"I am honoured indeed," replied the landlord, who by this time saw very clearly that the poor gentleman was weak in his wits, and had a mind to divert himself. "As a youth, I myself wandered through the land, and my name, the champion of all who needed it, was known to every court in Spain, till a deadly thrust in my side, from a false knight, forced me to lay down my arms, and to return to this my castle, giving shelter and welcome to any knights that ask it. But as to the chapel, it is but a week since it was made level with the ground, being but a poor place, and in no way worthy of the service of n.o.ble knights; but keep your watch in the courtyard of my castle, as your books will have told you that others have done in case of need. Afterwards, I will admit you into the Order of Chivalry, but before you take up your vigil tell me, I pray you, what money you have brought with you?"
This question surprised the Don very much.
"I have brought none," he answered presently, "for never did I hear that either Roland or Percival or any of the great knight-errants whose example I fain would follow, carried any money with them."
"That is because they thought it no more needful to say that they carried money or clean shirts than that they carried a sword or a box of ointment to cure the wounds of themselves or their foes, in case no maiden or enchanter with a flask of water was on the spot," replied the landlord; and he spoke so long and so earnestly on the subject that the Don promised never again to start on a quest without money and a box of ointment, besides at least three clean shirts.
It was now high time for his watch to begin, and the landlord led the way to a great yard at the side of the inn. Here the Don took his arms, and piled them on a trough of stone that stood near a well. Then bearing his lance he walked up and down beside his trough.
For an hour or two he paced the yard, watched, though he knew it not, by many eyes from the inn windows, which, with the aid of a bright moon, could see all that happened as clearly as if it were day. At length a muleteer who had a long journey before him drove up his team to the trough, which was fed by the neighbouring well, and in order to let his cattle drink, stretched out his arms to remove the sword and helmet which lay there. The Don perceived his aim, and cried in a voice of thunder:
"What man are you, ignorant of the laws of chivalry, who dares to touch the arms of the bravest knight who ever wore a sword? Take heed lest you lay a finger upon them, for if you do your life shall pay the forfeit."
It might have been as well for the muleteer if he had listened, and had led his cattle to water elsewhere, but, looking at the Don"s tall lean figure and his own stout fists, he only laughed rudely, and, seizing both sword and helmet, threw them across the yard. The Don paused a moment, wondering if he saw aright; then raising his eyes to heaven he exclaimed:
"O Lady Dulcinea, peerless in thy beauty, help me to avenge this insult that has been put upon me"; and, lifting high his lance, he brought it down with such a force on the head of the man that he fell to the ground without a word, and the Don began his walk afresh.
He had not been pacing the yard above half an hour when another man, not knowing what had befallen his friend, drove his beasts up to the trough, and was stooping to move the Don"s arms, so that the cattle could get at the water, when a mighty blow fell on _his_ head, splitting it nearly into pieces.
At this noise the people from the inn ran out, and seeing the two muleteers stretched wounded on the ground picked up stones wherewith to stone the knight. The Don, however, fronted them with such courage that they did not dare to venture near him, and the landlord, making use of their fears, called on them to leave him alone, for that he was a madman, and the law would not touch him, even though he should kill them all. Then, wishing to be done with the business and with his guest, he made excuses for the rude fellows, who had only got what they deserved, and said that, as there was no chapel to his castle, he could dub him knight where he stood, for, the watch of arms having been completed, all that was needful was a slap on the neck with a palm of the hand and the touch of the sword on the shoulder.
[Ill.u.s.tration: DON QUIXOTE BELABOURS THE MULETEER]
So Don Quixada was turned into Don Quixote de la Mancha, and, mounting Rozinante, he left the inn, and with a joyful heart started to seek his first adventure.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES WHO TURNED OUT TO BE FLOCKS OF SHEEP
The first adventure of the new knight did not turn out at all to his liking, nor answered his expectations, for in all the books of chivalry which he had read, never had he heard of a good knight being sorely wounded by a mere pack of common fellows, as happened to himself shortly after leaving the inn; though indeed he comforted his soul by thinking that, had not Rozinante stumbled over a stone and fallen, it would have fared ill with his foes.
He lay upon the ground for some time, aching in every bone, and repeating in a weak voice some lines out of his favourite romance of the "Marquis of Mantua," when a labourer from his own village came by and went to see if the man stretched on his back across the road was dead or only wounded.
"What ails you, master?" asked he; but as the vizor over the Don"s face prevented his answer being understood, the labourer pulled it off with some trouble, and then stood, staring with surprise.
"Master Quixada!" cried he, wiping off the blood as he spoke, "what villain has served you like this?" but, as Don Quixote only replied to his questions with long stories of the heroes of romance, the man gave it up, and after gathering up the stray bits of armour, and even the broken lance, helped the Don on to his own a.s.s and took Rozinante by the bridle.
In this manner Don Quixote returned home.
