CHAPTER XI

Of a wonderful Adventure which Don Quixote went through without peril to himself or Sancho

'Methinks, my Master,' said Sancho, 'that all the mishaps that have befallen us in these days are without doubt in punishment for the sin you committed against the rules of Knighthood, in not keeping your vow which you made, not to eat bread, and all the other things you vowed to do, until you got the helmet of Malandrino, or whatever his name was.'

'Thou art very right, Sancho,' said Don Quixote; 'but to tell the truth it had passed from my memory; but I will make amends as may be done by the rules of Knighthood.'

'And doubtless,' replied Sancho, 'all will then be well, and I shall live to see none so great as Don Quixote of the Mancha, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'

'Why do you give me that name, good Sancho?' asked his Master.

'Because truly,' replied his Squire, 'your Worship has now the most ill-favoured face that any man ever saw, and it must be, I think, because you are tired out after the battle, or on account of the loss of your grinders.'

'I fancy,' said Don Quixote, 'that some sage must have put it into thy head to give me such a name, for now I remember that all Knights took a name of that kind, and there was "The Knight of the Flaming Sword," and "The Knight of the Griffin," and many another. And from this day forward I shall call myself by no other name than "The Knight of the Rueful Countenance"; and that the name may become me better, I will upon the first occasion cause to be painted on my shield a most ill-favoured and sorrowful face.'

'There is no need,' said Sancho, 'to waste time and money in having the countenance painted. All that has to be done is that your Worship should discover your own, and show your face to those that look at you, when without doubt they will name you "He of the Rueful Countenance." Hunger and the loss of teeth have given your Worship so evil a face that you may spare yourself the painting.'

Don Quixote laughed at his Squire's pleasantry, but determined nevertheless to have the painting made on his shield according to his fancy.

They had now arrived at a wide but hidden valley between two mountains, where they alighted; and seeing a meadow on the side of the hill thick with green and tender grass, they entered it and marched along, feeling their way, for the night was so dark they could not see a jot.

They had scarcely gone two hundred paces when they heard a great noise of water, as if it fell headlong from some great and steep rock, and being by this time very thirsty, the sound cheered them greatly.

Stopping to listen whence it came, they heard another loud noise, which drowned all their joy, especially Sancho's, who, as I have said, was by nature timid and easily frightened.

They heard, I say, certain blows, louder than the sound of the rushing water, and struck in regular beats, accompanied by the ugly sounds of rattling irons and chains. These, with the furious sounds of the water, and the surrounding darkness, were enough to strike terror into any heart less brave than Don Quixote's.

The night, as I said, was dark, and they were now among some tall trees, whose leaves, moved by a gentle breeze, made a low whispering sound, so that the loneliness of the place, the darkness, the noise of the water, the strange sounds of the heavy beating and rattling chains, all caused horror and fright, the more so when they found that the blows never ceased, and morning seemed as though it would never come.

But Don Quixote was not disturbed by these things, and leaping on Rozinante, he seized his shield, brandished his lance, and said: 'Friend Sancho, I am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and valorous feats. I am he who shall cause the feats of the Knights of the Round Table to be forgotten. Mark well, trusty and loyal Squire, the darkness of this night, the strange stillness, the dull, confused trembling of the leaves, the dreadful noise of the water, which seems as though it were leaping down from the steep mountains of the moon, the constant thumping of the blows which wounds and pains our ears, which all together and each by itself are enough to strike terror, fear, and amazement into the mind of Mars, how much more in his that is not accustomed to such adventures. But with me it causeth my heart to almost burst in my bosom with joy to try this peril, however great it may be. Therefore tighten Rozinante's girths a little, and may all be well with thee. Wait for me here three days and no more. And if I do not return in the end of that time, go back to our village, and from thence, for my sake, to Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her captive Knight died attempting things that might make him worthy to be called hers.'

When Sancho heard his Master say these things he began to weep piteously, and said to him: 'Sir, I see no reason why you should undertake this fearful adventure. It is now night, there is no one sees us, we can easily turn aside and go away from the danger, and since no one sees us no one can set us down as cowards. Remember that I left my country, wife, and children to come and serve you, and to obtain that unlucky and accursed Island you have promised me so often, and now you mean to forsake me here in this desert. Put it off at least until the morning, for it can want but little from this to daybreak.'

'Let it want what it may,' answered Don Quixote, 'it shall never be said of me that tears or prayers hindered my doing my duty as a Knight.'

Sancho, seeing that his Master's mind was made up, and that his tears, entreaties, and prayers were of no avail, determined to use his wits, and see if by trickery he could make him wait until daybreak. And so, when he was tightening the horse's girths, he softly and without being felt tied his Ass's halter to both Rozinante's legs, so fast that when Don Quixote thought to depart he could not, for his horse was not able to go a step except by little jumps.

Sancho, seeing the success of his trick, exclaimed: 'Behold, Sir, how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has ruled that Rozinante shall not be able to go a step; and if you persist in urging, spurring, and striking him, it will be to anger Fortune, and kick, as the saying is, against the pricks.'

