Part 1 / Book 4 — BOOK IV. (continued 3)

‘Anselmo was thunderstruck at this declaration of Lothario, which came upon him when he least expected it; for he already looked upon Camilla as a conqueror in the fictitious assaults of his friend, and had actually began to enjoy the glory of her triumph. After having stood silent for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, “Lothario,” said he, “you have acted up to the expectation of my friendship: I will adhere to your advice in every thing; do what you please; I hope you will keep this unexpected affair as secret as the nature of it requires.”

‘His false friend promised to observe the caution; but soon as he quitted the apartment, repented of every thing he had said, reflecting how foolishly he had proceeded, and that he might have punished Camilla by means less cruel and dishonourable. He cursed his own folly, condemned his precipitation, and endeavoured to find out some expedient to undo what he had done, or at least bring it to some favourable issue. At length, he resolved to disclose the whole to Camilla, as there wanted not opportunities of being with her alone; and that very day being together, she made use of the first that happened, addressing herself to him in this manner. “Know, my dear Lothario, that my heart is ready to burst with one affliction, which is so grievous that it will be a wonder if I survive it: Leonela is arrived to such a pitch of impudence, that every night she introduces a gallant into the house, and remains with him till morning, very much at the expence of my reputation, as the field is left open for any malicious construction, upon seeing a man come out of my house at such unseasonable hours; and the misfortune is, I dare neither chide nor chastise her for her audacity; for her being privy to our correspondence puts a bridle in my mouth, obliging me to be silent on the subject of her folly, from which I fear some mischance will befal us.”

198‘When Camilla began this discourse, Lothario imagined it was an artifice to deceive and persuade him that the man he had seen coming out of the house had been there on Leonela’s account only; but, seeing his mistress weep, and in the utmost affection entreat him to find out some remedy for this inconvenience, he was convinced of the truth, and covered with shame and remorse for what he had done; nevertheless, he desired Camilla to make herself easy, and promised to fall upon some method to curb Leonela’s insolence. He then told her what, instigated by the rage of jealousy, he had disclosed to Anselmo, who by his appointment was to conceal himself in the wardrobe, that he might have an incontestible proof of her infidelity: he begged pardon for his madness, with advice how to remedy it, and to extricate himself from the labyrinth in which he was involved by his own imprudence. Camilla was astonished at the discourse of Lothario, whom she chid and reprimanded with great reason and resentment, for the groundless suspicion which had driven him to such a mad and mischievous resolution; but women having naturally more invention than men can boast of, either for a good or bad occasion, though sometimes they fail in premeditated schemes, Camilla instantly thought of a cure for this seemingly incurable dilemma, and bade Lothario prevail upon her husband to conceal himself in the appointed place, the very next day; for she hoped to reap such advantage from his concealment, as that for the future they should enjoy each other without the least fear or interruption. She, therefore, without disclosing to her lover the whole of her plan, desired him to take care, when Anselmo was hid, to come at Leonela’s call, and answer every question she should ask, in the same manner as he would reply if he did not know that her husband was within hearing. Lothario insisted upon knowing the particulars of her scheme, that he might with more security and success perform his cue; but Camilla assured him he had nothing to do but answer her questions with truth and sincerity; being unwilling to make him previously acquainted with her design, lest he should disapprove of that which to her seemed so necessary, and recommend another which perhaps she might not think so effectual. Accordingly, Lothario took his leave, and next day Anselmo, under pretence of going to his friend’s country-house, set out, but soon returned to his hiding-place; Camilla and her maid having purposely given him an opportunity of getting in unseen. There he remained in a state of perturbation, which may be easily conceived to harrass the breast of a man who expected to see with his own eyes the bowels of his honour dissected, and found himself on the brink of losing that supreme bliss which he thought he possessed in his beloved Camilla.

‘She and her maid, by this time, certified of his being there, went to the wardrobe, which Camilla no sooner entered, than heaving a profound sigh, “Dear Leonela,” said she, “rather than execute the design which I conceal from your knowledge, that you may not endeavour to prevent it, would it not be better for you to take this poignard of Anselmo, and plunge it in my unfortunate bosom? Yet do not, Leonela; for it were unreasonable that I should be punished for another’s crime; I want first to know what the daring and licentious eyes of Lothario have discerned in my conduct, that should encourage him to declare a passion so guilty as that which he hath owned, so much to my dishonour and the prejudice of his friend. Go to that window, Leonela, and beckon to him, for doubtless he is now in the street, expecting to succeed in his wicked intention; but I shall first execute mine, which is equally honourable and severe.”—“Alas, Madam!” answered the cunning and well-instructed Leonela, “how do you intend to use that fatal poignard? are you determined to take away your own life, or that of Lothario? by sacrificing either the one or the other, you will entirely ruin your own reputation. You should rather stifle your wrongs, than give that wicked wretch an opportunity of finding us here alone; consider, Madam, that we are but weak women, and he a determined man, who, blinded by his guilty passion, may by force deprive you of that which you value more than life, before 199you can execute your purpose upon him. A plague upon my master Anselmo, for allowing that impudent fellow to be so free in his house! besides, Madam, should you kill him, as I believe you intend to do, what shall we do with him after he is dead?”—“Nothing, my friend,” replied Camilla, “but let Anselmo bury him; for he ought to take pleasure in the task of interring his own infamy. Go and beckon to him, I say, for every moment I delay my just revenge seems to injure afresh that fidelity which I owe to my husband.”

‘All this conversation was overheard by Anselmo, whose sentiments were entirely changed by what Camilla said; and when he understood that she intended to kill Lothario, he was inclined to come out and discover himself, in order to prevent the deed; but he was diverted from that resolution by the desire of seeing the issue of his wife’s gallant and virtuous determination; purposing, however, to appear seasonably enough for the safety of his friend.

‘About this time Camilla throwing herself upon a couch, was seized with a violent fit, during which Leonela wept bitterly, exclaiming, “Ah, woe is me! must I then see, expiring in these unfortunate arms, the flower of human virtue, the queen of excellent wives, the pattern of chastity!” with other epithets of the same kind, which nobody could have heard, without esteeming her the most faithful and afflicted damsel upon earth, and her mistress another persecuted Penelope. Camilla, having soon recovered from her fit, said to her woman, “Why don’t you go and call this the most faithful friend that ever was seen by the day, or shrouded by the night? Make haste; go, run, fly; let not the fire of my rage be consumed by your delay, and the just vengeance I mean to take evaporate in curses and unsubstantial threats.”—“I go,” answered Leonela, “but you must first give me that poignard, lest, in my absence, you do a deed to make all those who love you weep to the end of their lives.”—“Go, dear Leonela,” replied her mistress, “and fear nothing; for although, in your opinion, I may be rash and even unreasonable, in thus resenting the affront upon my honour; I shall not behave like that Lucretia, who, ’tis said, killed herself, though innocent, without having first punished the villainous cause of her misfortune. If I must die, I will at least fall fully revenged of him who is the occasion of my being here, to bewail his audacious behaviour, which, I am sure, proceeded from no misconduct of mine.”

‘Many intreaties did she use, before Leonela would go and call Lothario, but at length she prevailed; the maid went out to seek him, and, in her absence, Camilla uttered the following soliloquy. “Good Heaven! would it not have been more prudent to dismiss Lothario as usual, than to give him this occasion of thinking me vicious and immodest, even though that opinion can only last until I have an opportunity of undeceiving him? Yes, certainly; but I shall not think myself revenged, nor the honour of my husband sufficiently vindicated, if he escapes so smooth and clean from this snare into which his wicked inclinations have decoyed him. Let the traitor pay with his life for the enterprize of his lascivious desire; the world shall know, if even the affair be made publick, that Camilla not only preserved her affection for her husband inviolate, but also took vengeance on the man who thought to impair it. Yet, methinks, I ought to disclose the whole to Anselmo; but I have already touched upon the subject, in the letter I sent to him when he was in the country; and his omitting to apply a remedy to the evil I then hinted at, must certainly be owing to his own integrity and unsuspecting heart, which would not suffer him to believe, that the breast of such a constant friend could harbour one thought to the prejudice of his honour; indeed, this was my own opinion, until his behaviour became intolerably licentious, and his presents, promises, and tears, fully manifested his guilty purpose. But, wherefore these reflections? does a gallant resolution stand in need of hesitating advice? No! traitor, avaunt! hither vengeance! enter, thou false, perfidious wretch, come, quick, be speedy, die, and let the consequence be what 200it will! Pure and unspotted I came into the possession of him whom Heaven appointed to be my husband and my lord, and equally pure shall I leave his embrace, though bathed in my own chaste blood, and embrued in the tainted gore of the falsest friend that ever friendship saw!” So saying, she brandished the drawn dagger in her hand, and stalked across the room with such disordered steps and violent gestures, that she seemed to have lost her senses, and looked more like a desperate ruffian than a delicate wife.

‘All this transport and agitation was perceived, with astonishment, by Anselmo, where he stood concealed behind the tapestry; he thought he had now seen and heard enough to dispel suspicions of a stronger kind than those he entertained; and even wished that the proof might proceed no farther, by Lothario’s failing to keep the appointment; for he was afraid that some sudden unlucky accident might happen. Being therefore on the point of shewing himself, and running to embrace and undeceive his wife, he was prevented by seeing Leonela return with his friend, whom Camilla no sooner beheld, than drawing a line before her, with the dagger, she said, “Take notice, Lothario, if you attempt to pass this line, or even approach it, the moment I perceive your intention, I will plunge the poignard in my breast. Without offering the least reply, therefore, to this declaration, I desire you will listen to some questions I mean to ask, which you may answer as you shall think proper; in the first place, tell me, Lothario, if you know my husband Anselmo, and what station he maintains in your opinion? and then be as explicit in your sentiments of me; answer without perturbation or difficulty, for the questions I ask are easily solved.”

