CHAPTER 46
OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY BROTH-
ERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was endeavour-
ing to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as they might per-
ceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not press the matter
any further, for even if they arrested him and carried him off, they would
have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which the holder of the war-
rant replied that he had nothing to do with inquiring into Don Quixote’s
madness, but only to execute his superior’s orders, and that once taken they
might let him go three hundred times if they liked.
“For all that,” said the curate, “you must not take him away this time, nor
will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away.”
In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad
things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they had
not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to allow them-
selves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between the barber
and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with much bitter-
ness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the question by arbitra-
tion in such a manner that both sides were, if not perfectly contented, at
least to some extent satisfied; for they changed the pack-saddles, but not the
girths or head-stalls; and as to Mambrino’s helmet, the curate, under the
rose and without Don Quixote’s knowing it, paid eight reals for the basin,
and the barber executed a full receipt and engagement to make no further
demand then or thenceforth for evermore, amen. These two disputes, which
were the most important and gravest, being settled, it only remained for the
servants of Don Luis to consent that three of them should return while one
was left to accompany him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and
good luck and better fortune, having already begun to solve difficulties and
remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and warriors of the inn, were
pleased to persevere and bring everything to a happy issue; for the servants
agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which gave Dona Clara such happiness
that no one could have looked into her face just then without seeing the joy
of her heart. Zoraida, though she did not fully comprehend all she saw, was
grave or gay without knowing why, as she watched and studied the various
countenances, but particularly her Spaniard’s, whom she followed with her
eyes and clung to with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate
gave the barber had not escaped the landlord’s notice, and he demanded
Don Quixote’s reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his
wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante nor
Sancho’s ass should leave the inn until he had been paid to the very last far-
thing. The curate settled all amicably, and Don Fernando paid; though the
Judge had also very readily offered to pay the score; and all became so
peaceful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded one of the discord of
Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the peace and tranquillity of
the days of Octavianus: for all which it was the universal opinion that their
thanks were due to the great zeal and eloquence of the curate, and to the un-
exampled generosity of Don Fernando.
Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire’s as well as
his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to continue the
journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great adventure for which he
had been called and chosen; and with this high resolve he went and knelt
before Dorothea, who, however, would not allow him to utter a word until
he had risen; so to obey her he rose, and said, “It is a common proverb, fair
lady, that ‘diligence is the mother of good fortune,’ and experience has often
shown in important affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings the
doubtful case to a successful termination; but in nothing does this truth
show itself more plainly than in war, where quickness and activity forestall
the devices of the enemy, and win the victory before the foe has time to de-
fend himself. All this I say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it seems to
me that for us to remain any longer in this castle now is useless, and may be
injurious to us in a way that we shall find out some day; for who knows but
that your enemy the giant may have learned by means of secret and diligent
spies that I am going to destroy him, and if the opportunity be given him he
may seize it to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or stronghold,
against which all my efforts and the might of my indefatigable arm may
avail but little? Therefore, lady, let us, as I say, forestall his schemes by our
activity, and let us depart at once in quest of fair fortune; for your highness
is only kept from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in en-
countering your adversary.”
Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply
of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style
adapted to Don Quixote’s own, replied to him in these words, “I give you
thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to whom it is a
natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy, display to afford me
aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your wishes and mine may be
realised, so that you may see that there are women in this world capable of
gratitude; as to my departure, let it be forthwith, for I have no will but
yours; dispose of me entirely in accordance with your good pleasure; for
she who has once entrusted to you the defence of her person, and placed in
your hands the recovery of her dominions, must not think of offering oppo-
sition to that which your wisdom may ordain.”
“On, then, in God’s name,” said Don Quixote; “for, when a lady humbles
herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and placing
her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for the common
saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my eagerness to take the
road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell seen any that can daunt or
intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and get ready thy ass and the
queen’s palfrey, and let us take leave of the castellan and these gentlemen,
and go hence this very instant.”
Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, “Ah!
master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears of, beg-
ging all good bodies’ pardon.”
“What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the
world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?” said Don Quixote.
“If your worship is angry,” replied Sancho, “I will hold my tongue and
leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good ser-
vant should tell his master.”
“Say what thou wilt,” returned Don Quixote, “provided thy words be not
meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving like
thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing.”
“It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,” said Sancho, “but
that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls herself queen of
the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my mother; for, if she
was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses with one that is here
every instant and behind every door.”
Dorothea turned red at Sancho’s words, for the truth was that her husband
Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not looking, gath-
ered from her lips some of the reward his love had earned, and Sancho see-
ing this had considered that such freedom was more like a courtesan than a
queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable or not caring to an-
swer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued, “This I say, senor, be-
cause, if after we have travelled roads and highways, and passed bad nights
and worse days, one who is now enjoying himself in this inn is to reap the
fruit of our labours, there is no need for me to be in a hurry to saddle Roci-
nante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it will be better
for us to stay quiet, and let every jade mind her spinning, and let us go to
dinner.”
Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the
audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice inarticulate
with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed living fire, he
exclaimed, “Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and ignorant, ill-spoken,
foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer! Hast thou dared to utter
such words in my presence and in that of these illustrious ladies? Hast thou
dared to harbour such gross and shameless thoughts in thy muddled imagi-
nation? Begone from my presence, thou born monster, storehouse of lies,
hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries, inventor of scandals, publisher of
absurdities, enemy of the respect due to royal personages! Begone, show
thyself no more before me under pain of my wrath;” and so saying he knit-
ted his brows, puffed out his cheeks, gazed around him, and stamped on the
ground violently with his right foot, showing in every way the rage that was
pent up in his heart; and at his words and furious gestures Sancho was so
scared and terrified that he would have been glad if the earth had opened
that instant and swallowed him, and his only thought was to turn round and
make his escape from the angry presence of his master.
