About the tactful conversation that Sancho Panza had with his master, and of the adventure of what happened with a dead body, with other famous occurrences.
“It seems to me, señor mío, that all of these misadventures that have been happening to us doubtless have been to punish your grace for sinning against the order of chivalry—since you didn’t comply with your oath not to eat bread on a tablecloth nor sport with the queen, and all the rest of that stuff you swore to fulfill until you took Malandrino’s helmet from him, or whatever his name is—I don’t remember too well.”
“You’re very right, Sancho,” said don Quixote. “But to tell you the truth, it had slipped my mind, and you can bet that your not having reminded me of it in time is what caused your blanketing. But I’ll make it up to you, for there are ways to fix everything in the order of chivalry.”
“Well, did I swear anything, by chance?” responded Sancho.
“It’s not important for you to have sworn anything,” said don Quixote.
“It’s enough for me to understand that you’re not entirely free from blame. Just in case, it would be a good idea to provide ourselves with a remedy.”
“Well, if that’s the way things are,” said Sancho, “be careful not to forget this as you did the oath, since it may cause the phantoms to come back and have more fun at my expense, and maybe even yours, too, if they see you’re so stubborn.”
In these and other conversations, night overtook them while on the road, without being able to find a place to lodge that night. And what was worse was that they were dying of hunger, because when they lost the saddlebags, they lost their larder and all their provisions. And the icing on the cake was that an adventure—at least it seemed to be a real adventure and not one that involved make-believe—befell them. That night turned out to be very dark, but they still moved along, Sancho believing that, since it was a main highway, they could reasonably expect to find an inn within a league or two.
As they went along—the night being dark, the squire hungry, and the master feeling like a bit to eat—they saw that along the road, coming toward them, was a great number of torches, which looked like roving stars. Sancho was petrified when he saw them and his master was uneasy. The one pulled on the halter of his donkey and the other on the reins of his nag and they stayed quite still, trying to figure out what it could all mean, and they saw that these torches were approaching them, and the more they drew near, the bigger they appeared. When Sancho saw this, he began to shake like a leaf, and don Quixote’s hair stood on end, but he plucked up some courage and said: “This, Sancho, doubtless has to be an enormous and very dangerous adventure in which I’ll have to show all my courage and strength.”
“Woe is me,” responded Sancho, “if this adventure is one with phantoms—and it looks to me as if it might be—how will my ribs be able to stand it?”
“No matter how many phantoms there might be,” said don Quixote, “I won’t allow any one of them to touch a single thread of your clothing. The last time they played tricks on you was because I couldn’t get over the walls of the corral. Now that we’re in the countryside, I can wield my sword however I like.”
“And if they enchant and paralyze you, as happened the other time,” said Sancho, “what good will it be to be in the countryside?”
“Nevertheless,” replied don Quixote, “be of good courage, because this experience will prove to you what kind of bravery I have.”
“I’ll try to, if it pleases God,” responded Sancho.
The two of them went to the side of the road to see what those roving torches could be. And soon after, they made out many men dressed in white. This frightening vision took away all of Sancho Panza’s courage, and his teeth began to chatter as if he had the chills. His heart beat faster and the chattering became worse when they saw what the whole scene was—they beheld up to twenty men dressed in white surplices, all of them on horseback, and with burning torches in their hands. Behind them came a litter draped in mourning, followed by six other men on mules, mantled in black down to their hooves—you could tell they weren’t horses because of their lazy pace. The surplice-wearers were murmuring softly among themselves, in doleful tones. This strange vision, at such a late hour, and in such a desolate place was enough to instill fear in Sancho’s heart, and even in his master’s. But his master instantly saw in his imagination one of the adventures from his books coming to life. He imagined that a badly-wounded or a dead knight must be lying on the litter, and whom he alone was destined to avenge.
And so, without further ado, he couched his lance, sat up firmly in his saddle, and with a gentle mien and disposition planted himself in the middle of the road where the surplice-wearers had to pass, and when he saw that they were near, he raised his voice and said: “Stop, you knights, or whoever you may be, and tell me who you are, where you’re coming from, and what you’re bearing on that litter—because it looks to me like either you’ve done some outrage to someone, or someone has done some outrage to you, and I need to know what happened so that I can either punish you for the bad things you’ve done or avenge the injury done to you.”
