CHAPTER 8
OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE
AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES
WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED
At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on
plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, “Fortune
is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires
ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more mon-
strous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and
slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is
righteous warfare, and it is God’s good service to sweep so evil a breed
from off the face of the earth.”
“What giants?” said Sancho Panza.
“Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and
some have them nearly two leagues long.”
“Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants but
windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the
wind make the millstone go.”
“It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “that thou art not used to this
business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away with
thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce
and unequal combat.”
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries
his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they were
windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so posi-
tive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor per-
ceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, “Fly
not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you.”
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to
move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, “Though ye flourish more
arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.”
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dul-
cinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in rest and
covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante’s fullest gallop and fell
upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as he drove his lance-point
into the sail the wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered the
lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on
the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as
his ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with
such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
“God bless me!” said Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to mind what
you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made
any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in his
head.”
“Hush, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “the fortunes of war more
than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I think, and
it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off my study and
books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of
vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked
arts will avail but little against my good sword.”
“God order it as he may,” said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise got
him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, dis-
cussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for
there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance
and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he was much griev-
ed at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, “I remem-
ber having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name,
having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or
branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many Moors,
that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his descendants from that
day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because from the
first oak I see I mean to rend such another branch, large and stout like that,
with which I am determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest
deem thyself very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them,
and be an eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed.”
“Be that as God will,” said Sancho, “I believe it all as your worship says
it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one side, may be from
the shaking of the fall.”
“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote, “and if I make no complaint of the
pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of any
wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it.”
“If so,” said Sancho, “I have nothing to say; but God knows I would
rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my part, I
confess I must complain however small the ache may be; unless this rule
about not complaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also.”
Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire’s simplicity, and he as-
sured him he might complain whenever and however he chose, just as he
liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the contrary in the order
of knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master an-
swered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might eat when
he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably
as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed
away in them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliberately,
and from time to time taking a pull at the bota with a relish that the thirstiest
tapster in Malaga might have envied; and while he went on in this way,
gulping down draught after draught, he never gave a thought to any of the
promises his master had made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather
as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might
be. Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don
Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and
fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don
Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to
what he had read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts
knights used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses.
Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of something
stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his master
had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the
cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had
power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat
less full than the night before, which grieved his heart because they did not
seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don Quixote did
not care to break his fast, for, as has been already said, he confined himself
to savoury recollections for nourishment.
They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice,
and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. “Here, brother Sancho
Panza,” said Don Quixote when he saw it, “we may plunge our hands up to
the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see
me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy
sword in my defence, unless indeed thou perceivest that those who assail
me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid
me; but if they be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by
the laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight.”
“Most certainly, senor,” replied Sancho, “your worship shall be fully
obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no friend
to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the defence of my
own person I shall not give much heed to those laws, for laws human and
divine allow each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever.”
“That I grant,” said Don Quixote, “but in this matter of aiding me against
knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity.”
“I will do so, I promise you,” answered Sancho, “and will keep this pre-
cept as carefully as Sunday.”
While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of the
order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less tall were
the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling spectacles and carried
sunshades; and behind them came a coach attended by four or five persons
on horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was, as after-
wards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where her husband
was about to take passage for the Indies with an appointment of high hon-
our. The friars, though going the same road, were not in her company; but
the moment Don Quixote perceived them he said to his squire, “Either I am
mistaken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever
been seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless are,
magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that coach, and with
all my might I must undo this wrong.”
“This will be worse than the windmills,” said Sancho. “Look, senor;
those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some trav-
ellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and don’t let the devil mis-
lead you.”
“I have told thee already, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that on the sub-
ject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as thou shalt
see presently.”
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road
along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had
come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, “Devilish and un-
natural beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you are car-
rying off by force in this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the
just punishment of your evil deeds.”
The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don
Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, “Senor Caballero, we
are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St. Benedict following our
road, nor do we know whether or not there are any captive princesses com-
ing in this coach.”
“No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,” said Don
Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with lev-
elled lance charged the first friar with such fury and determination, that, if
the friar had not flung himself off the mule, he would have brought him to
the ground against his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright. The
second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his
castle of a mule and made off across the country faster than the wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly
from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At that
instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he was stripping him
for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the bat-
tle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no idea of
a joke and did not understand all this about battles and spoils, seeing that
Don Quixote was some distance off talking to the travellers in the coach,
fell upon Sancho, knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in his
beard, belaboured him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and
senseless on the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to
mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in
the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance
looking on, watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for
the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making more
crosses than if they had the devil after them.
Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach:
“Your beauty, lady mine,” said he, “may now dispose of your person as may
be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the pride of your ravishers
lies prostrate on the ground through this strong arm of mine; and lest you
should be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know that I am called
Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the
peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the ser-
vice you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return to
El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell her
what I have done to set you free.”
One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was listen-
ing to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would not allow
the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he
made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in bad Castilian and
worse Biscayan after his fashion, “Begone, caballero, and ill go with thee;
by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here
a Biscayan.”
Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly,
“If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already chastised thy
folly and rashness, miserable creature.” To which the Biscayan returned, “I
no gentleman!—I swear to God thou liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest
lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the
cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou
sayest otherwise thou liest.”
“‘”You will see presently,” said Agrajes,'” replied Don Quixote; and
throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler on
his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dis-
mount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for
hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his sword; it was
lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from which he was able
to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield; and they went at one anoth-
er as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove to make peace
between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his disjointed
phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle he would kill his mistress
and everyone that strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and
terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and
set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan
smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his
buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have cleft him to the
waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud,
saying, “O lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the aid of
this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds him-
self in this extreme peril.” To say this, to lift his sword, to shelter himself
well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an in-
stant, determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Biscayan,
seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage by his spirit-
ed bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he waited for him keep-
ing well under cover of his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of ma-
noeuvre with his mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of
game, could not stir a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan,
with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, while on
his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and under the protec-
tion of his cushion; and all present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the
result of blows such as threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and the
rest of her following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the
images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all of
them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it spoils all,
that at this point and crisis the author of the history leaves this battle im-
pending, giving as excuse that he could find nothing more written about
these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already set forth. It
is true the second author of this work was unwilling to believe that a history
so curious could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion,
or that the wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to
preserve in their archives or registries some documents referring to this fa-
mous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair of finding the
conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven favouring him, he did
find in a way that shall be related in the Second Part.