Don Quixote grew angry at this, and yet the more he spurred Rozinante the less would he move. But at last he became convinced that it was no further use attempting to make him go, and resolved to remain quiet until the morning came, or until Rozinante would please to depart. And having no idea that Sancho was the cause of this, he said to him: 'Since it is so, Sancho, that Rozinante is not able to move, I am content to wait here until morning smiles, although I weep to think it may be so long in coming.'

'You shall have no cause to weep,' replied Sancho; 'for I will tell you stories from now till daylight, unless you would like to dismount and snatch a little sleep upon the green grass, after the custom of Knights Errant, that you may be the fresher the morrow to finish this terrible adventure.'

'Who talks of sleeping?' said Don Quixote angrily. 'Am I one of those Knights that repose in time of danger? Sleep thou, who wast born to sleep, or do what thou please, for I shall do what I think right.'

'Good Sir, be not angry,' said Sancho, 'for I did not mean that'; and coming as near to his Master as he durst, he placed one hand on the pommel of his saddle and crept as near as he could, so great was the fear he had of those blows, which all the while did sound without ceasing.

After many hours spent in conversation the dawn approached, and Sancho, seeing this, unloosed Rozinante very carefully. As soon as the horse felt himself free, though he was never very mettlesome, he began to paw with his hoofs, and Don Quixote, noticing that he moved, took it for a good sign, and believed that it was now time to attempt this fearful adventure.

And now the sun had risen, and everything appeared distinctly, and Don Quixote saw that he was among some tall chestnut-trees that cast a very dark shadow. He perceived that the hammering did not cease, but could not discover what caused it, and so without delay he spurred Rozinante, and turning back again to Sancho to bid him farewell, commanded him to stay for him there three days at the longest, and that if he returned not then, to take it for certain that he had ended his days in that perilous adventure. He again repeated to him the message which he had to carry to Lady Dulcinea, and assured him that if he came safe out of this dreadful peril, the Squire might hold the promised Island as more than certain.

Here Sancho began to weep afresh at the pitiful words of his good Master, and determined not to abandon him until the last end of this adventure. And thereupon Don Quixote rode forward towards the terrible noises, Sancho following him on foot, leading by the halter his good Dapple, who was the constant companion of his good or evil fortune.

Having gone a good distance among those chestnuts and shady trees, they came to a little meadow which lay at the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of water descended. At the foot of the rocks were some houses, so roughly built that they seemed more like ruins than houses, from whence came the din and clatter of the strokes which still never ceased.

Rozinante started at the noise of the water and the hammering, and being made quiet by Don Quixote, drew near little by little to the houses. Don Quixote murmured devoutly the name of his beloved Lady Dulcinea, and Sancho, never apart from his Master's side, stretched out his neck and eyes as far as he could, to see if he could make out what it was that caused them so much terror and dismay.

And when they had gone about another hundred paces they turned a corner, and there before their eyes was the cause of that hideous and terrible noise that had kept them all the night so miserable and frightened. This was nothing worse than a mill for fulling cloth, whose six great iron maces or pestles, driven by the water-wheels, kept on day and night falling and rising from their troughs with successive hammering blows. And this had caused the terrible noise which had so terrified the adventurers.

When Don Quixote saw what it was, he stood mute and ashamed. Sancho beheld him, and saw that he hung his head on his breast. Don Quixote looked also at his Squire, and saw that his cheeks were swollen with laughter, with evident signs that he was in danger of bursting. Don Quixote's melancholy was not so great that he could help smiling a little at seeing Sancho, and Sancho, when he saw his Master beginning to laugh, burst out loud and long, with such force that he had to put his hands to his sides to prevent them splitting.

Four times he ended and four times he started again; but what chiefly enraged Don Quixote was that he began to repeat in a jesting manner, imitating his Master: 'Friend Sancho, I am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and valorous feats.' And he went on repeating the greater part of what Don Quixote had said when they first heard the fearsome sounds.

This was more than Don Quixote could bear, and lifting up the end of his lance, he gave him two such blows on the back, that if he had caught them on his pate they would have freed his Master from paying him any more wages.

Sancho, seeing that he had carried the jest too far, said very humbly: 'Please, good Master, I did but jest.'

'But why dost thou jest? I tell thee I do not jest,' replied Don Quixote. 'Come here, Master Merryman, and tell me, am I, being as I am a Knight, to distinguish noises, and to know which are those of mills and which are of Giants? Turn me those six hammers into Giants and cast them at me, one by one, or all together, and if I do not turn all their heels up, then mock me as much as thou pleasest.'

'No more, good Sir,' said Sancho, 'for I confess I have been somewhat too laughsome, but henceforth you may be sure that I will not once unfold my lips to jest at your doings, but only to honour you as my Master and Lord.'

'By doing so thou shalt live on the face of the earth, for next to our parents we are bound to respect our Masters as if they were our fathers.'