When the knight dismounted and entered the house he found his housekeeper and niece filled with dismay, and bewailing his loss to the priest and the barber, who were wont to spend many an hour in company with the Don, listening to the strange tales that were always on his tongue. The joy with which they heard his well-known knock, in the middle of their discourses, was somewhat spoilt when they saw the condition he was in, and he stopped them quickly when they flew to embrace him.
"Let no one touch me," cried he, "for by the falling of my horse I am sore wounded. Carry me to bed, and summon the wise woman Urganda to heal me with her enchanted water."
"Oh, never fear, your worship, we can cure you without her," answered the housekeeper; "and right glad we are to see you back, wounded or not."
So between them all they bore him up the narrow stairs and laid him on his bed. And when he was undressed they sought his wounds, but found none, only a black bruise so they told him.
"Is it so?" he answered. "Then the deeds that I did were yet more valorous than I thought. It was while I was fighting with ten giants, the biggest and strongest who ever gave battle to any Christian knight, that Rozinante fell, and I with him."
"Oh! so there are giants in the dance now," whispered the priest to the barber. "I will not close my eyes this night till the books which have brought this evil are safely in the fire." And, so saying, they left Don Quixote to sleep.
He was still sleeping next morning, when the priest came to ask for the keys of the little room where Don Quixote kept the old books he so much loved. They were handed to him with joy by the girl, who held books to be the enemy of all mankind, and when they all four entered they found more than a hundred volumes large and small, which was a great number for so poor a gentleman. One by one the priest examined them, and condemned them to the flames, unless by chance there was any doubt about their wickedness; that is, unless they had been written by a friend of the priest. In these cases, after the barber had been consulted, the books escaped the doom of the rest.
For fifteen days Don Quixote stayed at home and seemed content to stay there, pa.s.sing the evenings in talk with the priest and the barber.
Nothing was needed, he said, to put right the wrongs of the world, save a new order of knighthood, of which he had set the example. After much of this talk he suddenly remembered that a knight ever had a squire riding behind him, and that before he rode forth on his next quest he must needs provide himself with such an one. This was almost as hard a matter as finding a liege lady, but at length he bethought him of a poor peasant living in the same village, who possessed a wife and children, and not much else. This man he sent for, and promised him such great things and such n.o.ble rewards that Sancho Panza, for such was his name, readily agreed to serve him. "Who knows," said Don Quixote, "what island I may conquer, and it would then fall to you to be the governor, or if you disdain the island, and would prefer to follow my fortune, I can make you Count at least! But, remember, my business admits of no delay, and next week we go forth to seek adventures. Meanwhile, I will give you money wherewith to provide all that is needful for our journeying, and take heed that you bring wallets with you."
"Worshipful knight," answered Sancho Panza, "I will do all that you bid me, but, by your leave, I will bring my a.s.s also, for she is a good a.s.s, and never did I walk when a beast was at hand."
"I know not," replied Don Quixote, "if any knight was ever yet followed by a squire mounted on an a.s.s"s back. Yet, bring the beast, for it will doubtless not be long before I meet some discourteous knight, whom I will speedily overcome, and his horse shall be yours."
When all was ready, Sancho Panza bade his wife and children farewell, and, joining his master, they rode for some hours across a wide plain without seeing anything which would enable them to prove their valour.
At length Don Quixote reined up Rozinante with a jerk, and turning to his squire he said:
"Fortune is on our side, friend Sancho. Look there, what huge giants are standing in a row! thirty of them at the least! It is a glorious chance for a new-made knight to give battle to these giants, and to rid the country of this wretched horde."
"What giants?" asked Sancho, staring about him. "I see none."
"Those drawn up over there," replied the Don. "Never did I behold such arms! Those nearest us must be two miles long."
"Go not within reach of them, good master," answered Sancho anxiously, "for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are the sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones."
"How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!"
replied Don Quixote. "I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants.
Know, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at the sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying, and I will fight them alone."
[Ill.u.s.tration: DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO ATTACK THE WINDMILLS]
And with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the windmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never heard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the pictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, "Do not fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with whom you must do battle!" And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come to his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest windmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail struck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled over together, while the lance broke into small pieces.
When Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don--though indeed it was no more than he had expected--he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man and horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote"s body was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho"s complaint that no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those who had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:
"Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know nothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed me of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my glory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power against my keen blade!"
"I pray that it may be so," said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup for his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.
"Sit straighter in your saddle," went on the worthy man; "you lean too much on one side, but that doubtless comes from the fall you have had."
"You speak truly," replied Don Quixote; "and if I do not complain of my hurt, it is because it was never heard that any knight complained of a wound, however sore!"
"If that is so, I am thankful that I am only a squire," answered Sancho; "for this I can say, that I shall cry as loud as I please for any pain, however little it may be--unless squires are forbidden to cry out as well as knights-errant."
At this Don Quixote laughed, in spite of his hurts, and bade him complain whenever he pleased, for squires might lawfully do what was forbidden to knighthood. And with that the conversation ended, as Sancho declared it was their hour for dinner.
Towards three o"clock they returned to the road, which Don Quixote had left on catching sight of the windmills. But before entering it the knight thought well to give a warning to his squire.