Of a dreadful alarm which Don Quixote experienced.

We left the great Don Quixote profoundly buried in the thoughts into which Altisidora's serenade had plunged him. At the return of light, our knight, more early than the sun, forsook his downy bed, put on his chamois apparel, and, drawing on his walking-boots, concealed in one of them the disaster of his hose. He threw his scarlet cloak over his shoulder, and clapped on his valiant head his cap of green velvet edged with silver lace. Over his right shoulder he hung his belt, the sustainer of his trusty executing sword. About his wrist he wore the rosary, which he always carried about him; and thus accoutred, with a great deal of state and majesty, he moved towards the antechamber, where the duke and duchess were ready dressed, and expecting his coming. As he went through a gallery, he met Altisidora and her companion, who waited for him in the passage; and no sooner did Altisidora espy him, than she dissembled a swooning fit, and immediately dropped into the arms of her friend. Which Don Quixote perceiving, he approached, and, turning to the damsel, "I know the meaning of all this," said he, "and whence these accidents proceed." "You know more than I do," answered the assisting damsel; "but this I am sure of, that hitherto there is not a damsel in this house that has enjoyed her health better than Altisidora: I never knew her make the least complaint before. Pray, my Lord Don Quixote, retire; for this poor young creature will not come to herself while you are by." "Madam," answered the knight, "I beg that a lute may be left in my chamber this evening, that I may assuage this lady's grief as well as I can; for in the beginning of an affair of this kind, a speedy discovery of aversion or pre-engagement is the most effectual cure." This said, he left them, that he might not be found alone with them by those that might happen to go by. He was scarce gone when Altisidora's fit was over; and, turning, to her companion, "By all means," said she, "let him have a lute; for without doubt the knight has a mind to give us some music, and we shall have sport enough." Then they went and acquainted the duchess with their proceeding, and Don Quixote's desiring a lute; whereupon she plotted with the duke and her woman a new contrivance, to have a little harmless sport with the knight.

At eleven o'clock Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and finding a lute there, he tuned it, opened the window, and, perceiving there was somebody walking in the garden, he ran over the strings of the instrument; and having tuned it again as nicely as he could, he coughed and cleared his throat; and then, with a voice somewhat hoarse, yet not unmusical, he sang the following song, which he had composed himself that very day:

No sooner had Don Quixote made an end of his song, to which the duke, duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the people in the castle listened all the while, than on a sudden, from an open gallery over the knight's window, they let down a rope, with at least a hundred little tinkling bells hanging about it. After that came down a great number of cats, poured out of a huge sack, all of them with smaller bells tied to their tails. The jangling of the bells, and the squalling of the cats, made such a dismal noise, that the very contrivers of the jest themselves were scared for the present, and Don Quixote was strangely surprised and quite dismayed. At the same time, as ill-luck would have it, two or three frighted cats leaped in through the bars of his chamber-window, and running up and down the room like so many evil spirits, one would have thought a whole legion of demons had been flying about the chamber. They put out the candles that stood lighted there, and endeavoured to get out. Meanwhile, the rope with the bigger bells about it was pulled up and down, and those who knew nothing of the contrivance were greatly surprised. At last, Don Quixote, recovering from his astonishment, drew his sword, and fenced and laid about him at the window, crying aloud, "Avaunt, ye wicked enchanters! hence, infernal scoundrels! I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, and all your cursed devices cannot work their ends against me." And then, running after the cats, he began to thrust and cut at them furiously, while they strove to get out. At last they made their escape at the window—all but one of them; who, finding himself hard put to it, flew in his face, and, laying hold on his nose with his claws and teeth, put him to such pain that the knight began to cry out as loud as he could. Thereupon, the duke and the duchess, imagining the cause of his outcry, ran to his assistance immediately; and having opened the door of his chamber with a master-key, found the poor knight struggling hard with the cat, that would not quit its hold. By the light of the candles which they had with them, they saw the unequal combat. The duke offered to interpose and take off the animal, but Don Quixote would not permit him. "Let nobody touch him," cried he; "let me alone hand to hand with this sorcerer, this necromancer; I'll make him know what it is to deal with Don Quixote de la Mancha!" But the cat, not minding his threats, growled on, and still held fast; till at length the duke got its claws unhooked, and flung him out at the window. Don Quixote's face was hideously scratched, and his nose in no very good condition. Yet nothing vexed him so much as that they had rescued out of his hands the villainous necromancer. Immediately some ointment was sent for, and Altisidora herself applied some plasters to his sores, whispering in his ear at the same time, "Cruel, hard-hearted knight," said she, "all these disasters are befallen thee as a just punishment for thy obdurate stubbornness and disdain. May thy squire Sancho forget to whip himself, that thy darling Dulcinea may never be delivered from her enchantment, at least so long as I, thy neglected adorer, live!" Don Quixote made no answer at all to this; only he heaved up a profound sigh, and then went to take his repose, after he had returned the duke and duchess thanks, not so much for their assistance against that rascally crew of jangling enchanters—for he defied them all—but for their kindness and good intent. Then the duke and duchess left him, not a little troubled at the miscarriage of their jest, which they did not think would have proved so fatal to the knight as to oblige him, as it did, to keep his chamber some days; during which time there happened to him another adventure, more pleasant than the last; which, however, cannot be now related; for the historian must return to Sancho Panza, who was very busy, and no less pleasant, in his government.