‘Lothario was not so ignorant, but that he had conceived her design, from the moment of her desiring him to advise Anselmo to conceal himself; and therefore his replies were so seasonable, and corresponded so exactly with her aim, that this fiction had all the air of the most genuine truth. “Beauteous Camilla,” said he, “I did not imagine you had sent for me with a view of asking questions so foreign to the purpose for which I come; if you meant to delay the promised bliss, you might have protracted the assignation to a more distant term; for, the nearer the prospect of enjoyment is, the more grievous will the disappointment be: but that you may have no cause to complain of my refusing to answer your demands, I will own that I know your husband Anselmo, with whom I have been intimate from our most tender years. Of the friendship (as you know) subsisting between us, I will say nothing, that I may not bear witness to the wrong which love, the powerful excuse of greater crimes, compels me to commit: you too I know, and rate as high as you can possibly be in his esteem; for a prize of less value I should not have acted so unbecoming my own character, or transgressed those laws of perfect friendship, which I have broken and violated, at the instigation of that mischievous and irresistible power.”

‘“Since thou art self-convicted so far,” replied Camilla, “thou mortal enemy to all that merits love! with what face darest thou appear before her who is the mirror that reflects him, and in which thou oughtest to have seen how little reason and encouragement thou hadst to wrong his honour; but, unfortunate that I am! I have found out the cause that induced thee to forget thyself so far; it must have been some lightness of carriage in me; immodesty I will not call it, because it could not be the effect of deliberate determination, but must have proceeded from a neglect of some of those forms which women often inadvertently omit before those whom they think they can entertain without ceremony. Otherwise, tell me, traitor, when did I ever answer thy addresses with any word or sign that could awaken in thy breast the least glimpse of hope to accomplish thy infamous aim? Did I not always reject and reprove thy amorous protestations with rigour and severity? and when were thy promises and presents believed and accepted? But, as I think no person could long persevere in such a flagitious intention, without being supported by some sort of hope, I am willing to 201lay the blame of your impertinence at my own door; since, without doubt, some failure of care in me, hath enabled you to exert yours so long; and therefore, I will inflict upon myself the punishment that your crime deserves; but that you may see, in being thus inhuman to myself, it was impossible for me to deal mildly by you, I have invited you hither, to be witness of the sacrifice I mean to offer to the injured honour of my noble husband, whom you have aggrieved to the utmost of your power, I myself being accessary to the wrong, because I have not industriously enough avoided all occasion, if I gave you any, of favouring and countenancing your wicked inclinations. I say, the suspicion I have, that some levity of mine engendered such frantick sentiments in your bosom, gives me the utmost pain, and prompts me to chastise my indiscretion with my own hands, rather than make my fault more publick, by submitting to another executioner; but, if I must perish, my fall shall be accompanied with the death of him whose blood will satisfy the vengeance which I already in some measure enjoy, when I consider that wheresoever I go, I shall have before mine eyes, the victim I offered to the most disinterested justice, in punishing the wretch who hath reduced me to this despair.”

‘So saying, she assaulted Lothario with incredible force and agility, manifesting such eagerness to plunge the poignard in his breast, that he himself doubted whether her endeavours were feigned or real; and was actually obliged to exert his whole strength in defending himself from Camilla, who acted this strange imposture so much to the life, that, in order to give it the greater appearance of truth, she resolved to colour it with her own blood; for seeing, or feigning, that she could not touch Lothario, she cried, “Though fate denies me the full satisfaction of my just desire, it cannot rob me of one part of my revenge.” With these words, struggling to disengage her dagger-hand, which was held by Lothario, she at last succeeded, and directing her poignard to a part of her body, which she thought she might slightly wound without danger, she sheathed it between her shoulder and left-breast, and fell upon the floor as in a swoon.

‘Leonela and Lothario were astonished and confounded at this event, and still dubious whether or not Camilla was in earnest, when they saw her stretched upon the ground, and bathed in her own blood. Lothario ran, in the utmost fright and consternation, to draw forth the dagger; but perceiving what a superficial wound she had made, he recovered of the terror which had began to seize him, and could not help admiring anew, the uncommon sagacity, prudence, and discretion, of the beautiful Camilla; that he might therefore proceed in the part he had to act, he began to make long and sorrowful lamentation over the body, as if she had been really dead, imprecating a thousand curses, not only upon himself, but also upon him who was the original cause of this disaster; and as he knew that Anselmo was listening, said such melancholy things, that whosoever had heard him, would have pitied his case, as much as that of Camilla, though they had believed her actually dead.

‘Leonela lifted her up, and laying her on the bed, earnestly entreated Lothario to find some person who would cure her privately; and begged he would advise her, with regard to what she should tell Anselmo, about her lady’s wound, in case he should return before she was cured: he said she might tell him what she pleased, for he was then in no condition to give any profitable advice about the matter; he only desired her to fall upon some method of staunching the blood, and declared that for his own part he would go where man should never see him. He accordingly departed with the appearance of infinite grief and anxiety, and when he found himself alone, in a private place, crossed himself with amazement at the invention of Camilla, and the artful behaviour of her maid. He could easily conceive that Anselmo was by this time thoroughly convinced of his having a second Portia for his wife; and was impatient to see him, that they might together extol her behaviour, which, though imposture, had more appearance of truth than any thing 202of the same kind that had ever been practised.

‘Leonela, as she was desired, stopped her lady’s blood, of which there was just enough to give credit to her artifice; and washing the wound with a little wine, bound it up as well as she could, uttering such sorrowful expressions all the time, as would have been sufficient, without any previous lamentation, to persuade Anselmo that his wife was the mirror of chastity. Leonela’s complaints were joined by those of her mistress, who taxed herself with cowardice and pusillanimity, in having lost the best opportunity she should ever have of parting with that life which she abhorred. She consulted her maid about disclosing the whole affair to her beloved spouse; but this scheme Leonela opposed, observing that it would lay her master under an obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario; a satisfaction he could not enjoy without exposing himself to great danger; and that a virtuous woman, far from seeking to involve her husband in quarrels, was in duty bound to keep him free of all such disputes, by every method in her power. Camilla seemed to approve of her maid’s prudence, and promised to follow her advice; but said it would be necessary at all events to invent some excuse to Anselmo about the wound, which he could not fail of observing. Leonela assuring her, that they could never tell a lye even in jest, the mistress replied, “What shall I do then, child? for I would not attempt to frame and maintain a falshood, even though my life depended upon it; since, therefore, we know not how to extricate ourselves otherwise, we must e’en discover the naked truth, rather than run the risk of being detected in a lye.”—“Don’t give yourself any farther uneasiness, Madam,” said Leonela; “by to-morrow morning I shall have found some expedient; perhaps the wound being where it is, may be concealed from his view, and Heaven vouchsafe to favour our upright and honourable intention. Compose yourself, dear Madam, endeavour to calm the perturbation of your spirits, that my master may not perceive your disorder, and leave the consequence to my care and that of Heaven, which never fails to favour the righteous design.”

‘Anselmo listened with the utmost attention to this tragedy of the death of his honour, which was represented with such exquisite and surprizing address, that the actors seemed really transformed into the very characters they feigned; he longed impatiently for night, and an opportunity of escaping unseen, that he might fly to his worthy friend Lothario, and receive his congratulation upon the precious jewel he had found in this vindication of his wife’s virtue; they took care to furnish him with the occasion he wanted; and he, without letting it slip, ran immediately in quest of Lothario. It would be difficult to describe the eagerness of his embraces at meeting, or to recount the expressions he used in the overflowings of his satisfaction, and the extravagant praises he bestowed on Camilla. All these Lothario heard, without being able to manifest the least signs of joy; his reflections taxed him with the deceit he had practised, and the injury he had done his unsuspecting friend. Anselmo took notice that he did not seem to participate in his pleasure, but believed his concern proceeded from the thoughts of having been the occasion of Camilla’s wound: he therefore, among other things, told him to make himself easy on that score, for the hurt must certainly have been very slight, as they had agreed to conceal it from his knowledge; and since there was no bad consequence to be apprehended, he hoped for the future to enjoy, in mirth and good-humour, the friendship of his dear Lothario, by whose industry and mediation he now saw himself raised to the most sublime pitch of human felicity; at the same time he signified, that his desire and design was to pursue no other amusement than that of composing verses in praise of Camilla, that should transmit to latest posterity the remembrance of her worth.

‘Lothario commended his laudable determination, and promised to contribute all that lay in his power towards the rearing of such an illustrious edifice; so that Anselmo being the most agreeably deceived of any man that ever lived, led by the hand 203to his own house, the very man who, though in his opinion the instrument of his glory, was the total perdition of his fame. Camilla received him with a countenance expressing resentment, but a soul brimful of joy; and their secret correspondence continued uninterrupted for a few months, at the end of which the wheel of fortune having performed a full circle, the intrigue, which had been hitherto so artfully concealed, was discovered, and Anselmo’s Impertinent Curiosity cost him his life.’

CHAP. VIII. THE CONCLUSION OF THE IMPERTINENT CURIOSITY.