“We’re in a hurry,” responded one of the surplice wearers, “and the inn is still far away, and we can’t stop to tell you everything you want to know.”
And spurring his mule, he continued on. Don Quixote was quite offended by this answer, and grabbing the mule by its bridle, said: “Stop, and be more courteous, and tell me what I want to know. If not, you all have a fight on your hands.”
The mule was skittish, and when it was seized by the bridle, it got scared and rose onto its hind legs and threw its rider to the ground. A lad who was on foot, when he saw the surplice-wearer fall, began to revile don Quixote, who was now so angry that—without waiting a moment—he assailed one of the men in black, and knocked him to the ground, badly hurt. He then turned around and moved swiftly among those remaining, and the speed with which he attacked and made them flee was marvelous to behold. It looked like Rocinante had sprouted wings at that moment, he was so light on his feet and so majestic. All the surplice wearers were fainthearted and unarmed, so they left the fray immediately and began running through the countryside with their torches still lit, much in the way masqueraders run about on nights of merriment and festival. The ones dressed in mourning, encumbered and wrapped up as they were in their skirts and cassocks, found it hard to move, so don Quixote, with no danger at all to himself, could maul them all, and made them all flee, much against their will. They all thought that he wasn’t a man, but a devil from hell, who had come to snatch away the dead body they were transporting on the litter.
Sancho was watching it all, surprised at the undaunted courage of his master, and said to himself: “Without a doubt this master of mine is as brave and valiant as he says.”
There was a burning torch on the ground next to the man that the mule had thrown, and in its light don Quixote could see him. He approached him and aimed the point of his lance at the man’s face, telling him to surrender or he’d put him to death.
The fallen man responded: “I’ve already surrendered since I can’t move because my leg is broken. I beg you, if you’re a Christian knight, not to kill me since you’d be committing a great sacrilege—I’m a licenciado, and I’ve already taken the first orders of the church.”
“Well, who the devil has brought you here,” said don Quixote, “since you’re a man of the church?”
“Who, señor?” replied the fallen man. “My misfortune.”
“A greater misfortune awaits you,” said don Quixote, “if you don’t tell me everything I want to know.”
“I can easily satisfy your grace,” responded the licenciado. “I should tell you that although I said I’m a licenciado, I only hold a bachelor’s degree, and my name is Alonso López. I’m from Alcobendas and I’m coming from Baeza with eleven other priests, who are those who fled with their torches. We’re going to the city of Segovia with a dead body on that litter, a knight who died in Baeza where he’d been entombed, and now, as I say, we’re taking his bones to his sepulcher in Segovia, where he was born.”
“And who killed him?” asked don Quixote.
“God did, by means of a pestilential fever.”
“In that case,” said don Quixote, “Our Lord has spared me the trouble of avenging his death if he’d been killed by anyone else. But since he was killed by the One who killed him, I’ll just have to keep quiet and shrug my shoulders, and I’d do the same if He killed me. I want you to know that I’m a knight from La Mancha named don Quixote, and my profession is to wander about the world righting wrongs and redressing injuries.”
“I don’t see how you can call this «righting wrongs»,” said the bachelor, “because you’ve wronged me, leaving me with a broken leg that will never be right in all the days of my life. And in trying to redress an injury, you’ve left me injured forever. You seek adventures, but my running into you has been a great misadventure for me.”
“Not everything,” responded don Quixote, “happens the same way. The trouble was, señor bachelor Alonso López, that you were coming the way you did, at night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying, dressed in mourning, and you really looked like something evil from the other world. I had to fulfill my obligation by attacking you, and I would have attacked you even if I had known that you were devils from hell themselves, and that’s exactly what I took you to be.”
“Since my fate has willed it,” said the bachelor, “please, señor knight errant—who have erred so much toward me—help me to get out from under this mule, because he’s pinned my leg between the stirrup and the saddle.”
