Chapter Chapter 44 · CHAPTER XLIV. IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

. CHAPTER XLIV. IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

CHAPTER XLIV.

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

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So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the landlord

opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay, and ran

to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside joined

him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the same

outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without anyone

seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and

down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord and the

travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with him that

he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off his wrist,

and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his buckler on his

arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable circuit of the

plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming:

“Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause, provided

my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do so, I give

him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single combat.”

The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don Quixote;

but the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who he was, and

not to mind him as he was out of his senses. They then asked the

landlord if by any chance a youth of about fifteen years of age had

come to that inn, one dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an

appearance, describing that of Doña Clara’s lover. The landlord replied

that there were so many people in the inn he had not noticed the person

they were inquiring for; but one of them observing the coach in which

the Judge had come, said, “He is here no doubt, for this is the coach

he is following: let one of us stay at the gate, and the rest go in to

look for him; or indeed it would be as well if one of us went round the

inn, lest he should escape over the wall of the yard.” “So be it,” said

another; and while two of them went in, one remained at the gate and

the other made the circuit of the inn; observing all which, the

landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason they were taking all

these precautions, though he understood they were looking for the youth

whose description they had given him.

It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in

consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and

up, but particularly Doña Clara and Dorothea; for they had been able to

sleep but badly that night, the one from agitation at having her lover

so near her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he

saw that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or

replied to his challenge, was furious and ready to die with indignation

and wrath; and if he could have found in the ordinances of chivalry

that it was lawful for a knight-errant to undertake or engage in

another enterprise, when he had plighted his word and faith not to

involve himself in any until he had made an end of the one to which he

was pledged, he would have attacked the whole of them, and would have

made them return an answer in spite of themselves. But considering that

it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new emprise until

he had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he was constrained to

hold his peace and wait quietly to see what would be the upshot of the

proceedings of those same travellers; one of whom found the youth they

were seeking lying asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought

of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding him.

The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, “It becomes you well

indeed, Señor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the bed

in which I find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother reared

you.”

The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who held

him, but presently recognised him as one of his father’s servants, at

which he was so taken aback that for some time he could not find or

utter a word; while the servant went on to say, “There is nothing for

it now, Señor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and return home, unless

it is your wish that my lord, your father, should take his departure

for the other world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the

grief he is in at your absence.”

“But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this

dress?” said Don Luis.

“It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,” answered the

servant, “that disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress he saw

your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four of his

servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your service, better

pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so soon and be able

to restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you.”

“That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders,” returned Don Luis.

“What can you please or heaven order,” said the other, “except to agree

to go back? Anything else is impossible.”

All this conversation between the two was overheard by the muleteer at

whose side Don Luis lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken

place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the others, who had by this time

dressed themselves; and told them how the man had addressed the youth

as “Don,” and what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to

his father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, and what

they already knew of the rare voice that heaven had bestowed upon him,

they all felt very anxious to know more particularly who he was, and

even to help him if it was attempted to employ force against him; so

they hastened to where he was still talking and arguing with his

servant. Dorothea at this instant came out of her room, followed by

Doña Clara all in a tremor; and calling Cardenio aside, she told him in

a few words the story of the musician and Doña Clara, and he at the

same time told her what had happened, how his father’s servants had

come in search of him; but in telling her so, he did not speak low

enough but that Doña Clara heard what he said, at which she was so much

agitated that had not Dorothea hastened to support her she would have

fallen to the ground. Cardenio then bade Dorothea return to her room,

as he would endeavour to make the whole matter right, and they did as

he desired. All the four who had come in quest of Don Luis had now come

into the inn and surrounded him, urging him to return and console his

father at once and without a moment’s delay. He replied that he could

not do so on any account until he had concluded some business in which

his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants pressed him,

saying that most certainly they would not return without him, and that

they would take him away whether he liked it or not.

“You shall not do that,” replied Don Luis, “unless you take me dead;

though however you take me, it will be without life.”

By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the

dispute, but particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the

Judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for he now considered

there was no necessity for mounting guard over the castle any longer.

Cardenio being already acquainted with the young man’s story, asked the

men who wanted to take him away, what object they had in seeking to

carry off this youth against his will.

“Our object,” said one of the four, “is to save the life of his father,

who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman’s disappearance.”

Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, “There is no need to make my affairs

public here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not, none

of you shall compel me.”

“Reason will compel your worship,” said the man, “and if it has no

power over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came for,

and what it is our duty to do.”

“Let us hear what the whole affair is about,” said the Judge at this;

but the man, who knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, “Do you

not know this gentleman, Señor Judge? He is the son of your neighbour,

who has run away from his father’s house in a dress so unbecoming his

rank, as your worship may perceive.”

The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him, and

embracing him said, “What folly is this, Señor Don Luis, or what can

have been the cause that could have induced you to come here in this

way, and in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?”

Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was unable to utter a

word in reply to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be

uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking Don

Luis by the hand, he drew him aside and asked the reason of his having

come there.