A little more of this novel remained to be read, when Sancho came running in great confusion, from the garret where his master Don Quixote lay, bawling aloud, ‘Come hither, gentlemen! make haste to the assistance of my master, who is this precious minute engaged and grappled in the toughest battle that ever my eyes beheld! Egad, he has given that same giant, the enemy to my Lady the princess of Micomicona, such a back-stroke, as hath sliced off his head as smooth and clean as the skin of a turnip.’—‘What do you mean, brother?’ said the curate, closing the book; ‘are you in your right wits, Sancho? How the devil can your master be fighting with a giant who is two thousand leagues from hence?’

That instant they heard a great noise in the apartment, and Don Quixote proclaiming aloud, ‘Stay, villain! robber! caitiff! here I have thee, and thy scymitar shall not avail.’ Then he began to strike furiously at the walls; and Sancho exclaimed, ‘Don’t stand here listening, but go in and part the fray, or lend your assistance to my master, though I believe that will be needless by this time, for the giant is certainly dead, and giving an account to God of his wicked and misspent life: nay, I saw, with my own eyes, his blood running about the floor, and his head cut off, laying on one side, as a large wine bag.’—‘May I be hanged,’ cried the innkeeper, at these words, ‘if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has not cut open one of the skins filled with red wine, that stood at his bed’s head, and the wine that ran out is mistaken by this simple fellow for blood!’

So saying, he rushed into the apartment with the whole company at his heels, and found the knight in a very ludicrous situation; he appeared in his shirt, which was too scanty before to cover his thighs, and still shorter behind, by six inches at least, and displayed a pair of long lank legs, imbrowned with hair, and not extremely clean; his head was covered with a little, red, greasy night-cap, belonging to the landlord; round his left-arm he had wrapped the blanket of his bed, to which Sancho, for good reasons known to himself, bore an inveterate grudge; and in his right, he wielded his drawn sword, with which he laid about him at a furious rate, talking as if he was actually at blows with the giant; but, what was very surprizing, his eyes were shut all the time, and he was fast asleep, dreaming of this encounter; for his imagination was so much engrossed by the adventure he had undertaken to atchieve, as to make him dream that he was already arrived in the kingdom of Micomicon, and engaged in single combat with his gigantick adversary; instead of whom, he hacked the wine-bags so furiously, that the whole room was afloat with their contents.

The innkeeper no sooner perceived this havock, than incensed to the last degree, he assaulted Don Quixote with his clenched fists, and began to pummel him so severely, that if the curate and Cardenio had not interposed, he would soon have put an end to the adventure of the giant; yet, for all that, the poor knight did not awake until the barber fetching a kettle of cold water from the well, soused him all over; even then, though sleep forsook him, he did not recollect the situation he was in; and Dorothea, seeing him so slight and airily equipped, did not chuse to be a spectator of the combat between her adversary and protector. Meanwhile, Sancho went about the room, prying into every corner, and searching for the giant’s head; which when he could not find, ‘I know,’ said he, ‘that every thing goes by inchantment in this house: the last time I was in this very spot, I received 204a great many thwacks and thumps without seeing a soul, or being able to guess from whence they came; and now this head is vanished, though I saw it cut off with mine own eyes, and the blood spout out of the body, like water from a fountain.’—‘What! dost thou talk of blood and fountains, thou enemy of God and his saints!’ cried the inn-keeper; ‘don’t you see, rascal, that there is no blood or fountain, but the skins that are pierced, and the red wine that swims about the room? I hope the soul of him who pierced them, will swim in hell!’—‘I know nothing of the matter,’ replied Sancho; ‘but that, on account of my not finding the head, I shall see my earldom dissolve like salt in water.’

Thus the squire, though awake, was more extravagant than Don Quixote in his dream; such an impression had his master’s promises made upon his imagination. The phlegmatick temper of the squire, together with the mischievous disposition of the knight, well-nigh distracted the landlord, who swore, that they should not now, as formerly, go away without paying; and that all the privilege of their errantry should not exempt them from paying both reckonings to the last farthing, for the damage they had done, even to the bits of leather for patching the wine-skins that were cut. The curate, by this time, had got hold of the hands of Don Quixote, who, believing he had now finished the adventure, and was in presence of the Princess Micomicona, fell upon his knees before the priest, saying, ‘Renowned princess, your highness may henceforth live secure of what that misbegotten wretch can do; and I, from this day forward, am acquitted of my promise, which is now, by the assistance of Heaven above, and the favour of her for whom I live and breathe, happily and fully performed.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried Sancho, hearing these words. ‘You see I am not drunk, and may take notice that my master hath put the giant in pickle: the holidays will certainly come round, and the earldom fit me to a hair.’

Who could refrain from laughing at the follies of the master and man? they occasioned abundance of mirth to every one present, except the landlord, who cursed himself to the devil. At length the barber, curate, and Cardenio, with no small difficulty, put the knight to bed again, where he fell fast asleep in an instant, like one who had been excessively fatigued; they left him to his repose, and went out to console Sancho for his disappointment in losing the giant’s head; but they found it a harder task to pacify the innkeeper, who was driven almost to despair, by the sudden death of his wine-bags; besides, the landlady began to cry, in a whimpering tone, ‘In an unlucky minute and evil hour did this knight-errant enter my doors! for I am sure, I never beheld him without paying dearly for the sight! The last time he was here, he refused to defray a whole night’s expence of supper, lodging, straw, and barley, for himself and his squire, his horse and his ass; saying that he was a knight-errant, forsooth: (God send him and all other knights-errant upon errands that will tend to their sorrow!) and therefore, was not obliged to pay for any thing, because it was not ordained in the registers of chivalry; then, this gentleman coming after him t’other day, borrowed my tail, and though I have got it again, it is a good penny the worse for the wearing, the hair being plucked off in such a manner as makes it unfit for my husband’s purpose; and to finish and conclude the whole, my bags are broke, and my wine spilt; (would I could see his heart’s blood in the same condition!) but he must not think to get off so easily, for by the bones of my father, and my mother’s soul! they shall pay for every thing upon the nail; or, may I never be called by my own name again, or believed to be my father’s own child!’

These, and other expressions of the same kind, were uttered, with great bitterness, by the landlady; and her faithful servant Maritornes joined in the exclamation; while the daughter held her peace, and, from time to time, smiled at their indignation, which at last was appeased by the curate, who promised to give them satisfaction, to the best of his power, for the loss they had sustained in bags and wine, and, in particular, for the damage done to the tail, which they valued so highly; and Dorothea comforted Sancho, by telling him, that as soon as ever it should 205appear that his master had actually cut off the giant’s head, and she should find herself in quiet possession of her kingdom, she would bestow upon him the best earldom in her gift. The squire was consoled by this promise, and assured the princess, that he was certain he had seen the giant’s head, by the same token that he had a huge beard that flowed down to his middle; and that the whole was now vanished, because every thing in that house was performed by inchantment, as he had found by woeful experience, the last time he had lodged in that apartment. Dorothea said she was of the same opinion, desiring he would give himself no uneasiness, for every thing would be for the best, and succeed to his heart’s content. The quiet of the house being thus re-established, the curate wanted to read the remaining part of the novel, which he perceived already drew near a close; and Cardenio, Dorothea, and the rest, intreating him to finish the story, he, with a view of pleasing them as well as himself, proceeded in these words.

‘Anselmo being now satisfied of his wife’s virtue, enjoyed himself without the least disturbance or care; while Camilla, in order to disguise her real sentiments, affected always to frown upon Lothario, who, as a farther sanction to this stratagem, desired Anselmo to excuse him from coming to his house, since it was plain that Camilla was disgusted at his presence: but the infatuated Anselmo would by no means comply with this request; so that this unhappy husband was, in a thousand shapes, the author of his own dishonour, while, in his own opinion, he was laying up a store of happiness and reputation.

‘About this time Leonela’s desire of gratifying her own loose wishes, carried her to such a pitch of imprudence, that she gave her wantonness the rein without the least caution; conscious that her mistress would conceal her conduct, and even advise her how to carry on the intrigue without the least danger of being detected. At length, however, Anselmo, one night heard somebody walking in her apartment, and endeavouring to get in and see who it was, found the door shut against him. This circumstance increased his desire, he made a violent effort, and the door flew open, upon which he entered, and seeing a man leap out of the window into the street, ran hastily to lay hold or get sight of him; but he was disappointed in both by Leonela, who hanging upon her master, cried, “Hold, dear Sir! be not surprized, nor seek to pursue the person who is fled; he was here on my account, and is as good as my wedded husband.”

‘Anselmo would give no credit to her words, but, blinded with passion, drew his poignard to stab Leonela, whom he commanded to reveal the truth on pain of immediate death. She, terrified by his threats, answered, without knowing what she said, “Spare my life, good Sir, and I will disclose things of greater importance than you imagine.”—“Speak, then,” cried Anselmo, “or thou shalt instantly die.”—“At present,” replied Leonela, “I am in such perturbation, that I cannot possibly make a distinct confession; delay your vengeance till to-morrow morning, and then you shall hear something that will strike you with astonishment: meanwhile, be assured, that he who leaped out of the window, is a young man of this city, who has given me a promise of marriage.”

‘Anselmo being somewhat pacified by this declaration, resolved to grant the respite she demanded; though he never dreamed of hearing any thing to the prejudice of Camilla, of whose virtue he was satisfied and secure; he therefore quitted the room, in which however he locked up Leonela, telling her she must continue in that place, until she should have made this promised discovery; then going to Camilla, informed her of every thing that had passed, together with the promise her maid had made of discovering things of great importance. It is almost needless to say that Camilla was disturbed at this information: the terror that took possession of her was such, that believing, with good reason too, Leonela would actually disclose to Anselmo every circumstance of her infidelity, she had not resolution enough to wait the issue of her suspicion; but that very night, while her husband was asleep, collected the best of her jewels, with some money, and getting out of the house, 206without being perceived, fled to Lothario, and recounted what had happened, at the same time beseeching him to put her in a place of safety, or accompany her to some retreat, where they should be secure from the search of Anselmo.

‘Such was the confusion of Lothario, at the news of this unexpected event, that he could not answer one syllable, nor for some time resolve upon what was to be done. At length he proposed to carry Camilla to a monastery, the abbess of which was his first cousin; and his mistress consenting to the proposal, he conducted her thither with all the dispatch which the nature of the case required, and leaving her to the care of his relation, quitted the city that very night, without imparting the cause of his absence to any living soul.

‘Next morning, soon as it was day, Anselmo, without perceiving that Camilla was gone, so eagerly did he long to hear this confession of her maid, arose and went directly to the room in which he had confined her; but he no sooner opened the door, and entered the apartment, than he perceived the sheets of the bed tied together, hanging out of the window; a manifest proof that Leonela had lowered herself down into the street, by means of that contrivance: he then returned, with a good deal of chagrin, to communicate his disappointment to Camilla, whom when he could not find, he was seized with the utmost consternation, especially as none of the servants could give the least account of her departure; but chancing, in the course of his enquiry, to find the coffers open, and the best part of her jewels carried off, he began to comprehend his disgrace; and concluded that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune.

‘Dispirited with this reflection, he did not stay to dress, but went in a most disconsolate situation, to give an account of his mishap to his friend Lothario; and when he understood from his servants, that their master had gone out in the night, and carried all his ready money along with him, he had well-nigh lost his senses. To crown his misery, he returned to his own house, which was deserted by all his servants, and found himself the most solitary being in nature; he knew not what to think, say, or do, and his judgment began to be impaired; for, upon recollection, he perceived that he was in an instant deprived of wife, friend, and servants, renounced by Heaven, and, what he felt more deeply than any other part of his disaster, destitute of honour, by the misconduct of Camilla, from which he dated his utter destruction. At length, after a long internal struggle, he resolved to go to the country-house of his friend, where he had been, when he furnished the opportunity of planning his own ruin. Accordingly, having locked his door, he mounted his horse, and almost fainting under the burden of his woes, set out for that place; but scarce had he travelled one half of the way, when harrassed by his shocking reflections, he was obliged to alight and tie his horse to a tree, at the root of which he threw himself down, giving vent to the most lamentable sighs that ever were heaved: there he remained till the twilight; about which time, perceiving a man coming on horseback from the city, after salutation, he asked what news were stirring at Florence. “The strangest,” replied the citizen, “that have been heard these many days; it is publickly reported, that Lothario, the intimate friend of Anselmo the rich, who lived at St. John’s, hath this last night carried off the wife of his friend, who is also missing. This discovery was made to the governor by Camilla’s maid, who was detected in letting herself down by a sheet, from one of the windows of Anselmo’s house. In short, I do not know the particulars exactly; but the whole city is astonished at this event, which they could never have expected from the intimacy of the two gentlemen, who were so strictly united in the bands of amity, as to acquire the title of the Two Friends.”—“Do you know what road Lothario and Camilla have taken?” said Anselmo. “That is not yet discovered,” replied the traveller; “though the governor hath used great diligence in the enquiry.” Anselmo wished him a good evening; and the citizen having returned the compliment, proceeded on his journey.

207‘These unhappy news reduced this ill-fated husband to the verge of death as well as distraction. He mounted, however, as well as he could, and arrived at the house of his friend, who had not as yet heard of his misfortune; but seeing him so exhausted, ghastly, and pale, imagined he had met with some grievous disaster. Anselmo begged to be put to bed immediately, and furnished with pen, ink, and paper: thus provided, he was left alone, and the chamber locked at his own desire; then the remembrance of his misfortune began to be so heavy upon his soul, that he plainly perceived his end approaching, and being desirous of declaring the cause of his strange and sudden death, he took up the pen; but, before he could execute his design, his breath failed him, and he expired, a victim to that sorrow which was occasioned by his own impertinent curiosity. His friend finding it grow late, and that Anselmo had not called, went into his chamber, to enquire about his health; there he found him lying upon his face, one half of his body in bed, and the other on the table, with a pen in his hand, and a written paper lying open before him.

‘The gentleman having spoke to him without receiving any answer, took him by the hand, and feeling him cold and stiff, concluded he was dead. Surprized and concerned to the last degree, he called up his family to be witnesses of this melancholy event, and knowing the paper to be Anselmo’s own hand-writing, read the contents, in these words: “I am deprived of life by my own impertinent curiosity. If the news of my death reach Camilla’s ears, let her know that I forgive her infidelity; for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor I under any necessity of expecting them at her hands: since, therefore, I have been the contriver of my own dishonour, there is no reason that——” So far he had written, but life had forsaken him, before he could finish the sentence. Next day his friend sent an account of his death to his parents, who were already informed of his mischance, as also of the convent to which Camilla had retreated; and where she now lay at the point of accompanying her spouse in his last indispensible journey; not so much on account of Anselmo’s death, as in consequence of the information she received concerning her absent lover; it was said, that though she was now a widow, she would neither quit the convent nor take the veil; but, in a little time the news arrived of Lothario’s being killed in a battle which was fought between the renowned Captain Gonçalo Fernandes de Cordova, and Monsieur De Lautrec, in the kingdom of Naples, whither this too-late repenting friend had made his retreat. This event was no sooner known, than Camilla professed herself a nun, and in a few days yielded up her life a prey to grief and melancholy. Such was the untimely end to which they were all brought from a beginning of whim and indiscretion.’

‘This novel,’ said the curate, ‘is not amiss; but I cannot think the story is true; and if it be feigned, the author has erred in point of invention; for it cannot be supposed that any husband would be so mad as to try this dangerous experiment of Anselmo: had it been related of a gallant and his mistress, it might have passed; but with regard to a husband and his wife, it is altogether improbable; however, the manner of narrating it is not disagreeable.’

CHAP. IX. AN ACCOUNT OF OTHER STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED AT THE INN.

At that instant the landlord, standing at the inn-door, exclaimed, ‘There is a noble company: odd! if they halt here, we shall sing for joy.’—‘What company?’ said Cardenio. ‘Four men,’ replied the inn-keeper, ‘who ride with short stirrups, each of them equipped with lance, target, and mask, with a lady on a side-saddle, dressed in white and veiled, and two attendants on foot.’ When the priest asked if they were near, he answered, ‘So near, that they are already at the gate.’

Dorothea hearing this information, put on her veil, and Cardenio withdrew 208into Don Quixote’s apartment. Immediately the whole company announced by the landlord, entered the inn-yard; and the four horsemen, who were persons of genteel mien and carriage, instantly alighting, went to help the lady from her horse, when one of them taking her in his arms, placed her in a chair that stood by the door of the room in which Cardenio had concealed himself. All this time neither she nor they took off their masks, nor uttered one syllable; but when she was seated, she heaved a profound sigh, and let her arms fall down on each side, like a person fainting with weakness. While the footman led the horses into the stable, the curate being curious to know who those persons were, so remarkable in their silence and dress, went up and put the question to one of the lacquies, who answered, ‘Truly, Signior, we are as ignorant in that particular as you are; though they seem to be people of condition, especially he who took the lady in his arms, because all the rest behave to him with great respect, following his directions in every thing with the utmost punctuality.’—‘And, pray, who may the lady be?’ said the priest. ‘We know as little of her as of the man,’ replied the lacquey; ‘for during the journey I have never once beheld her face; I have often heard her sigh bitterly, and utter piercing groans, in every one of which she seemed to yield her very soul; but it is not to be wondered at that we should know so little of their affairs, my companion and I having attended them two days only; for, meeting us on the road, they intreated and persuaded us to accompany them as far as Andalusia, promising to pay us handsomely for our trouble.’—‘Have you never heard one of them named?’ resumed the curate. ‘Never once,’ answered the young man; ‘they travel with surprizing silence; nothing is heard but the sobs and sighs of the poor lady, which move us to compassion; we firmly believe that she is forced upon this journey, and gather from her dress that she is a nun; or, which is more probable, going to take the veil; and finding herself very little inclined to that way of life, is melancholy at the prospect.’

The curate said, nothing was more probable; and leaving the lacquey, returned to Dorothea, who by this time, out of natural sympathy with the affliction of the masked lady, had approached and accosted her in these words: ‘What is the matter with you, dear Madam? If you labour under any indisposition which the practice and experience of women can relieve, my assistance is heartily at your service.’ To this kind offer no reply was made by the sorrowful lady, who, notwithstanding the other’s repeated intreaties, would not open her mouth; until the person who by the lacquey’s information was chief of the company, addressing himself to Dorothea, said, ‘Do not fatigue yourself, Madam, in making proffers of service to that woman, who cannot be grateful for any favour she receives; nor importune her for any reply, unless you desire to hear some falshoods proceed from her lips.’—‘My lips,’ said the hitherto silent lady, ‘were never profaned with falshood; on the contrary, my present misfortune is owing to my sincerity and my abhorrence of lyes. Of this assertion you yourself are too sensible; since your own perfidy and falshood are the effects of my constancy and truth.’

These words were distinctly overheard by Cardenio, who was only separated from them by the door of Don Quixote’s chamber; and they no sooner reached his ear, than he cried aloud, ‘Good Heaven, what do I hear! What voice is that which struck my sense!’ The lady being exceedingly surprized at that exclamation, turned about her head, and not seeing the person that pronounced it, started up, and ran towards the apartment from whence it seemed to come; but was prevented by her conductor, who would not suffer her to move one step farther. In the disorder occasioned by her struggle, her mask dropped off, and discovered a countenance of incomparable and amazing beauty, even though disguised with paleness and horror; for her eyes rolled about to every corner which her sight could reach, with such eagerness and wildness, that she looked like a woman possessed.

Dorothea, and all present, were infinitely concerned at these symptoms, the meaning of which they could not understand; meanwhile, the cavalier 209was so busied in holding her fast by the shoulders, that he could not attend to his mask, which also fell to the ground: and Dorothea lifting up her eyes towards him, as he held the lady in his arms, perceived that this cavalier was no other than her own husband, Don Fernando. No sooner did she recognize his features, than fetching a long and melancholy sigh from the very bottom of her soul, she fell backward in a swoon; and if the barber had not been at hand to support her, would have certainly come to the ground. The curate ran instantly to take off her veil, that he might sprinkle water on her face, which was immediately known by Don Fernando, who held the other lady in his arms, and was thunderstruck at the sight: he would not, however, quit Lucinda, who struggled to get loose; she and Cardenio having by this time recognized each other by their mutual exclamations. He had also overheard the groan uttered by Dorothea when she fainted; and believing that it proceeded from Lucinda, rushed out of his apartment in a fright, when the first object he beheld was Don Fernando clasping her in his arms. This nobleman knew him immediately; and all three (namely, Lucinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea) were struck dumb with astonishment, and seemed insensible of what had happened, gazing in silence at one another.

Dorothea directed her eager view to Don Fernando, who stared at Cardenio, whose eyes were fixed upon Lucinda, who looked wishfully at him; but the first that broke silence, was this last, who addressed herself in these words to Don Fernando: ‘Suffer me, Signior, in regard to your own character, since you are deaf to every other consideration, to cleave to that wall of which I am the ivy, to avail myself of that prop from which you could not disengage me, with all your importunities, promises, and threats. Behold how Heaven, by unusual and mysterious means, hath brought me to my true and lawful husband; and since you know, by dear-bought experience, that nothing but death can expel his image from my breast, let this plain demonstration, since all other attempts are vain, convert your love into rage, your friendship into hate, and instantly deprive me of life, which I shall yield with pleasure in the presence of my legal lord, who will then perhaps be convinced of the fidelity I preserved to the last moment of my existence.’

In the mean time, Dorothea being recovered from her swoon, had listened to Lucinda’s declaration, by which she discovered her situation and name; but perceiving that Don Fernando neither quitted his hold, nor answered one word to her solicitation, she exerted her whole strength in falling down on her knees before him, and having shed a large quantity of tears from her beautiful eyes, accosted him in these words: ‘My dear lord! if your eyes were not dazzled and obscured by the rays of that sun which you hold eclipsed within your arms, you would perceive that she who thus kneels before you, is the unhappy (so long as you are pleased she should be so) and forlorn Dorothea—I am that humble country maiden whom your generosity or passion vouchsafed to raise to the honour of calling you her own. I am she who, confined within the bounds of modesty, lived a contented life, until moved by your importunities, and seemingly upright addresses, she opened the gates of her reserve, and surrendered to you the keys of her freedom. An offering but ill requited, as plainly appears by that hard fate, in consequence of which I am found in this place, and also find you in your present situation. Nevertheless, I would not have you imagine that I came hither, induced by any dishonourable motives; but that the sorrow conceived at seeing myself forsaken and forgotten by you, was the sole cause of my retreat. You desired I should be your own; and that desire you accomplished so effectually, that although your inclinations may be changed, it is impossible you should cease to be mine. Consider, my lord, that my unparalleled affection may counterbalance the beauty and birth of her for whom I am abandoned; you cannot be the fair Lucinda’s husband, because you are already mine; nor she become your wife, while she appertains to Cardenio; and it will be a much easier task, if you reflect upon it impartially, to recal your love for her who adores you, than to gain the affection of one by whom you are 210abhorred. You solicited my unsuspecting heart, you importuned my integrity, you was not ignorant of my lowly station, and know in what manner I yielded to your will; so that you have no subterfuge, nor the least room to say you was deceived. If this be the case, as doubtless it is, and you be a Christian as well as a gentleman, why do you, by such evasions, delay to make the end as happy as the beginning of my fortune? If you will not receive me as what I really am, your lawful wife, at least admit me into the number of your slaves; for, in whatever shape I belong to you, I shall account myself fortunate and blessed; do not, therefore, by renouncing me entirely, give scandal an opportunity of impeaching my honour. Make not my parents miserable in their old age; their faithful services to your father merit a more kind return! if you think your blood will be debased in mixing with mine, consider, that almost all the great families on earth have undergone the same intercourse, and that the woman’s quality in no manner affects illustrious descents: besides, true nobility consists in virtue; and in that shall I have the advantage over you, if you deny and oppose the justice of my claim. In fine, the last argument I shall use is this, whether you are pleased or displeased with your destiny, I am your lawful wife: witness your own words, which neither are nor ought to be false; if you value yourself on that for which you undervalue me; witness your handwriting, and Heaven above, to the testimony of which you appealed for the performance of your promise; and if all these should fail, your conscience will never cease whispering to you, amidst your pleasures, in vindication of this truth, which will disturb your most exalted enjoyments.’

This supplication, enforced with other arguments, was pronounced so feelingly by the afflicted and weeping Dorothea, that tears of sympathy were shed by all present, the companions of Don Fernando not excepted; he himself listened without answering one word, until she had made an end of her address, and began to utter such woeful sighs and groans, as were almost sufficient to melt an heart of brass. Lucinda stood gazing upon her with equal compassion for her sorrow, and admiration of her beauty and good sense; nay, she would have gone and offered her all the consolation in her power, had she not still been kept fast locked in the arms of Don Fernando; who, full of confusion and surprize, after having for a good while fixed his eyes upon Dorothea, with great attention, opened his arms, and leaving Lucinda at liberty, said, ‘You have conquered, beauteous Dorothea: the victory is yours; for so many truths conjoined are surely irresistible.’

Lucinda was so faint and weak, that when Don Fernando quitted her, she would have fallen to the ground, had it not been for Cardenio, who had placed himself behind her ravisher, that he might not be known^[95]; but now, laying aside all fear, and resolving to adventure every thing, he sprung to the assistance of Lucinda, and catching her in his arms, ‘If,’ said he, ‘it be the will and pleasure of pitying Heaven, that you should find repose, my faithful, constant, and charming Lucinda! I think you can enjoy it no where so securely, as in these arms, which now receive, and formerly encircled you, when fortune was pleased that I should call you mine.’

At these words, she gazed upon him with great eagerness; she had before began to recognize his voice, and now, recollecting his features, like a person deprived of judgment, who disregards all decency and form, she threw her arms about his neck, and joining her lips to his, ‘Yes, my dear Cardenio,’ said she, ‘you are the real lord of this your slave, in spite of adverse fate, and all those threats, though greater than they are, that persecute my life, which now depends on yours alone.’

An unexpected sight was this to Don Fernando, and all the bye-standers, who were not a little surprized at what they saw. While Dorothea observing her husband change colour, and signify an inclination of being revenged upon Cardenio, by laying his hand upon his sword, ran, with incredible agility, and 211clasping his knees, which she kissed, held him so firmly embraced, that he could not move, saying, while the tears trickled from her eyes, ‘What means my only refuge to do on this unexpected occasion? Your own wife is now kneeling before you, and she whom you desire to wed is in the arms of her lawful husband; consider whether it be just or possible for you to undo that which Heaven hath done; why should you seek to unite yourself with one, who disdaining all opposition and inconvenience, and confirmed in her own constancy and truth, even before your eyes, lets fall from hers a shower of tenderness into the bosom of her lawful spouse? For the sake of God and of yourself, I entreat and beseech you, that this remarkable recognition may not only fail to increase your indignation, but even diminish it in such a manner, that these two lovers may, without any impediment from you, enjoy each other as long as Heaven will permit them to live. In this self-denial you will manifest the generosity of your noble and illustrious soul, and convince the world, that you are governed more by reason than by appetite.’

While Dorothea pronounced these words, Cardenio, though he held Lucinda in his arms, kept his eyes still fixed upon Don Fernando, with full resolution, if he attempted any thing to his prejudice, to defend himself as well as he could, against his adversary and all his adherents, although it should cost him his life; but this young nobleman’s friends, together with the curate and barber, not forgetting honest Sancho Panza, who were present at the whole affair, interposed, and making a circle about him, begged earnestly that he would be pleased to consider the tears of Dorothea; and if what she alledged was true, as they firmly believed it was, no longer suffer her to be defrauded of her just and reasonable hope. They desired him to observe, that in all appearance it was not by accident, but the immediate direction of Providence, that they had all met together so unexpectedly in this place; and the curate intreated him to reflect, that death alone could divide Lucinda from Cardenio; that though they might be parted by the edge of the sword, they would look, upon death as the greatest blessing that could befal them, and that, in a case of this kind, which admitted of no other remedy, it would be his wisest course to constrain and conquer his own passion, and demonstrate the generosity of his heart, by permitting, of his own free-will, these two lovers to enjoy that state of happiness which heaven had ordained for their lot; that he should contemplate Dorothea’s beauty, which, far from being excelled, was equalled in few or none; and to her beauty, add the consideration of her humility and excessive love; above all, take notice, that if he valued himself upon being a gentleman and a Christian, he could do no less than perform the promise he had given, and in so doing, act in conformity to the will of God, and satisfy the discreet part of mankind, who are very sensible that it is the prerogative of beauty, even in a low estate, when accompanied with virtue, to be lifted up to the highest rank, without any disparagement to the person who thus raises it to an equality with himself; and since the irresistible force of inclination must prevail, provided there be nothing criminal in the means, he is not to be blamed who acts according to its dictates.

