. My younger brother is in Peru, so rich that with what he has sent to my father and to me he has well repaid the share he took with him, and has even put in my father’s hands enough to satisfy his natural generosity; and I, likewise, have been able to keep myself with greater decency and dignity in my studies and to reach the post in which you see me. My father is still alive, dying with the desire to have news of his eldest son, and he begs God in continual prayers that death may not close his eyes until he sees his son’s eyes alive; and I marvel that my brother, being so sensible, should, amid so many hardships and afflictions, or prosperous fortunes, have neglected to send word of himself to his father; for had he known it, or any of us, he would not have needed to wait for the miracle of the cane to gain his ransom. But what I fear now is to think whether those Frenchmen will have set him free, or will have killed him to hide their theft. All this will mean that I go on with my journey, not with the happiness with which I began it, but in utter melancholy and sadness. Oh my good brother, if only I knew now where you were, for I would go and seek you and free you from your hardships, even at the cost of my own! Oh, if only someone could bring news to our old father that you were alive, even if you were in the most hidden dungeons of Barbary; for his riches, my brother’s, and mine would get you out of there! Oh, beautiful and generous Zoraida, if only one could repay the good you did a brother! If only one could be present at the rebirth of your soul, and at the wedding, which would give us all such joy!”

These and other such words the judge spoke, so full of feeling at the news they had given him of his brother that all who heard him joined him in showing how deeply they were moved by his grief.

The priest, then, seeing that he had succeeded so well in his intention and in what the captain wished, would not keep them all sad any longer; and so he rose from the table and, going in to where Zoraida was, took her by the hand, and after her came Luscinda, Dorotea, and the judge’s daughter. The captain was waiting to see what the priest meant to do, which was this: taking him too by the other hand, he went with the two of them to where the judge and the other gentlemen were, and said:

“Let your tears cease, Señor Judge, and let your wish be crowned with all the good that can be wished for, since you have before you your good brother and your good sister-in-law. This man you see here is Captain Viedma, and this is the beautiful Moorish woman who did him so much good. The Frenchmen I told you of have left them in the want you see, so that you may show the generosity of your good heart.”

The captain went forward to embrace his brother, and the judge put both hands on his chest to look at him from a little farther off; but, when he knew him at last, he embraced him so closely, shedding such tender tears of joy, that most of those present could not help joining him in them. The words the two brothers said to each other, the feelings they showed, can hardly be imagined, I believe, much less written. There, in a few words, they gave each other an account of their fortunes; there they showed the true affection of two brothers at its fullest; there the judge embraced Zoraida; there he offered her his property; there he had his daughter embrace her; there the beautiful Christian and the most beautiful Moor drew fresh tears from everyone.

There Don Quixote stood attentive, without saying a word, considering these very strange events and putting them all down to the fancies of knight-errantry. There they agreed that the captain and Zoraida should go back with his brother to Seville and let their father know he had been found and freed, so that he might come as best he could to be present at Zoraida’s wedding and baptism, since it was not possible for the judge to leave the road he was on, because he had news that a month from then the fleet was sailing from Seville for New Spain, and it would have been a great inconvenience to him to miss the voyage.

In short, everyone was happy and delighted at the captive’s good fortune; and, as the night had now gone nearly two thirds of its course, they agreed to retire and rest for what was left of it. Don Quixote offered to keep guard over the castle, lest they be attacked by some giant or other ill-errant caitiff, greedy for the great treasure of beauty that castle held. Those who knew him thanked him, and told the judge about Don Quixote’s strange humor, at which he was not a little amused.

Only Sancho Panza was in despair at how long it took them to go to bed, and only he found himself a better place than anyone, stretching out on his donkey’s trappings, which cost him so dear, as will be told later on.

The ladies, then, having retired to their room, and the others having settled themselves as least badly as they could, Don Quixote went out of the inn to stand sentry over the castle, as he had promised.

It happened, then, that when dawn was not far off, a voice so tuneful and so fine reached the ladies’ ears that it made them all listen closely, especially Dorotea, who was awake, and beside whom Doña Clara de Viedma was sleeping, for that was the name of the judge’s daughter. No one could imagine who the person was who sang so well, and it was a voice alone, without any instrument to accompany it. At times it seemed to them that the singing was in the courtyard, at other times in the stable; and, while they were in this uncertainty, listening very closely, Cardenio came to the door of the room and said:

“Whoever is not asleep, listen; for you will hear the voice of a mule boy who chants in such a way that he enchants.”

“We hear it already, sir,” answered Dorotea.

And with this Cardenio went away; and Dorotea, giving it all the attention she could, made out that what was being sung was this: