Chapter XLIV. In which the unheard-of events at the inn are continued

In effect, Don Quixote shouted so loudly that the innkeeper, flinging open the gates of the inn in haste, came out in alarm to see who was raising such a cry, and those outside did the same. Maritornes, who had already been woken by the same shouting, guessing what it might be, went to the hayloft and, without anyone seeing her, untied the halter that was holding Don Quixote up, and he dropped at once to the ground, in full view of the innkeeper and the travelers, who came up to him and asked what ailed him that he was shouting so. Without answering a word, he slipped the cord off his wrist and, rising to his feet, mounted Rocinante, braced his shield on his arm, couched his long lance, and, taking a good stretch of ground, came back at a half gallop, saying:

“Should any man say that I was justly enchanted, so long as my lady Princess Micomicona grants me leave, I give him the lie, I call him out, and I defy him to single combat.”

The new travelers were astonished at Don Quixote’s words, but the innkeeper relieved them of their astonishment by telling them that this was Don Quixote, and that there was no need to take any notice of him, because he was out of his wits.

They asked the innkeeper whether a boy of about fifteen had happened to come to that inn, dressed as a mule boy, with such and such features, and they gave the very ones that Doña Clara’s lover had. The innkeeper answered that there were so many people in the inn that he had not noticed the one they were asking about. But one of them, having caught sight of the coach in which the judge had come, said:

“He must be here, no doubt about it, because this is the coach they say he’s following. Let one of us stay at the door and the rest go in to look for him; and it would be just as well for one of us to go all the way around the inn, so that he doesn’t slip away over the yard walls.”

“So it shall be,” answered one of them.

And two of them went inside, while one stayed at the door and the other went off to circle the inn; all of which the innkeeper watched, unable to make out why such pains were being taken, although he did believe they were looking for the lad whose description they had given him.

By this time day was breaking; and, as much for that reason as because of the noise Don Quixote had made, everyone was awake and getting up, especially Doña Clara and Dorotea, who, the one in alarm at having her lover so near and the other in her eagerness to see him, had slept very poorly that night. Don Quixote, seeing that none of the four travelers paid him any heed or answered his challenge, was dying and raging with spite and fury; and if he had found in the ordinances of his chivalry that a knight-errant might lawfully take up and undertake another enterprise when he had given his word and faith not to engage in any until he had finished the one he had promised, he would have charged at them all and made them answer whether they liked it or not. But, since it did not seem to him fitting or proper to begin a new enterprise until he had set Micomicona on her throne, he had to hold his tongue and keep still, waiting to see what would come of the search those travelers were making; one of whom found the young man he was looking for, asleep beside a mule boy, without the least thought that anyone might be looking for him, much less that anyone might find him. The man caught him by the arm and said:

“Upon my word, Señor Don Luis, the clothes you have on are very becoming to who you are, and the bed I find you in does great credit to the pampering your mother brought you up with.”

The lad rubbed his sleepy eyes and looked long at the man who had hold of him, and then he saw that it was one of his father’s servants, which gave him such a start that for a good while he could not find, or could not manage, a word to say to him. And the servant went on:

“There’s nothing for it here, Señor Don Luis, but to be patient and make the journey home, unless your grace would like your father, my master, to make his journey to the other world, for nothing else can be expected from the grief your absence has left him in.”

“But how did my father know,” said Don Luis, “that I was traveling this road and in these clothes?”

“A student,” answered the servant, “whom you had told of your plans was the one who gave them away, moved to pity by the pitiful state he saw your father in the moment he missed you; and so your father sent four of his servants out in search of you, and here we all are at your service, happier than can be imagined at the happy outcome we shall go home with, bringing you back before the eyes that love you so dearly.”

“That will be as I wish, or as heaven ordains,” answered Don Luis.

“What can you wish, or what can heaven ordain, except that you agree to go back? For nothing else is going to be possible.”

All these words that passed between the two were overheard by the mule boy beside whom Don Luis had been lying; and he got up from there and went to tell Don Fernando and Cardenio and the rest, who were already dressed, what was going on; he told them how that man was giving the boy the title of Don, and what words were passing, and how he wanted to take him back to his father’s house, and the lad refused. And with this, and with what they already knew of him from the fine voice heaven had given him, they were all seized with a great desire to know more particularly who he was, and even to help him if anyone tried to take him by force; and so they went over to where he was still talking and arguing with his servant.

At this point Dorotea was coming out of her room, and behind her Doña Clara, all in a flutter; and Dorotea, calling Cardenio aside, gave him, in brief, the story of the musician and Doña Clara, and he in turn told her what was happening, how servants of the lad’s father had come in search of him; and he did not tell it so softly that Clara failed to hear, at which she was so beside herself that, had Dorotea not reached her in time to hold her up, she would have fallen to the ground. Cardenio told Dorotea that the two of them should go back to their room, and that he would try to put everything right; and they did so.