But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the gate

of the inn, the cause of which was that two of the guests who had

passed the night there, seeing everybody busy about finding out what it

was the four men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off without

paying what they owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs

more than other people’s, caught them going out of the gate and

demanded his reckoning, abusing them for their dishonesty with such

language that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so they

began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was forced to cry

out, and call for help. The landlady and her daughter could see no one

more free to give aid than Don Quixote, and to him the daughter said,

“Sir knight, by the virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for

two wicked men are beating him to a mummy.”

To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied,

“Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I

am debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have brought

to a happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but that

which I can do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell your

father to stand his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no

account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and request

permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to succour him in

his distress; and if she grants it, rest assured I will relieve him

from it.”

“Sinner that I am,” exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by; “before you

have got your permission my master will be in the other world.”

“Give me leave, señora, to obtain the permission I speak of,” returned

Don Quixote; “and if I get it, it will matter very little if he is in

the other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite of all the same

world can do; or at any rate I will give you such a revenge over those

who shall have sent him there that you will be more than moderately

satisfied;” and without saying anything more he went and knelt before

Dorothea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be

pleased to grant him permission to aid and succour the castellan of

that castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. The princess granted

it graciously, and he at once, bracing his buckler on his arm and

drawing his sword, hastened to the inn-gate, where the two guests were

still handling the landlord roughly; but as soon as he reached the spot

he stopped short and stood still, though Maritornes and the landlady

asked him why he hesitated to help their master and husband.

“I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, “because it is not lawful for me to

draw sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my squire

Sancho to me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and

business.”

Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very lively

exchange of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord

and to the wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, and her daughter, who

were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixote, and the

hard treatment their master, husband and father was undergoing. But let

us leave him there; for he will surely find someone to help him, and if

not, let him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts more than his

strength allows him to do; and let us go back fifty paces to see what

Don Luis said in reply to the Judge whom we left questioning him

privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and so meanly dressed.

To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart

was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made

answer:

“Señor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when,

through heaven’s will and our being near neighbours, I first saw Doña

Clara, your daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her the

mistress of my will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no

impediment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left my

father’s house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to follow her

whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark or the sailor the

pole-star. She knows nothing more of my passion than what she may have

learned from having sometimes seen from a distance that my eyes were

filled with tears. You know already, señor, the wealth and noble birth

of my parents, and that I am their sole heir; if this be a sufficient

inducement for you to venture to make me completely happy, accept me at

once as your son; for if my father, influenced by other objects of his

own, should disapprove of this happiness I have sought for myself, time

has more power to alter and change things, than human will.”

With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the Judge, after

hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the

manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the secret of

his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not knowing

what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the

answer, therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for

the present, and arrange with his servants not to take him back that

day, so that there might be time to consider what was best for all

parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his

tears, in a way that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say

that of the Judge, who, as a shrewd man, had already perceived how

advantageous the marriage would be to his daughter; though, were it

possible, he would have preferred that it should be brought about with

the consent of the father of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title

for his son.

The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, for, by

persuasion and Don Quixote’s fair words more than by threats, they had

paid him what he demanded, and the servants of Don Luis were waiting

for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master’s

decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber,

from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza the

trappings of his ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this

instant enter the inn; which said barber, as he led his ass to the

stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or other

belonging to the pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and

made bold to attack Sancho, exclaiming, “Ho, sir thief, I have caught

you! hand over my basin and my pack-saddle, and all my trappings that

you robbed me of.”

Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse

poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one hand, and with the

other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood. The

barber, however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he had made

in the pack-saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that

everyone in the inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel

meant. “Here, in the name of the king and justice!” he cried, “this

thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my

property.”

“You lie,” said Sancho, “I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my

master Don Quixote won these spoils.”

Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his

squire’s stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from that time

forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his heart resolved to dub

him a knight on the first opportunity that presented itself, feeling

sure that the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed upon him.

In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said,

“Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death,

and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass

in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not

fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day

I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin,

never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day.”

At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and

interposing between the two, and separating them, he placed the

pack-saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight until the truth was

established, and said, “Your worships may perceive clearly and plainly

the error under which this worthy squire lies when he calls a basin

which was, is, and shall be the helmet of Mambrino which I won from him

in fair war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful

possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself; but I may

tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked my permission to

strip off the caparison of this vanquished poltroon’s steed, and with

it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took it; and as to its having

been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle, I can give no

explanation except the usual one, that such transformations will take

place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run, Sancho my

son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a basin.”

“Egad, master,” said Sancho, “if we have no other proof of our case

than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino’s helmet is just as much

a basin as this good fellow’s caparison is a pack-saddle.”

“Do as I bid thee,” said Don Quixote; “it cannot be that everything in

this castle goes by enchantment.”

Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back with him,

and when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it and said:

“Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert that

this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear by the

order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the identical one I

took from him, without anything added to or taken from it.”

“There is no doubt of that,” said Sancho, “for from the time my master

won it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he let loose

those unlucky men in chains; and if it had not been for this

basin-helmet he would not have come off over well that time, for there

was plenty of stone-throwing in that affair.”

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