Chapter XLVI. Of the remarkable adventure of the troopers, and the great ferocity of our good knight Don Quixote

While Don Quixote was saying all this, the priest was trying to persuade the troopers that Don Quixote was out of his wits, as they could see from his deeds and his words, and that there was no reason for them to carry the matter further, since, even if they arrested him and took him away, they would have to let him go at once as a madman; to which the man with the warrant replied that it was not for him to judge of Don Quixote’s madness, but to do what his superior ordered, and that once the man was in custody they could let him go three hundred times over for all he cared.

“For all that,” said the priest, “you are not to take him this time, nor, as far as I can see, will he let himself be taken.”

In effect, the priest found so much to say to them, and Don Quixote found so many mad things to do, that the troopers would have been madder than he if they had not seen what was lacking in Don Quixote; and so they thought it best to calm down, and even to act as go-betweens in making peace between the barber and Sancho Panza, who were still keeping up their quarrel with great rancor. In the end they, as officers of the law, mediated the case and arbitrated it, in such a way that both parties were left, if not entirely content, at least somewhat satisfied, for the packsaddles were exchanged, though not the girths and halters; and as for the matter of Mambrino’s helmet, the priest, on the quiet and without Don Quixote’s noticing, gave the barber eight reales for the basin, and the barber made him out a written receipt, with a promise not to claim he had been cheated, then or for ever and ever, amen.

These two quarrels, then, which were the chief ones and of the greatest weight, having been settled, it remained for Don Luis’s servants to agree that three of them should go back and that the other should stay to go with him wherever Don Fernando wished to take him; and, since good luck and better fortune had already begun to break lances and smooth away difficulties on behalf of the lovers of the inn and its men of valor, fortune chose to carry the thing through and give everything a happy outcome, for the servants agreed to whatever Don Luis wished; at which Doña Clara was so delighted that no one who looked her in the face at that moment could have failed to see the joy in her soul.

Zoraida, though she did not well understand all the events she had seen, grew sad or glad by guesswork, according as she saw and read the faces of each of them, and especially of her Spaniard, on whom her eyes were always fixed and her soul hung. The innkeeper, who had not overlooked the gift and compensation the priest had made the barber, demanded Don Quixote’s reckoning, together with the harm done to his wineskins and the wine that was lost, and he swore that neither Rocinante nor Sancho’s donkey would leave the inn until he had been paid down to the last ardite. The priest smoothed it all over and Don Fernando paid it, although the judge had also offered, very willingly, to pay; and they were all left so much at peace and at rest that the inn no longer looked like the discord of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote had said, but like the very peace and quiet of the time of Octavian; and it was the common opinion that thanks for all of this were owed to the good intentions and great eloquence of the priest and to the incomparable liberality of Don Fernando.

Don Quixote, then, finding himself free and clear of so many quarrels, his squire’s as well as his own, thought it would be well to continue the journey he had begun and bring to an end that great adventure to which he had been called and chosen; and so, with resolute determination, he went and knelt before Dorotea, who would not allow him to say a word until he stood up; and he, to obey her, rose to his feet and said to her:

“It is a common proverb, fair lady, that diligence is the mother of good luck, and in many grave matters experience has shown that the attentiveness of the party to a suit brings a doubtful case to a good end; but nowhere is this truth more plainly shown than in the matters of war, where speed and promptness forestall the enemy’s designs and win the victory before the adversary can put himself on the defensive. All this I say, high and precious lady, because it seems to me that our stay in this castle is now to no purpose, and it might do us such harm that we would come to see it one day; for who knows whether, through secret and diligent spies, your enemy the giant may not have learned already that I am coming to destroy him? And, time giving him room, he might fortify himself in some impregnable castle or fortress against which my efforts and the might of my untiring arm would avail little. So, my lady, let us forestall his designs, as I have said, with our diligence, and let us set out at once, and good luck go with us; for your greatness is no further from having it as you desire than I am delayed in coming face to face with your adversary.”

Don Quixote fell silent and said no more, and waited very calmly for the fair princess’s answer; and she, with a lordly bearing suited to Don Quixote’s style, answered him in this manner:

“I thank you, sir knight, for the desire you show to aid me in my great woe, even as befits a knight, to whom it is proper and pertaining to aid orphans and the needy; and may heaven grant that your desire and mine be fulfilled, so that you may see there are grateful women in the world. And as for my departure, let it be at once; for I have no will but yours: dispose of me entirely at your own wish and pleasure; for she who once entrusted to you the defense of her person and placed in your hands the restoration of her domains will not wish to go against whatever your prudence may ordain.”