By now all four of the men who had come in search of Don Luis were inside the inn and standing around him, urging him to go back at once, without a moment’s delay, to console his father. He answered that he could by no means do so until he had brought to an end a business on which his life, his honor, and his soul depended. Then the servants pressed him harder, saying that on no account would they go back without him, and that they would take him whether he would or no.

“That you will not do,” replied Don Luis, “unless you carry me off dead; though, in whatever way you carry me off, you will be carrying me off without life.”

By this time most of the others in the inn had come running to the dispute, especially Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the judge, the priest, the barber, and Don Quixote, who now thought there was no longer any need to guard the castle. Cardenio, since he already knew the lad’s story, asked the men who meant to take him away what moved them to want to carry that boy off against his will.

“What moves us,” answered one of the four, “is to give life back to his father, who, through this gentleman’s absence, is in danger of losing his own.”

To this Don Luis said:

“There is no need to give an account of my affairs here. I am free, and I will go back if I please; and if not, none of you shall force me.”

“Reason will force your grace,” answered the man; “and, if reason is not enough for your grace, it will be enough for us to do what we came for and what we are bound to do.”

“Let us get to the root of this,” said the judge at this point.

But the man, who recognized him as a neighbor of his master’s house, answered:

“Does your grace not know this gentleman, Señor Judge? He is your neighbor’s son, and he has run off from his father’s house in a dress as unbecoming to his rank as your grace can see.”

The judge then looked at him more closely and recognized him; and, embracing him, he said:

“What childishness is this, Señor Don Luis, or what causes can be so powerful that they have moved you to come in this fashion, and in this dress, which sorts so ill with your rank?”

Tears came into the lad’s eyes, and he could not answer a word. The judge told the four to be easy, for all would turn out well; and he took Don Luis by the hand, led him to one side, and asked him what this coming of his meant.

And while he was putting this and other questions to him, they heard loud shouting at the door of the inn, and the cause of it was that two guests who had lodged there that night, seeing everyone busy finding out what the four were looking for, had tried to leave without paying what they owed; but the innkeeper, who paid more attention to his own business than to other people’s, laid hold of them as they went out the door and demanded his money, and he scolded them for their bad intent in such terms that he provoked them into answering him with their fists; and so they began to give him such a beating that the poor innkeeper was driven to shout and call for help. The innkeeper’s wife and her daughter could see no one so free to come to his aid as Don Quixote, to whom the innkeeper’s daughter said:

“Help, your grace, sir knight, by the strength God gave you, help my poor father, for two wicked men are grinding him like grain at the mill.”

To which Don Quixote answered, very slowly and with a great deal of phlegm:

“Fair damsel, your petition cannot be granted at present, because I am prevented from involving myself in any other adventure until I have brought to completion one to which my word has bound me. But what I can do to serve you is what I shall now tell you: run and tell your father to hold out in that battle as best he can, and on no account to let himself be beaten, while I ask Princess Micomicona for leave to succor him in his woe; for if she grants it me, you may rest assured that I shall deliver him from it.”

“Sinner that I am!” said Maritornes, who was standing by. “Before your grace gets this leave you talk of, my master will be in the other world already.”

“Only let me obtain the leave I speak of, lady,” answered Don Quixote, “for, once I have it, it will matter little whether he is in the other world; for I shall bring him back from there in spite of the world itself, should it gainsay me; or, at the least, I shall give you such vengeance on those who sent him there that you will be more than moderately satisfied.”

And without another word he went and knelt before Dorotea, begging her in knightly and knight-errantly language that her greatness might be pleased to grant him leave to aid and succor the castellan of that castle, who had fallen into grievous straits. The princess gave it to him with right good will, and he at once, bracing his shield on his arm and putting his hand to his sword, hurried to the door of the inn, where the two guests were still handling the innkeeper roughly; but the moment he got there he stopped short and stood still, although Maritornes and the innkeeper’s wife kept asking him why he was holding back, and telling him to help their master and husband.

“I hold back,” said Don Quixote, “because it is not lawful for me to put my hand to my sword against persons of squirely rank; but call my squire Sancho here to me, for to him this defense and vengeance belongs and pertains.”

This was what was going on at the door of the inn, and there the punches and cuffs were flying thick and fast, all to the innkeeper’s cost and to the fury of Maritornes, the innkeeper’s wife, and her daughter, who were in despair to see Don Quixote’s cowardice and how badly it was going with their husband, master, and father.