To these arguments were added so many of the same sort, that the valiant heart of Don Fernando, nourished by illustrious blood, relented, and he was overcome by the force of that truth, which, however inclined, he could not deny. The signal of his surrender, and yielding to this reasonable and just proposal, was his stooping down and embracing Dorothea: to whom he said, ‘Rise, Madam; it is not just that she who reigns in my soul, should lie prostrate at my feet. If hitherto I have given small proof of what I now profess, perhaps my omission hath been owing to the appointment of Heaven, that by giving you an opportunity of manifesting the sincerity of your love, I might know how to esteem you according to your deserts. I beg, therefore, you will not upbraid me with my misconduct and unkind neglect; since the same force and occasion that attached me to you, was the cause of my endeavour to disengage myself. That you may be convinced of the truth, behold and contemplate the eyes of the now contented Lucinda, in which you will find 212an excuse for all my errors; and, since she hath found and attained her heart’s desire, and my utmost wish is fulfilled in thus retrieving you, may she live in peace and quiet, for many happy years, with her Cardenio, and may Heaven grant the same felicity to me with Dorothea!’

So saying, he embraced her again, pressing his lips to her’s with such tenderness, that it required his greatest efforts to forbear giving, with his tears, indubitable signs of his affection and remorse. But those endeavours did not succeed with Lucinda, Cardenio, and every other person present, who began to weep so plentifully, either at their own happiness, or the satisfaction of their friends, that one would have thought some grievous misfortune had happened to the whole company. Even Sancho blubbered, though he afterwards owned, that his sorrow proceeded from seeing that Dorothea was not, as he imagined, the Queen of Micomicon, from whom he expelled such favours.

This universal admiration and thaw having lasted some time, Cardenio and Lucinda fell upon their knees before Don Fernando, whom they thanked for his generosity in such polite terms, that he scarce knew what answer to make, but raised and embraced them both with demonstrations of uncommon courtesy and affection. Then asking Dorothea how she had come to that place, so distant from her own home, she with great elegance and brevity repeated what she had before recounted to Cardenio; and her husband and his company were so pleased with her narration, that they wished it could have been spun out to a much greater length; so gracefully did she relate her own misfortunes.

Her talk being finished, Don Fernando informed them of what had happened to him in the city, after he found, in Lucinda’s bosom, the paper in which she declared herself Cardenio’s wife. Seeing that she could not possibly be his, he said, he was determined to put her to death, and would actually have executed his purpose, had not her parents interposed. He then quitted the house, full of shame and resentment, resolving to revenge himself with the first opportunity; and next day understood that she was gone off, without any body’s knowing whither she had directed her flight. At length, however, in a few months, he got notice that she was in a certain monastery, where she intended to spend her whole life, if she could not enjoy it in the company of Cardenio. He no sooner received this intimation, than chusing these three gentlemen for his companions, he went straight to the place of her residence; but without speaking to her, or making himself known, lest the monastery should be more strictly guarded on his account. He waited, therefore, until one day he found the porter’s lodge open; when leaving two of his friends to secure the door, he entered the monastery with the other, in quest of Lucinda, whom he found in the cloisters, talking with a nun; and snatching her off, without giving her a moment’s time for recollection, carried her instantly to a place where they provided themselves with necessaries for their journey. This exploit they were enabled to perform with safety, because the monastery stood in the middle of a field, at a good distance from any village or town. He said, Lucinda no sooner perceived herself in his power, than she fainted away; and when she recovered the use of her senses, did nothing but weep and sigh, without speaking one word: so that, accompanied with silence and tears, they had arrived at that inn, which he looked upon as the heavenly goal where all earthly misfortunes are happily terminated.

CHAP. X. A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF THE RENOWNED PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER PLEASANT ADVENTURES.

Sancho heard every thing that passed with no small anxiety of mind, seeing the hopes of his preferment vanish into smoke, the beautiful Princess Micomicona transformed into Dorothea, the giant into Don Fernando, and his master in a sound sleep, little dreaming of what had happened. Dorothea could not persuade herself, that all her good fortune was not a dream; Cardenio entertained the same opinion, which was also embraced by Lucinda; while Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for its favour, in extricating him from that labyrinth of perplexity, 213in which he was at the point of losing his reputation and soul. In fine, every person present was well satisfied, and rejoiced at the happy issue of such intricate and desperate affairs. The curate represented every thing in the right point of view, with great discretion, and congratulated the parties concerned on the felicity they had acquired; but she whose joy was most vociferous was the landlady, who loudly exulted in the promise of Cardenio and the curate, who had undertaken to pay her with interest, for the damage she had sustained on Don Quixote’s account. Sancho alone, as we have already observed, was afflicted, unfortunate, and sad, and going to his master who was just awake, said, with a lamentable tone, ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, your worship may now sleep as long as you please, without giving yourself the trouble of slaying the giant, or restoring the princess to her throne; that whole affair is already brought to a conclusion.’

‘I really believe what you say,’ answered the knight, ‘for I have been engaged with the giant, in the most obstinate and outrageous combat that I believe I shall ever fight in all the days of my life; with one back-stroke, slam went his head to the ground, and discharged such a quantity of blood, that it ran like rills of water along the field.’—‘Or rather like red wine, your worship should say,’ replied the squire; ‘for I must inform you, if you do not already know it, that the dead giant is no other than a wine bag, and the blood, eighteen gallons of good red wine, which was contained in its belly: the head you cut off is the whore my mother, and the whole affair is gone to the devil.’—‘What does the lunatick mean?’ said Don Quixote; ‘are you in your right senses, Sancho?’—‘Rise, Sir,’ resumed the squire, ‘and see what a fine piece of work you have made, and what a score you have run. You shall behold the queen converted into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other strange events, at which, if you take them right, you will be hugely, astonished.’—‘I shall not wonder at any thing of that kind,’ replied his master; ‘for thou may’st remember, the last time we were in this house, I told thee that every incident which happened was conducted and brought about by inchantment, so that we need not be surprized if the same power should prevail at present.’—‘I should be of your worship’s opinion,’ answered Sancho, ‘if my blanketting had been of the same stamp; but that was not the case, for it was really and truly a substantial tossing. This very innkeeper whom we saw to-day, held a corner of the blanket, and canted me into the air with great strength and nimbleness, passing a thousand waggish jokes, and laughing at me all the while; from whence I concluded, simple and sinner as I am, that as I knew their persons, there was no inchantment in the case, but abundance of bruising and bad fortune.’—‘Well, heaven will make thee amends,’ said the knight; ‘meanwhile reach me my clothes; for I want to go forth and examine those events and transformations which thou hast mentioned.’

While Sancho was helping him to dress, the curate gave Don Fernando and his company an account of Don Quixote’s madness, and the artifice they had used to disengage him from the poor rock to which he imagined himself exiled by the disdain of his mistress. He also recounted all those adventures that Sancho had imparted to him, at which they were not a little surprized, and laughed immoderately; agreeing in opinion with every body who knew the knight, that it was the strangest extravagance that ever entered a disturbed imagination. The priest moreover observed, that since the good fortune of Dorothea obstructed the progress of their design, there was a necessity for inventing another plan that should bring him home to his own house. Cardenio proposed that they should prosecute the scheme they had already begun; and Lucinda would act and represent the part of Dorothea. ‘No,’ said Don Fernando, ‘that must not be: Dorothea shall still proceed with her own invention; for, as it cannot be far from hence to the habitation of that honest gentleman, I shall be glad to contribute towards his cure.’ And when he understood that they would arrive in two days at his house; ‘Were it farther off,’ said he, ‘I should go 214with pleasure to assist in such a laudable design.’

At that instant Don Quixote came forth, armed at all points, with Mambrino’s helmet, battered as it was, upon his head, his shield braced upon his arm, and his pole or lance in his hand. Don Fernando and his companions were amazed at this strange apparition, when they beheld such a rueful length of face, so withered and tawney, together with his ill-sorted armour, and the solemnity of his gait. They gazed upon him in silent expectation of what he would say; while he, with infinite gravity of aspect, fixing his eyes upon Dorothea, accosted her in these words; ‘Fair lady, I am informed by this my squire, that your greatness is annihilated, and your quality undone, by being changed from your former rank of queen and sovereign princess, into the condition of a private damsel. If this hath been done by the necromancy of the king your father, who is perhaps afraid that I should not be able to give you the assistance required, I say he neither knows, nor ever did know, the half of that art which he professeth, and that he is but little conversant in the history of chivalry; for had he read and perused it with such leisure and attention as I have bestowed upon that subject, he would have found, that on every occasion, knights of much less reputation than I possess, have atchieved much more difficult enterprizes than this, it being a matter of small moment to kill a pitiful giant, let him be as arrogant as he will; for not many hours ago, I saw myself engaged with one,—but I chuse to be silent rather than have my veracity called in question, though time, that unmasks all things, will shew when we least expect it—’

‘That you was engaged with wine-bags, and not with a giant!’ cried the innkeeper; who was silenced by Don Fernando, and forbid to interrupt the knight’s discourse in any shape whatever. So that Don Quixote proceeded, saying, ‘In fine, if the father of your disinterested highness hath performed this metamorphosis on your person, for the causes I have mentioned, I hope you will give no credit to such considerations; for there is no danger upon earth through which my sword will not open a way, and by laying the head of your adversary in the dust in a few days, invest yours with that crown to which you have an undoubted right.’

