Which deals with what else happened at the inn together with many other things worth knowing.
W HEN THE captive stopped talkinG, don Fernando said: “Señor captain, the way you’ve told this remarkable adventure has certainly been equal to the novelty and strangeness of the events themselves. Everything is exotic and exceptional, and filled with incidents that astonish and amaze anyone who listens. And the pleasure we’ve found in hearing it is so great, we wouldn’t mind hearing it again, even if we were here until tomorrow listening to the same tale.”
And saying this, Cardenio and the others offered to serve them in whatever way they could, using such affectionate and earnest words that the captain was quite pleased with their good will. Don Fernando especially promised that if he wanted to return with him, he would have the marquis, his brother, be Zoraida’s godfather at her baptism, and that he himself would give him the means to return home with the credit and dignity that he was entitled to. The captain thanked him in most courteous terms, but refused to accept any of his generous offers.
At this point night fell, and when it got dark, a coach arrived at the inn, accompanied by some men on horseback. They asked for accommodation, and the innkeeper’s wife replied that there wasn’t a hand’s breadth in the inn that wasn’t occupied.
“That may be,” said one of those who had entered on horseback, “but a place must be found for the señor judge.”
At the mention of his office, the innkeeper’s wife became troubled and said: “Señor, the thing is, I have no beds. If his grace, the señor judge, has a bed with him, as he surely must, let him come in and be welcome—my husband and I will vacate our room to accommodate his grace.”
In the meantime, a man got out of the coach who, in his garb showed immediately the office he held, because the long robe that he was wearing with the turned-up sleeves, proved he was a judge, as his servant had said. He was leading a maiden by her hand, seemingly sixteen years old, dressed for travel, and so elegant, so beautiful, and so charming, that she amazed everyone; and if they hadn’t seen Dorotea, Luscinda, and Zoraida, who were all at the inn, they would have believed that another such beauty would be hard to find.
Don Quixote was present when the judge and the maiden came in, and as soon as he saw them, he said: “Your worship may certainly enter into this castle and relax, for although the accommodation is limited and poorly appointed, there are no quarters in the world that are so cramped that there will be no room for both arms and letters, and more so if these arms and letters have beauty as their guide and pilot, as your learnèd grace has in this maiden, for whom not only castles should open their portals, but also cliffs should split, and mountains should crumble, to welcome her. Come, your grace, I say, into this paradise—here you’ll find stars and suns to accompany the heaven your grace is bringing with you, here you’ll find arms at their perfection and beauty in its prime.”
The judge was amazed at don Quixote’s speech and he looked at him very intently. He was no less amazed by his person as he was by his words, and without finding words to respond with, he was once again amazed when he saw Dorotea and Zoraida in front of him, who, when they heard from the innkeeper’s wife about the newly-arrived guests and the beauty of the girl, had come out to see and welcome her. But don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest offered a simpler and more polite greeting. In short, he entered the inn, perplexed as much by what he saw as by what he heard, and the beauties of the inn welcomed the beautiful girl.
The judge could see that all those present were people of quality. But the figure, face, and appearance of don Quixote bewildered him. All civilities having been done, and the accommodations of the inn having been examined, what had already been decided was arranged—that all the women would go into the garret already mentioned, and the men would stay outside on guard. And the judge was content that his daughter (for that is who the maiden was) would go with those women, which she did most willingly. So, with part of the innkeeper’s bed and half of the one that the judge brought with him, they all were accommodated better than they had expected.
The captive’s heart skipped a beat as soon as he saw the judge, because he suspected that man was his brother, so he asked one of the servants who accompanied him what his name was and where he was from. The servant responded that he was the licenciado Juan Pérez de Viedma, and he’d heard he was from a village in the mountains of León. From this, and from what he himself had seen, he was positive that man was his brother, and that he’d followed the path of letters on the advice of his father. Excited and very happy, he took Cardenio and the priest aside and told them his suspicions, assuring them that the judge was his brother. The servant had also told him that he’d been appointed judge in the Indies, in the Supreme Court of Mexico. He also knew that the maiden was his daughter, from whose birth the mother had died, and he’d become very rich from the dowry left him with the daughter. The captive asked for advice as to how he should go about revealing himself, or to learn first, before he made himself known, if his brother, seeing him poor, would be ashamed to receive him with a warm heart.