But let us leave him here, for there will be no lack of someone to help him, or, if not, let him suffer in silence who dares to take on more than his strength promises; and let us go back fifty paces to see what answer Don Luis gave the judge, whom we left to one side asking him the cause of his coming on foot and dressed in such mean clothes. To which the lad, gripping his hands hard, as a sign that some great sorrow was wringing his heart, and shedding tears in great abundance, said to him:

“My lord, I can tell you nothing else than this: from the moment heaven willed it, and our living as neighbors made it easy, that I should see my lady Doña Clara, your daughter and my lady, in that same instant she became the mistress of my will; and unless your own will, my true lord and father, stands in the way, this very day she shall be my wife. It was for her that I left my father’s house and for her that I put on this dress, to follow her wherever she might go, as the arrow flies to the mark or the sailor steers by the North Star. She knows no more of my desires than she may have gathered from the few times she has seen my eyes weeping at a distance. You already know, sir, the wealth and nobility of my parents, and that I am their only heir: if you think these qualities enough for you to venture on making me fortunate in every way, receive me at once as your son; for if my father, led by other designs of his own, should not be pleased with the blessing I have contrived to find for myself, time has more power to undo and change things than human wills have.”

With these words the enamored young man fell silent, and the judge, on hearing him, was left in suspense, confused and astonished, as much at the manner and good sense with which Don Luis had opened his heart to him as at finding himself in a position where he did not know which course to take in a matter so sudden and so unlooked-for; and so he gave no other answer than that Don Luis should be calm for the present, and keep his servants in play, so that they would not take him back that day and there would be time to consider what would be best for all. Don Luis kissed the judge’s hands, which he had to seize by force, and even bathed them in tears, a thing that might have softened a heart of marble, let alone the judge’s, who, as a sensible man, had already seen how good a match this would be for his daughter; though, were it possible, he would have liked to bring it about with the consent of Don Luis’s father, who, he knew, was aiming to get his son a title.

By this time the guests had made their peace with the innkeeper, for, persuaded by Don Quixote’s fair words rather than by threats, they had paid him all he asked, and Don Luis’s servants were waiting for the end of the judge’s talk and their young master’s decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, so arranged it that at that very moment there came into the inn the very barber whom Don Quixote had relieved of Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza of his donkey’s trappings, which Sancho had exchanged for his own; and this barber, leading his donkey to the stable, saw Sancho Panza mending something or other on the packsaddle, I do not know what; and no sooner did he see it than he recognized it, and he was bold enough to rush at Sancho, saying:

“Ah, Don Thief, now I’ve got you! Hand over my basin and my packsaddle, and all the trappings you stole from me!”

Sancho, finding himself set upon so suddenly and hearing the abuse that was being hurled at him, seized the packsaddle with one hand, and with the other gave the barber a punch that bathed his teeth in blood; but not for that did the barber let go the grip he had on the packsaddle; instead, he raised his voice so loud that everyone in the inn came running at the noise and the brawl, and he was crying:

“Help, in the name of the king and justice! Here I am getting back my property, and this thief, this highway robber, wants to kill me for it!”

“You lie,” answered Sancho, “I’m no highway robber; these are spoils my master Don Quixote won in fair war.”

Don Quixote was there already, greatly pleased to see how well his squire held his own, in defense and in attack; and from then on he took him for a man of mettle, and resolved in his heart to dub him a knight at the first opportunity that offered, for it seemed to him that the order of chivalry would be well bestowed on him. Among other things the barber said in the course of the brawl, he came out with this:

“Gentlemen, this packsaddle is as surely mine as the death I owe to God, and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it; and there’s my donkey in the stable, who won’t let me lie. If you don’t believe me, try it on him, and if it doesn’t fit him to a hair, call me a scoundrel. And there’s more: the very same day it was taken from me, they also took a brass basin of mine, brand-new, never once used, that cost me a whole escudo.”

Here Don Quixote could not hold back from answering; and, stepping between the two and parting them, and setting the packsaddle down on the ground in plain view until the truth should be made clear, he said:

“Let your graces see clearly and plainly the error this good squire is in, since he calls a basin what was, is, and will be Mambrino’s helmet, which I took from him in fair war and of which I made myself master by legitimate and lawful possession! In the matter of the packsaddle I do not meddle; for all I can say of it is that my squire Sancho asked my leave to strip the trappings from the horse of this vanquished coward and adorn his own with them; I gave it him, and he took them; and as for their having turned from trappings into a packsaddle, I can give no other reason than the usual one: that such transformations are seen in the affairs of chivalry. In confirmation of which, run, Sancho, my son, and bring out here the helmet that this good man says is a basin.”

“By God, sir,” said Sancho, “if we’ve no other proof of our case than the one your grace mentions, then the helmet of Malino is just as much a basin as this good man’s trappings are a packsaddle!”

“Do as I bid you,” replied Don Quixote, “for not everything in this castle can be ruled by enchantment.”

Sancho went to where the basin was and brought it back; and as soon as Don Quixote saw it, he took it in his hands and said:

“See, your graces, what face this squire can have to say that this is a basin and not the helmet I have named; and I swear by the order of chivalry that I profess that this helmet is the very one I took from him, with nothing added to it and nothing taken away.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” said Sancho at this point, “because from the day my master won it until now he’s fought only one battle in it, when he freed those poor wretches in chains; and if it hadn’t been for this basin-helmet he wouldn’t have come off too well that time, because there were stones enough flying in that scrape.”