Here Don Quixote left off speaking, in expectation of a reply from the princess, who knowing it was Don Fernando’s pleasure that she should continue the deceit, until the knight could be brought back to his own house, answered with equal gravity and grace, ‘Whosoever hath told you, most valiant Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that I am changed and transformed from what I was, has not adhered to the truth in his information: indeed I am somewhat changed by certain fortunate events which have happened even beyond my own expectation; but; nevertheless, I have not ceased to be what I was, nor altered that resolution which I have always maintained, of taking the advantage of your valiant and invincible arm. Wherefore, dear Sir, be so good as to do justice to the honour of the father who begat me, and look upon him as a man of sagacity and foresight; since, by the science he possessed, he found such an easy and effectual path to the cure of my misfortune; for I firmly believe, that were it not for you, I should not now be so happy as I am, as the greatest part of these gentlemen can truly witness. Nothing then remains, but that we set out to-morrow, because we could not propose to travel far to-day; and as for the success on which my hopes are built, I leave it entirely to God, and the worth of your heroick breast.’

Don Quixote hearing these words, turned to Sancho in the most violent indignation, saying, ‘I protest, sirrah! you are the most malicious little slanderer in Spain. Say, you rascal—you vagabond—did not you tell me just now, that the princess was transformed into a private gentlewoman called Dorothea; and that the head, which I know I cut from the giant’s shoulders, was the whore your mother; with many more foolish particulars, which threw me into the greatest confusion that I ever felt since I was born? By Heaven!’ (here he turned up his eyes and bit his lips) ‘I have a strong 215inclination to commit such slaughter upon thee, as will be an instructive warning^[96] to all the lying squires who shall henceforth attend knights-errant, in the course of their adventures.’

‘Pray be pacified, good your worship!’ cried Sancho: ‘I may possibly be deceived in what concerns the change of my Lady Princess Micomicona; but as to the giant’s head being a wine-bag, and the blood no other than good red wine, I am not mistaken, as I shall answer to God; for the skins that were slashed are still to be seen by your worship’s bed-side, and the whole room is flooded with the wine. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating of it^[97]; you will be convinced when Mr. What-d’ye call him our landlord here makes out a bill of the damage he has suffered. As to the rest, I am rejoiced from my soul, to find that the queen’s majesty is the same as usual, because it concerns me, as well as any other neighbour’s child.’—‘I tell thee, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that thou art distracted; forgive me, that is enough.’—‘Enough in all conscience,’ said Don Fernando; ‘there is nothing more to be said on this subject. I think the princess judges very prudently in deferring her journey till to-morrow, because the day is already far advanced; let us therefore spend this night in agreeable conversation, and at the approach of day, we will in a body attend the gallant Don Quixote, that we may be witnesses of the unheard-of exploits which he will doubtless perform in the course of this vast enterprize he hath undertaken.’—‘It is my duty and resolution to serve and attend you,’ answered the knight; ‘and I have the most grateful sense of your favour and good opinion, which I shall endeavour to justify, though it should cost me my life, or even more—if more I can pay.’

Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Fernando and Don Quixote; but they were interrupted by the arrival of a traveller, who, by his garb, seemed to be a Christian slave lately escaped from Barbary; for he was clad in a coat of blue cloth, wanting a collar, with short skirts and half-sleeves; his breeches and cap were of the same stuff; and he wore date-coloured buskins, with a Moorish scymitar flung in a shoulder-belt across his breast. He was followed by a woman dressed in the Moorish habit, mounted upon an ass, with a veil over her face, a brocaded bonnet on her head, and a mantle that flowed from her shoulders to her heels. The man was robust, and well-proportioned, seemingly turned of forty, with a brownish complexion, large whiskers, and a well-furnished beard; in short, his mean was so genteel, that if he had been properly dressed, they would have taken him for a man of birth and quality.

Soon as he entered the gate, he called for a private apartment, and seemed very much concerned, when he understood that all the rooms of the inn were engaged; however, he went to the lady in Moorish dress, and lifted her off in his arms. Upon which Lucinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, flocked around her; their curiosity being excited by the novelty of the garb, which none of them had ever seen before; and Dorothea, who was always good-humoured, mannerly, and discreet, concluding that both she and her conductor were chagrined at their want of a chamber, spoke to her thus: ‘Be not uneasy, Madam, at your want of accommodation here; it is the inconvenience of almost all inns; but if you will be pleased to partake with us, (pointing to Lucinda) perhaps you will find that in the course of your journey you have been fain to put up with harder fare.’ The veiled lady made no answer; but only rising from her seat, signified her thanks by crossing her hands upon her bosom, bending her body, and bowing her head; so that from her silence they conjectured that she must be a native Moor, and that she could not speak any Christian language.

Her attendant, who had hitherto been 216employed in something else, perceiving that the company had made a circle about his companion, who could make no replies to their interrogations, said to them, ‘Ladies, this young woman understands little or no Spanish, and speaks no language but that of her own country; so that she is incapable of answering any questions you may have asked.’—‘We have asked no questions,’ said Lucinda, ‘but only made her an offer of our company for this night, with a share of our lodging, and what accommodation is to be had: and this we tender with that hearty good-will which obliges us to serve all strangers, especially those of our own sex who stand in need of our assistance.’—‘Dear Madam,’ replied the conductor, ‘in her name, and in my own, I return you a thousand thanks, and highly esteem your proffered favour, which on this occasion, and from such persons as your appearance proclaims you to be, must certainly be very kind and condescending.’—‘Signior,’ said Dorothea, ‘is this lady Christian or Moor? By her silence and her dress, we are induced to believe she is not what we could wish her to be.’—‘In her body and dress,’ replied the stranger, ‘she is a Moor, but altogether a Christian in her soul; for she longs ardently to be a professed convert to our faith.’—‘Then she is not baptized?’ resumed Lucinda. ‘She has had no opportunity,’ said the captive, ‘since she quitted Algiers, which is her native country; and hitherto hath never been in such imminent danger of her life, as to make it necessary before she is instructed in all the ceremonies enjoined by our holy mother church; but, if it please Heaven, she shall be baptized very soon, with decency suitable to the quality of her person, which is greater than either her dress or mine seems to declare.’

This intimation raised the curiosity of all the spectators, to know who this Moor and captive were; but nobody chose to ask the question at that time, which seemed more proper for reposing themselves than relating the history of their lives. Dorothea taking her by the hand, seated the stranger close by her side, and entreated her to take off the veil; she looked at her conductor, as if she wanted to know what the lady desired, and he told her in Arabick, that they entreated her to be uncovered; at the same time, advising her to comply with their request. She accordingly unveiled herself, and discovered a face so amiable, that Dorothea thought her handsomer than Lucinda, who, in her turn, gave her the preference to Dorothea; and all present concluded, that if any creature upon earth could vie with them in beauty, it was this Moorish lady, who, in the opinion of some of the company, excelled them both in certain particulars. As beauty, therefore, has the privilege and energy to conciliate minds and attract affections, every body present was seized with an inclination to serve and cherish the charming Moor. Don Fernando asked her name of the captive, who answered, ‘Lela Zorayda.’ This she no sooner heard, than understanding the question which had been put to the Christian, she pronounced with great eagerness and sweetness of concern, ‘No, no Zorayda; Maria, Maria!’ signifying that her name was Maria, and not Zorayda: these words, with the affecting manner in which they were expressed, brought tears from the eyes of some of the hearers, especially the women, who are naturally tender and compassionate. Lucinda embraced her affectionately, saying, ‘Yes, yes, Maria, Maria.’ And to this the Moor replied, ‘Yes, yes, Maria; Zorayda, ‘macange;’ which, in the Arabick, signifies ‘No.’