“Leave it to me to find out,” said the priest. “But there’s no reason to think anything other than that you, señor captain, won’t be received kindly, because the worth and wisdom manifest in your brother’s honorable demeanor gives no indication that he’ll be arrogant or unfeeling, or that he’ll not know how to put the accidents of Fortune in perspective.”
“Still,” said the captain, “I’d like it if I could make myself known to him in a round-about way and not all at once.”
“I can tell you,” said the priest, “that I’ll do it so that everyone will be satisfied.” At this point, dinner was ready, and everyone sat at the table, except the captive and the ladies, who ate alone in their room. During dinner, the priest said: “Señor judge, I had a friend in Constantinople, while I was captive there for some years, with your same name. This friend of mine was one of the bravest soldiers and captains in the whole Spanish infantry. But he had as much misfortune as gallantry and courage.
“And what was this man’s name, señor mío?” asked the judge.
“He was” responded the priest, “Ruy Pérez de Viedma, from a village in the mountains of León. He told me about something that happened to his brothers and him, which, if such a truthful man hadn’t told it to me, I’d have thought it was a tale the old women tell sitting around the fire in winter. He told me his father had divided his estate among three sons, and he’d given them certain advice, better than that of Cato. And I can tell you that the one who chose to go to war had done so well that in a few years, through his bravery and good conduct, and without any help except his own worth, rose to the rank of captain of the infantry, and thought he would soon see himself on the road to the prestige of the rank of regiment commander. But Fortune was against him, for when he could have expected its favor, he lost it, and with it his freedom, on that glorious day when so many recovered theirs, which was at the Battle of Lepanto. I lost mine at La Goleta and afterwards, by various routes, we found ourselves companions in Constantinople. From there he went to Algiers, where I know that he had one of the strangest adventures in the world.”
And here the priest went on to relate as briefly as he could, what happened with his brother and Zoraida. The judge listened to all this very absorbed—he’d never before been such a good listener. The priest only got to the point where the Frenchmen robbed the Christians on the boat, and the poverty and need in which his friend and the beautiful Moorish woman were in, and he didn’t know what had happened to them, or if they had come to Spain or been carried off to France by the French. Everything the priest said was being heard by the captain who was standing to one side, and he studied all the movements that his brother made.
The judge, seeing that the priest had finished his story, gave a great sigh and his eyes filled with tears as he said: “Oh, señor, if you only knew how deeply I’ve been touched by the news you gave me, that I have to show it by these tears, which, in spite of my circumspection and restraint, are flowing from my eyes. That valiant captain you mention is my older brother, who, being stronger and loftier-minded than my younger brother and I, chose the honorable and worthy profession of war, which was one of the three careers my father proposed to us, just as your friend told you in the old wives’ tale—in your opinion—that you heard from him. I chose the career of letters, in which God and my diligence have put me in the position in which you see me. My younger brother is in Peru, so rich, that with what he has sent to my father and me, he paid back the part of the estate he took with him, and even has placed in my father’s hands enough to satisfy his natural generosity, while I was enabled to pursue my studies with decency and in a worthy way, and have come to rise to my present standing. My father is still living, dying with the desire to learn about his oldest son, and he asks God in continual prayer not to close his eyes until he sees the eyes of his son while he’s still alive. But what surprises me about him is that, since he has so much common sense, he never wrote his father about his troubles and sufferings, nor his prosperity, for if he’d known—or any one of us had known—he wouldn’t have had to wait for the miracle of the stick to get his ransom. But I’m very anxious wondering if the Frenchmen gave them freedom, or if they killed them to hide their theft. This will make me continue my voyage, not with the joy in which I began it, but rather with melancholy and sadness. Oh, my good brother, if I only knew where you were, I’d go to find you and free you from your travails, even though it would be at the cost of my life! Oh, if I could only take news to our aged father that you were alive, even if you were in the most hidden dungeon in Barbary, because his wealth, together with my brother’s and mine, would rescue you! Oh, beautiful and generous Zoraida, if I could only repay the good you’ve done my brother; if only I could witness the rebirth of your soul and your marriage, which would please us all so much!”