“I could have kept talking until tomorrow,” said don Quixote. “How long were you going to wait to tell me of your distress?”
He then called to Sancho Panza to come. But Sancho couldn’t go right then, because he was quite busy plundering a pack mule those good men had with them, and was well stocked with things to eat. Sancho made an impromptu sack from his overcoat and filled it with everything he could, loaded his donkey, and only then attended to his master’s shouting, helping to extricate the señor bachelor from the weight of his mule, putting him back onto his mount, and handing him his torch. Don Quixote told him to follow the same route his companions had taken, and to beg their pardon for him for any damage, but he was powerless to do anything other than what he’d done.
Sancho also said: “If by chance those señores want to know who the brave man was who put you in such a state, tell them that it was the famous don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise called The Woebegone Knight.”
With this the bachelor went away and don Quixote asked Sancho just what had moved him to call him the Woebegone Knight at that precise moment.
“I’ll tell you,” responded Sancho, “because I’ve been looking at you for a while by the light of the torch that poor fellow was carrying, and truly you’ve recently taken on the most woebegone face I’ve ever seen. It must have been caused either by the exhaustion brought about by this battle or maybe the loss of so many teeth.”
“It’s not that,” responded don Quixote, “but rather it must have seemed to the wizard who is charged with writing the history of my deeds that it would be a good idea for me to have a nickname, as all the knights of yore had; one was called of the Burning Sword, another of the Unicorn, that one, of the Maidens, this one, of the Phœnix, the other one, of the Griffin, that other one, of Death, and by these names and designations they were known all over the world. So, I say that the wizard just mentioned must have made you think of and say right now that I’d call myself the Woebegone Knight, as I plan to from now on. And so this name will be very clear, I’ll have a very woebegone face painted on my shield as soon as I can.”
“Your grace need not waste any time or money having that done,” said Sancho, “for all you have to do is show your face for everyone to see, and without any picture or shield, they’ll all call you the Woebegone One. And believe me, I’m telling the truth, because I promise you, señor—and this is said as a jest—that your hunger and missing teeth, as I’ve already said, give you such a lamentable look, you don’t need a painting to show it.”
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s joke. But, even so, he proposed to call himself by that name as soon as he could have his shield painted, as he’d planned.
“I forgot to say that you should be advised that your grace is now excommunicated for having laid hands violently on something holy: Juxta illud, si quis suadente diabolo, .”
“I don’t understand that Latin,” responded don Quixote, “but I know very well that I didn’t use my hands, but rather this lance; and in any case I didn’t realize I was attacking priests or things of the Church—which I respect and adore, as the Catholic and faithful Christian that I am—but rather phantoms and monsters from the other world. And even so, I remember what happened to the Cid Ruy Díaz, when he broke the chair of the ambassador of that king in the presence of His Holiness the Pope, and was excommunicated for it, and yet he acted like a very honorable and fine knight that day.”
When the bachelor heard this, he left, as has been said, without uttering another word.
Don Quixote wanted to see if the body on the litter was bones or not, but Sancho wouldn’t allow it, saying to him: “Señor, your grace has come out of this adventure more safely than from any that I’ve seen. These people that you routed may just realize that it was only one person who defeated them. They’ll be embarrassed and ashamed because of it, and might rally and come back looking for us, and give us all kinds of trouble. The donkey is loaded with food, the foothills are near, our hunger is great, so all we have to do is leave at our leisure, and, as they say: «let the dead go to the grave and the living to the loaves».”
Leading his donkey, he begged his master to follow, and it seemed to his master that he was right, and without saying a word he followed him. In a little while they were between two hills, and found themselves in a spacious hidden valley, where they dismounted, and Sancho took the donkey’s load off. They lay down on the green grass, and seasoned by the sauce of hunger, they ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner all at the same time with provisions the señores clerics of the dead man had with them on the pack mule—for it’s only rarely that they fail to provide themselves with lots of things to eat.
But another misfortune befell them that Sancho held for the worst one of all, and that was that they had no wine, or even water to drink. They were parched with thirst, but seeing that the field where they were was liberally endowed with fine green grass, Sancho said what will be told in the next chapter.