Of what happened to Don Quixote's Squire, with the famous device of the Curate and the Barber.

The history recounting what the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure did when he found himself alone, informs us that, having performed many strange antics after Sancho's departure, he mounted the top of a high rock, and began to deliberate on a subject that he had often considered before, without coming to any resolution; that was, which was the best and most proper model for his imitation, Orlando in his furious fits, or Amadis in his melancholy moods; and thus he argued with himself: "If Orlando was as valiant a knight as he is allowed to have been, where is the wonder? since, in fact, he was enchanted, and could only be slain by having a needle thrust into the sole of his foot; therefore he always wore shoes of iron. But setting aside his valour, let us consider his madness; and if he was convinced of his lady's cruelty, it was no wonder he ran mad. But how can I imitate him in his frenzy without a similar cause? I should do my Dulcinea manifest wrong if I should be seized with the same species of frenzy as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side, I see that Amadis de Gaul, finding himself disdained by his Lady Oriana, only retired to the poor rock, accompanied by a hermit, and there wept abundantly until Heaven succoured him in his great tribulation. All honour, then, to the memory of Amadis! and let him be the model of Don Quixote de la Mancha, of whom shall be said, that if he did not achieve great things, he at least died in attempting them; and though neither rejected nor disdained by my Dulcinea, it is sufficient that I am absent from her. Now to the work; come to my memory, ye deeds of Amadis, and instruct me in the task of imitation!" He thus passed the time, and in writing and graving on the barks of trees many verses of a plaintive kind, or in praise of his Dulcinea. Among those afterwards discovered, only the following were entire and legible:

The whimsical addition at the end of each stanza occasioned no small amusement to those who found the verses; for they concluded that Don Quixote had thought that, unless to the name of "Dulcinea" he added "Del Toboso," the object of his praise would not be known—and they were right, as he afterwards confessed. Here, however, it will be proper to leave him, wrapped up in poetry and grief, to relate what happened to the squire during his embassy.

As soon as Sancho had gained the high road, he directed his course to Toboso, and the next day he came within sight of the inn where the misfortune of the blanket had befallen him; and fancying himself again flying in the air, he felt no disposition to enter it, although it was then the hour of dinner, and he longed for something warm. And as he stood doubtful whether or not to enter, two persons came out who recognised him. "Pray, sigÑor," said one to the other, "is not that Sancho Panza yonder on horseback, who, as our friend's housekeeper told us, accompanied her master as his squire?" "Truly it is," said the licentiate; "and that is our Don Quixote's horse." No wonder they knew him so well, for they were the priest and the barber of his village, and the very persons who had passed sentence on the mischievous books. Being now certain it was Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings of Don Quixote, the priest went up to him, and calling him by his name, "Friend," said he, "where have you left your master?" Sancho immediately knew them, and resolved to conceal the place of Don Quixote's retreat; he therefore told them that his master was very busy about a certain affair of the greatest importance to himself, which he durst not discover for the eyes in his head. "No, no," quoth the barber, "that story will not pass. If you do not tell us where he is, we shall conclude that you have murdered and robbed him, since you come thus upon his horse. See, then, that you produce the owner of that horse, or woe be to you!" He then freely related to them in what state he had left him, and how he was then carrying a letter to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with whom his master was up to the ears in love.

They were astonished at Sancho's report; and though they knew the nature of their friend's derangement, yet every fresh instance was a new source of wonder. They begged Sancho to shew them the letter he was carrying to the lady. He said it was written in a pocket-book, and that his master had ordered him to get it copied in the first town he should arrive at. The priest said, if he would shew it to him, he would transcribe it in a fair character. Sancho put his hand into his bosom to take out the book, but found it not; for it remained with its owner, who had forgotten to give it him. When Sancho found he had no book, he turned as pale as death; he laid hold of his beard with both hands, and tore away half of it, bestowing at the same time sundry blows upon his nose and mouth. The priest and barber asked him wherefore he treated himself so roughly. "Wherefore?" answered Sancho, "but that I have let slip through my fingers three ass-colts, each of them a castle!" "How so?" replied the barber. "I have lost the pocket-book," answered Sancho, "that contained the letter to Dulcinea, and a bill signed by my master, in which he ordered his niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five he had at home." This led him to mention his loss of Dapple; but the priest bid him be of good cheer, telling him that when he saw his master he would engage him to renew the order in a regular way; for one written in a pocket-book would not be accepted. Sancho was comforted by this, and said that he did not care for the loss of the letter, as he could almost say it by heart; so they might write it down, where and when they pleased. "Repeat it, then, Sancho," quoth the barber, "and we will write it afterwards." Sancho then began to scratch his head, in order to fetch the letter to his remembrance; now he stood upon one foot, and then upon the other; sometimes he looked down upon the ground, sometimes up to the sky; then, biting off half a nail, and keeping his hearers long in expectation, he said, "At the beginning I believe it said, 'High and subterrane lady.'" "No," said the barber, "not subterrane, but superhumane lady." "Ay, so it was," said Sancho. "Then, if I do not mistake, it went on, 'the stabbed, the waking, and the pierced, kisses your honour's hands, ungrateful and most regardless fair;' and then it said I know not what of 'health and sickness that he sent;' and so he went on, until at last he ended with 'thine till death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.'"

They were both greatly diverted at Sancho's excellent memory, desiring him to repeat the letter twice more, that they also might get it by heart, in order to write it down in due time. Thrice Sancho repeated it, and added to it fifty other extravagances; relating to them also many other things concerning his master, but not a word of the blanket. He informed them likewise, how his lord, upon his return with a kind despatch from his Lady Dulcinea, was to set about endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a king (for so it was concerted between them)—a thing that would be very easily done, considering the valour and strength of his arm; and when this was accomplished, his master was to marry him (as by that time he should, probably, be a widower), and give him to wife one of the empress's maids of honour, heiress to a large and rich territory on the mainland; for as to islands, he was quite out of conceit with them. "You talk like a wise man," said the priest, "and a good Christian; but we must now contrive to relieve your master from this unprofitable penance."

So having deliberated together on the best means of accomplishing their purpose, a device occurred to the priest, exactly fitted to Don Quixote's humour, and likely to effect what they desired; which was, that he should perform himself the part of a damsel-errant, and the barber equip himself as her squire; in which disguise they should repair to Don Quixote; and the curate, presenting himself as an afflicted and distressed lady, should beg a boon of him, which he, as a valorous knight-errant, could not do otherwise than grant; and this should be a request that he would accompany her whither she should lead him, to redress an injury done her by a discourteous knight; entreating him, at the same time, not to desire her to remove her mask, nor make any farther inquiries concerning her, until he had done her justice on that wicked knight. He made no doubt but that Don Quixote would consent to any such terms; and they might thus get him away from that place, and carry him home, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his extraordinary malady.