Meanwhile it grew late, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernando’s attendants, prepared with great diligence and care, as good a repast as he could possibly provide; so that when supper-time arrived, they sat down all together at a long hall-table, for there was neither a round nor square one in the house. They forced the head and principal seat, in spite of all his excuses on Don Quixote, who desired that the Princess Micomicona might sit by the side of her protector; next to her, Lucinda and Zorayda placed themselves, being fronted by Fernando and Cardenio, at whose left-hand sat the captive and the other gentlemen, while the curate and the barber took their station close to the ladies. In this manner they supped with vast satisfaction, which was 217still increased, when Don Quixote leaving off eating, and inspired by the same spirit that moved him to harangue among the goat-herds, began the following dissertation: ‘Verily, gentlemen, if it be duly considered, great and unexpected events are seen by those who profess the order of knight-errantry. What inhabitant of this earth, if he should now enter the gates of this castle, and behold us seated in this manner, could conceive or credit that we are what we are? Who could imagine, that this lady on my right-hand is the great queen whom we all know her to be; and that I am the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, so celebrated by the voice of fame? Now there is no manner of doubt, that this exercise and art exceeds all others hitherto invented by man, and that it ought to be more esteemed, because it is more exposed to danger. Away with those who give letters the preference over arms! I affirm, that such people, whosoever they are, know not what they say; for the sole reason to which they adhere, in this decision, is, that the labour of the body is exceeded by that of the mind; and that the profession of arms is altogether as corporeal as the exercise and office of a common day-labourer, that requires nothing more than bodily strength; as if that which is called soldiership by us who profess it, did not include acts of valour which none but persons of uncommon genius could execute; or, as if the toil of a warrior who has the charge of an army, or commands in a town that is besieged, doth not affect the mind as well as the body. Is it to be supposed, that by mere corporeal strength he can penetrate and discover the intention of the enemy? To anticipate designs, baffle stratagems, surmount difficulties, and prevent the mischief that is to be dreaded, are all efforts of the understanding, in which the body hath no share; if the profession of arms, therefore, requires genius, as well as that of letters, let us see which of the two requires most mental toil: and this question may be determined by considering the end and aim of each; for that occupation deserves the highest esteem, which hath the noblest purpose in view, the end and scope of letters. I speak not here of that divine learning, whose aim is to raise and conduct the soul to Heaven; to an end so infinite, no intention whatever can be compared. I speak of human learning, the ultimate end of which is to regulate distributive justice, render to every one his due, and to understand and to protect the equitable laws: an aim certainly generous and highly commendable! yet not so deserving of the most sublime praise as the profession of arms, the object and the end of which is peace, the greatest good that mortals can enjoy; for the first blessed news which this world and mankind heard, were those pronounced by the angels, on that night which was our day, when they sung in the air, “Glory be to God on high; and on earth, peace and good will towards men!” and the salutation, which the best Master, either in heaven or upon earth, taught his adherents and favourites; which was to say when they entered any house, “Peace be to this house!” Nay, he himself at different times, said, “My peace I give unto you! My peace I leave with you! Peace be among you!” A jewel and legacy well worthy of him who left it! a jewel, without which there can be no felicity, either on earth or in heaven! This peace is the genuine aim of war; for arms and war are the same; and this being taken for granted, the end of war is nobler than that of learning; wherefore let us next consider the bodily toil sustained by each, that we may see on which side the balance lies in that particular.’

In this sensible manner did Don Quixote continue his discourse, from which nobody that heard him could distinguish that he was mad; on the contrary, his audience confiding chiefly of gentlemen, to which title the profession of arms is annexed, they listened with great pleasure, while he proceeded thus.

‘The hardships of a student, I say, are these; first of all, poverty, (not that all students are poor, but that we may suppose the worst that can happen) and when I have named his indigence, the whole of his misfortune is mentioned; for he that is poor can enjoy nothing that is good, but must endure necessity in all its forms; sometimes 218hunger, sometimes cold, sometimes nakedness, and often all three together. Nevertheless, his necessity is not so great, but that he eats, though perhaps later than usual, or though he may feed upon the leavings of the rich, or which is the greatest misery to which a scholar can be reduced, go a-sopping^[98], as they term it; then they are always admitted to some charitable person’s fire-side or chimney-corner, where, if they cannot warm themselves effectually, they may at least defy the cold; and at night they sleep under cover. I need not descend to minute particulars; such as want of linen, scarcity of shoes, flimsy and thread-bare cloaths, nor the surfeits which they so eagerly incur, when their good fortune sets a plentiful table in their way. By this path, rough and difficult as I have already described it, after many tumblings, slidings, risings, and fallings, they at last attain to the wished degree, which being gained, we have seen many who have passed with a favourable gale of fortune, through these quicksands and straits of Scylla and Charybdis; I say, we have seen many such command and dictate to the world, from a chair of state; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold into refreshment, their rags into gay apparel, and the matts on which they lay, to the richest damask and finest holland: a recompence which their merit most justly enjoys! but their labours, when fairly stated and compared, are infinitely short of the warrior’s, as I shall now clearly demonstrate.’

CHAP. XI. THE SEQUEL OF DON QUIXOTE’S CURIOUS DISCOURSE, ON THE SUBJECTS OF LEARNING AND WAR.

The knight proceeded thus: ‘Since we began with the student, representing his poverty in all its circumstances, let us see if the soldier be more wealthy: and we shall find that poverty itself is not poorer; for he is restricted to his miserable pay, which comes always late, if ever, or to what he can plunder by force with the imminent danger of his life and conscience; and frequently his nakedness is such, that his slashed buff doublet serves him instead of coat, shirt, and all other parts of apparel. In a winter campaign, while he remains in the open field, he has nothing to mitigate the severity of the cold, but his own breath, which, as it proceeds from an empty place, must, I believe, be cold, contrary to all the rules of nature: but stay till the approach of night, when it is to be hoped his bed will make amends for all these inconveniencies; and this, if it be not his own fault, will never offend in point of narrowness, for he may measure as many feet of ground as he thinks sufficient, and there tumble about at pleasure, without any danger of discomposing the sheets. Then, instead of the day and hour of receiving the degrees of his art, comes the day of battle, in which his head is adorned with the doctoral tossle, made in form of a pledgit, to stuff the wound made by some ball, which perhaps hath gone through his temples, or left him maimed of a leg or arm; and even if this should not happen, but merciful Heaven guard and preserve him safe and sound, he continues as poor as ever; he must risk himself in several more rencounters and battles, and be victorious in each, before his circumstances be bettered; but these miracles rarely happen. Tell me, gentlemen, have you considered what a small proportion those who make their fortunes by war bear to those who perish in the field? Doubtless, you must answer that there is no sort of comparison; that the slain are scarce to be numbered, while the living who are recompensed for their services, may be comprehended within three figures of arithmetick^[99]. The case of 219the learned is quite the reverse^[100]; for, one way or another, they are all provided: so that, though the toil of a soldier is greater, his reward is much less. To this observation, it may be replied, that it is far more easy to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers; for the first are recompensed with offices, which must of course be bestowed on people of their profession; whereas, the others can enjoy no reward, except a share of the property belonging to their master whom they serve: even this impossibility strengthens my asseveration.

‘But waving that consideration, which would lead us into a most intricate labyrinth, let us return to the pre-eminence which arms have over learning; a point hitherto undecided, of such force are the reasons alledged on both sides of the question; one of which, in favour of the last, is, that without letters, the profession of arms could not be supported, because there are laws to which war itself is subject; and all laws fall within the province of letters and learned men. To this observation, the partizans of the other opinion reply, that no laws could be maintained without arms, which preserve the constitution, defend kingdoms, guard cities, scour the highways, and clear the seas of piratical corsairs. In short, that without arms, all republicks, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, journies by land, and voyages by sea, would be exposed to the horror and confusion that attend unbridled war, while it continues in all its licentious privilege and force. It is a general and established maxim, that every thing ought to be esteemed in proportion to what it costs. Now, to become eminent in letters, costs the student much time, watching, hunger, nakedness, vertigoes, indigestion, and their consequences, which are in part mentioned above: but, to acquire in a regular manner the character of a good soldier, a man must undergo all these inconveniences in an incomparably greater degree; because he is every moment in danger of losing his life. What fear of indigence and poverty can seize and harrass the student’s apprehension, equal to that which must possess the soldier besieged in a fortress, who being placed centinel or guard in some ravelin or cavalier^[101], perceives the enemy at work undermining the very spot whereon he stands, without daring to stir from his post, or avoid the danger by which he is so imminently threatened? All he can do, is to give notice of what passes to his captain, who must endeavour to baffle the foe by some countermine, while he remains upon the place in terror and expectation of being suddenly whirled aloft into the clouds without wings, and of falling thence headlong into the profound abyss: if this danger seems inconsiderable, let us see whether it be equalled or exceeded in the grappling of two gallies, by their prows, in the midst of the extended ocean; when they are locked and fastened into each other, and the soldier hath not an inch more than two feet of the beak to stand upon, while he sees himself threatened and opposed by as many ministers of death as there are cannon in the enemy’s vessel, and these within a spear’s length of his body; and is sensible, that if his feet should chance to slip, he would instantly visit the profound bosom of the sea; yet, nevertheless, with an intrepid heart, incited and transported by honour, he bears the brunt of their whole artillery, and endeavours by that narrow passage to board the adverse vessel; and, what is very much to be admired, is, that as soon as one falls, never to rise again till the general resurrection, another occupies his place; and should he also drop into the sea, 220which, like an enemy, gapes to devour him, another and another still succeeds, without the smallest intermission: an instance of gallantry and boldness the greatest to be found in all the extremities of war. Happy were the ages past, while strangers to those infernal instruments of artillery, the author of which is, I firmly believe, now in hell, enjoying the reward of his diabolical invention, that puts it in the power of an infamous coward to deprive the most valiant cavalier of life; for, often in the heat of that courage and resolution that fires and animates the gallant breast, there comes a random ball, how or from whence no man can tell, shot off, perhaps, by one that fled, and was afraid at the flash of his own accursed machine, and, in an instant, puts an end to the schemes and exigence of a man who deserved to live for ages. This very consideration makes me almost own, that I am sorry for having chosen this profession of a knight-errant in this detestable age; for, though no danger can daunt my resolution, it gives me some uneasiness to think that powder and shot may deprive me of the opportunity of making myself famous and renowned through the whole globe, for the valour of my arm, and the keenness of my sword: but, let the will of Heaven be fulfilled! if I accomplish my aim, I shall be more esteemed, because I have faced more danger than ever was incurred by the knights-errant in ages past.’