“In God’s hands, then,” said Don Quixote. “Since a lady humbles herself before me, I will not lose the occasion of raising her up and setting her on her inherited throne. Let us leave at once, for what is commonly said, that in delay lies danger, is spurring on my desire and my journey. And since heaven has not created, nor hell seen, anyone who can frighten or daunt me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and harness your donkey and the queen’s palfrey; we shall bid farewell to the castellan and to these gentlemen, and go hence this very moment.”

Sancho, who was present at all of this, said, shaking his head from side to side:

“Oh, sir, sir, how much more mischief there is in the little village than gets noised about, begging pardon of all honest coifed ladies!”

“What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities in the world, that could be noised about to my discredit, you peasant?”

“If your grace gets angry,” answered Sancho, “I’ll keep quiet, and leave unsaid what I’m bound to say as a good squire, and what a good servant ought to tell his master.”

“Say what you will,” replied Don Quixote, “so long as your words are not aimed at frightening me; for if you are afraid, you act like what you are, and if I am not, I act like what I am.”

“It isn’t that, as I’m a sinner before God!” answered Sancho. “It’s that I take it as sure and certain that this lady who says she’s queen of the great kingdom of Micomicón is no more a queen than my mother; because, if she were what she says she is, she wouldn’t go about nuzzling with one of the company here, every time you turn your head and behind every corner.”

Dorotea turned red at Sancho’s words, because it was true that her husband, Don Fernando, had now and then, out of sight of other eyes, gathered with his lips some part of the reward his desires deserved (which Sancho had seen, and it had seemed to him that such forwardness was more that of a courtesan than of the queen of so great a kingdom); and she could not and would not answer Sancho a word, but let him go on with his speech, and he continued:

“I say this, sir, because if, after we’ve traveled roads and highways and spent bad nights and worse days, the fruit of our labors is going to be gathered by somebody who sits taking his ease in this inn, there’s no reason for me to hurry to saddle Rocinante, put the packsaddle on the donkey, and get the palfrey ready, for it’ll be better for us to stay where we are, and let every whore spin, and let’s eat.”

Oh, God save us, and how great was the anger Don Quixote felt on hearing his squire’s unmannerly words! I say it was so great that, in a stumbling voice and with a stammering tongue, his eyes shooting living fire, he said:

“Oh, you villainous peasant, you ill-bred, unmannerly, ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, insolent, backbiting slanderer! Have you dared to say such words in my presence and in that of these illustrious ladies, and have you dared to harbor such indecencies and insolences in your muddled imagination? Out of my presence, you monster of nature, you storehouse of lies, you cupboard of deceits, you granary of villainies, you inventor of wickedness, you publisher of nonsense, you enemy of the respect owed to royal persons! Begone; do not appear before me, on pain of my wrath!”

And, saying this, he arched his eyebrows, puffed out his cheeks, looked all about him, and stamped hard on the floor with his right foot, all signs of the wrath pent up in his bowels. At these words and furious gestures Sancho was left so cowed and frightened that he would have been glad if the earth had opened under his feet that instant and swallowed him. And he did not know what to do but turn his back and take himself out of his master’s angry presence. But the sensible Dorotea, who by now understood Don Quixote’s humor so well, said, to temper his wrath:

“Do not take offense, Sir Knight of the Sorry Figure, at the foolish things your good squire has said, for perhaps he does not say them without cause, nor can it be suspected, given his good understanding and Christian conscience, that he would bear false witness against anyone; and so it must be believed, without any doubt, that, since in this castle, as you, sir knight, say, all things go and happen by way of enchantment, it might be, I say, that Sancho saw by this diabolical means what he says he saw, so much to the offense of my modesty.”

“By almighty God I swear,” said Don Quixote at this, “that your greatness has hit the mark, and that some evil vision rose up before this sinner Sancho and made him see what could not possibly have been seen except by way of enchantment; for I know well the goodness and innocence of this unfortunate fellow, who does not know how to bear false witness against anyone.”

“So it is, and so it shall be,” said Don Fernando, “for which reason your grace, Señor Don Quixote, ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your favor, sicut erat in principio (as it was in the beginning), before such visions drive him out of his wits.”

Don Quixote answered that he forgave him, and the priest went for Sancho, who came very humbly and, going down on his knees, asked his master for his hand; and he gave it to him, and, after letting him kiss it, gave him his blessing, saying:

“Now you will finally come to know, Sancho, my son, that what I have told you many other times is true: that all the things in this castle are done by way of enchantment.”

“So I believe,” said Sancho, “except for that business of the blanket, which really happened in the ordinary way.”

“Do not believe it,” answered Don Quixote, “for if that were so, I would have avenged you then, and would avenge you even now; but neither then nor now could I see anyone on whom to take vengeance for the wrong done you.”