But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don
Quixote’s humour, said, to mollify his wrath, “Be not irritated at the absur-
dities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,
for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from his good sense
and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would bear false witness
against anyone. We may therefore believe, without any hesitation, that
since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this castle goes and is brought
about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I say, may possibly have seen,
through this diabolical medium, what he says he saw so much to the detri-
ment of my modesty.”
“I swear by God Omnipotent,” exclaimed Don Quixote at this, “your
highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come be-
fore this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have been im-
possible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know well
enough, from the poor fellow’s goodness and harmlessness, that he is inca-
pable of bearing false witness against anybody.”
“True, no doubt,” said Don Fernando, “for which reason, Senor Don
Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your
favour, sicut erat in principio, before illusions of this sort had taken away
his senses.”
Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for
Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for the
hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him to kiss
it, gave him his blessing and said, “Now, Sancho my son, thou wilt be con-
vinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee, that everything in
this castle is done by means of enchantment.”
“So it is, I believe,” said Sancho, “except the affair of the blanket, which
came to pass in reality by ordinary means.”
“Believe it not,” said Don Quixote, “for had it been so, I would have
avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could I,
nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong.”
They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the
landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho’s flights, at which they
laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out of
countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all enchant-
ment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch that he could
persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth, without any decep-
tion whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by beings of flesh and
blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms, as his master believed
and protested.
The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it
seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without giving
Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don Quixote to
his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona, the curate and
the barber might carry him away with them as they proposed, and the curate
be able to take his madness in hand at home; and in pursuance of their plan
they arranged with the owner of an oxcart who happened to be passing that
way to carry him after this fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with
wooden bars, large enough to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then Don
Fernando and his companions, the servants of Don Luis, and the officers of
the Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions and advice of
the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in one way,
some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite different from the
persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in profound silence they en-
tered the room where he was asleep, taking his his rest after the past frays,
and advancing to where he was sleeping tranquilly, not dreaming of any-
thing of the kind happening, they seized him firmly and bound him fast
hand and foot, so that, when he awoke startled, he was unable to move, and
could only marvel and wonder at the strange figures he saw before him;
upon which he at once gave way to the idea which his crazed fancy invari-
ably conjured up before him, and took it into his head that all these shapes
were phantoms of the enchanted castle, and that he himself was unquestion-
ably enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what
the curate, the concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that
were there Sancho was the only one who was at once in his senses and in
his own proper character, and he, though he was within very little of sharing
his master’s infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these disguised figures
were; but he did not dare to open his lips until he saw what came of this as-
sault and capture of his master; nor did the latter utter a word, waiting to the
upshot of his mishap; which was that bringing in the cage, they shut him up
in it and nailed the bars so firmly that they could not be easily burst open.
They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the
room an awful voice—as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle
but the other, was able to make it—was heard to say, “O Knight of the Rue-
ful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed afflict thee,
for this must needs be, for the more speedy accomplishment of the adven-
ture in which thy great heart has engaged thee; the which shall be accom-
plished when the raging Manchegan lion and the white Tobosan dove shall
be linked together, having first humbled their haughty necks to the gentle
yoke of matrimony. And from this marvellous union shall come forth to the
light of the world brave whelps that shall rival the ravening claws of their
valiant father; and this shall come to pass ere the pursuer of the flying
nymph shall in his swift natural course have twice visited the starry signs.
And thou, O most noble and obedient squire that ever bore sword at side,
beard on face, or nose to smell with, be not dismayed or grieved to see the
flower of knight-errantry carried away thus before thy very eyes; for soon,
if it so please the Framer of the universe, thou shalt see thyself exalted to
such a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and the promises which thy
good master has made thee shall not prove false; and I assure thee, on the
authority of the sage Mentironiana, that thy wages shall be paid thee, as
thou shalt see in due season. Follow then the footsteps of the valiant en-
chanted knight, for it is expedient that thou shouldst go to the destination
assigned to both of you; and as it is not permitted to me to say more, God
be with thee; for I return to that place I wot of;” and as he brought the
prophecy to a close he raised his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it
to such a soft tone, that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost
inclined to take what they heard seriously.
Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once
comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to him
that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with his
beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed
the whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being thor-
oughly and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and with a deep
sigh exclaimed, “Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast foretold me so much
good, I implore of thee that on my part thou entreat that sage enchanter who
takes charge of my interests, that he leave me not to perish in this captivity
in which they are now carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled promises so joy-
ful and incomparable as those which have been now made me; for, let this
but come to pass, and I shall glory in the pains of my prison, find comfort in
these chains wherewith they bind me, and regard this bed whereon they
stretch me, not as a hard battle-field, but as a soft and happy nuptial couch;
and touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I rely upon his
goodness and rectitude that he will not desert me in good or evil fortune; for
if, by his ill luck or mine, it may not happen to be in my power to give him
the island I have promised, or any equivalent for it, at least his wages shall
not be lost; for in my will, which is already made, I have declared the sum
that shall be paid to him, measured, not by his many faithful services, but
by the means at my disposal.”
Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for,
being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions lifted the
cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart.