They all wished to know what that business of the blanket was, and the innkeeper told it, point by point: Sancho Panza’s flights through the air, at which they all laughed not a little; and Sancho would have been no less mortified by it if his master had not assured him again that it was enchantment; though Sancho’s simplicity never went so far that he did not believe it was the plain and certain truth, with no admixture of deceit at all, that he had been tossed in a blanket by persons of flesh and blood, and not by phantoms dreamed or imagined, as his master believed and declared.

Two days had now gone by since all that illustrious company had been at the inn; and, as it seemed to them that it was time to leave, they made arrangements so that, without Dorotea and Don Fernando’s having to go to the trouble of returning with Don Quixote to his village under the fiction of freeing Queen Micomicona, the priest and the barber could take him away, as they wished, and see to curing his madness at home. And what they arranged was that they came to terms with an ox-carter who happened to be passing that way, for him to carry Don Quixote in this fashion: they made a sort of cage of latticed poles, big enough for Don Quixote to fit in it comfortably; and then Don Fernando and his companions, with Don Luis’s servants and the troopers, together with the innkeeper, all by the priest’s direction and advice, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in one way and some in another, so that they would seem to Don Quixote to be different people from those he had seen in that castle.

This done, they went in very silently to where he lay sleeping and resting from the recent frays. They came up to him as he slept, free from any fear of such a thing, and, seizing him firmly, they bound his hands and feet very securely, so that when he woke with a start he could not stir, nor do anything but marvel and stare in wonder at the strange faces before him; and at once he fell to imagining what his constant, wandering fancy set before him, and he believed that all those figures were phantoms of that enchanted castle, and that he himself was beyond any doubt enchanted already, since he could neither stir nor defend himself: all exactly as the priest, the contriver of this scheme, had thought it would turn out. Of all those present, only Sancho was in his own wits and his own shape; and although he was not far from having his master’s very disease, he did not fail to recognize who all those counterfeit figures were; but he dared not unstitch his lips until he saw what would come of this assault upon his master and his capture; nor did his master say a word, waiting to see where his misfortune would end; and it ended in their bringing the cage there and shutting him up inside it, and nailing the bars so tightly that two good wrenches would not have broken them.

Then they hoisted him on their shoulders, and as they went out of the room a fearsome voice was heard, as fearsome as the barber could make it (not the barber of the packsaddle, but the other one), saying:

“O Knight of the Sorry Figure, let not the prison you go in distress you, for so it must be, that the adventure your great valor has thrust you into may be the sooner achieved; and it shall be achieved when the furious spotted lion of La Mancha and the white Tobosan dove shall lie together as one, their lofty necks bowed beneath the soft matrimonious yoke; and from this unheard-of union shall come forth to the light of the world the brave whelps, who shall imitate the rumpant claws of their valiant sire. And this shall be ere the pursuer of the fleeing nymph shall twice have made his visit to the shining signs in his swift and natural course. And you, O the most noble and obedient squire that ever had sword at belt, beard on face, and smell in nose, be not dismayed or downcast to see the flower of knight-errantry carried off thus before your very eyes; for soon, if it please the Fashioner of the world, you shall see yourself so high and so exalted that you shall not know yourself, and the promises your good lord hath made you shall not prove false. And I assure you, on behalf of the sage Mentironiana, Mistress of Lies, that your wages shall be paid you, as you shall see in the event; and follow in the footsteps of the valiant and enchanted knight, for it is fitting that you go where you both shall stop. And, since it is not lawful for me to say more, God be with you, for I return whither I know.”

And at the end of the prophecy he raised his voice to its highest pitch and then lowered it, with so tender an accent that even those who were in on the joke were ready to believe that what they heard was true.

Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he had heard, for he at once gathered its whole meaning; and he saw that it promised he would see himself joined in holy and lawful wedlock to his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose happy womb would come forth the whelps, who were his sons, to the everlasting glory of La Mancha. And, believing this well and firmly, he raised his voice and, heaving a great sigh, said:

“O you, whoever you may be, who have foretold so much good for me! I beg you to ask on my behalf the sage enchanter who has my affairs in his charge not to let me perish in this prison in which they are now carrying me, until I see fulfilled promises as joyful and incomparable as those that have been made me here; for, if this be so, I shall count the pains of my prison as glory, and these chains that bind me as relief, and this bed on which they lay me not as a hard field of battle but as a soft couch and a happy bridal bed. And as for the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I trust in his goodness and good conduct that he will not forsake me in good fortune or in bad; for, should it not come about, through his ill luck or mine, that I am able to give him the isle, or some other equivalent thing I have promised him, at least his wages cannot be lost; for in my will, which is already made, I have set down what is to be given him, not in keeping with his many and good services, but with my means.”

Sancho Panza bowed to him with great courtesy and kissed both his hands, for he could not have kissed one alone, since both were tied together.

Then those apparitions took the cage on their shoulders and settled it on the ox-cart.