The judge said these and other similar words, filled with so much emotion over the news he was told about his brother, that all those who heard him shared in it, showing their sympathy for his lamentation. When the priest saw how well his plan had worked, matching the captain’s wishes, he didn’t want him to be sad any longer, so he got up from the table and went in to where Zoraida was, and took her by the hand, and Luscinda, Dorotea, and the judge’s daughter followed. The captain was waiting to see what the priest intended to do, which was to take him by the hand as well, and with both of them, he went to where the judge and the other men were, and said: “Dry your tears, señor judge, and may your desire for all the happiness that you could possibly want be fulfilled, for here is your good brother and your good sister-in-law. This is Captain Viedma, and this is the beautiful Moorish woman who did so much for him. The Frenchmen I told you about put them in the state of poverty that you see so that you might show the generosity of your kind heart.”
The captain hastened to embrace his brother, who put both his hands on his chest to look at him at some distance. But when he recognized him, he embraced him so tightly, shedding so many tears of joy, that those who were present were forced to accompany them in their tears. I believe that the words that both brothers said to each other and the feelings they showed can hardly be imagined, much less written down. There, in a few words, they told each other of their lives: there, they showed the true affection of brothers; there the judge embraced Zoraida; there, he offered them his wealth; there he had his daughter embrace her; there, the beautiful Christian and the even more beautiful Moorish woman made everybody weep once more.
There, don Quixote considered these strange happenings without saying a word, attributing them all to the foibles of knight errantry. There, they made plans for the captain and Zoraida to go with his brother to Seville and send news to their father about his having been found, and his deliverance, so that, if he was able, he could be at the wedding and baptism of Zoraida. It was not possible for the judge to delay his voyage since he had news that the fleet would set sail from Seville for New Spain in a month, and it would be an enormous inconvenience for him to miss the passage.
In short, everybody was happy with the captive’s good fortune, and since two-thirds of the night was over, they agreed to retire and take their rest during the time that remained. Don Quixote offered to guard the castle so they wouldn’t be assaulted by some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the great treasure trove of beauty in the castle. Those who knew him thanked him, and they told the judge about don Quixote’s odd manner, which gave him no little pleasure.
Only Sancho Panza despaired at the lateness of the hour, but he managed to get the best accommodation of all, stretching out on the trappings of his donkey, which were to cost him dearly, as will be told later on.
When the ladies had retired to their room and the others accommodated themselves as well as they could, don Quixote went outside the inn’s walls to be the sentinel of the castle, as he’d promised.
A little before dawn, it happened that a very musical and good voice reached the ears of the women, and it forced all of them to listen closely, especially Dorotea, who was awake, and at whose side was doña Clara de Viedma, for that was the name of the judge’s daughter. No one had any idea who the person could be who sang so well. It was a voice not accompanied by any instrument. Sometimes it seemed that the singing was coming from the patio, other times from the stable. As the ladies were listening amidst the confusion of where the music was coming from, Cardenio went to the door of their room and said: “If you’re not sleeping, listen! You’ll hear the voice of a mule-boy who sings in such a way that he enchants as he chants.”
“We can hear him, señor,” said Dorotea.
And with this, Cardenio went away, and Dorotea, listening as carefully as she could, heard that what he was singing was this:
When the singer had gotten to this point, it seemed to Dorotea that it wouldn’t be right to allow Clara to miss such a good voice, so, jostling her a bit, she woke her and said: “Pardon me, dear, for waking you, but I’m doing it so you can take pleasure in hearing perhaps the best voice that you’ve ever heard in all your life.”
Clara woke up, quite drowsy, and asked her to repeat what she’d said since she hadn’t understood at first what Dorotea was saying, so Dorotea said it again, and Clara pulled herself together. But as soon as she heard two verses as the singer continued, she began to tremble in such an odd way, as if she were afflicted by some sudden grave fit caused by a fever; and throwing her arms around Dorotea she exclaimed: “Oh, señora of my soul and of my life! Why did you wake me up? The best thing Fortune could do for me right now is to let me close my eyes and ears so I won’t see or hear this unfortunate musician.”
“What are you saying, girl? They say that the one singing is a mule-boy.”
“No—he’s a lord of villages,” responded Clara, “and the place he holds in my soul so securely will never be taken from him if he doesn’t want it to be.”
Dorotea was amazed at the girl’s heartfelt words, seeming to her that they exceeded by quite a bit the maturity one would expect of one her age. So she said to her: “You’re speaking, señora Clara, in a way that I cannot understand. Explain yourself more clearly, and tell me about your soul, and his villages, and this musician, whose voice has made you so troubled. But don’t tell me now, because I don’t want to miss the pleasure I get from hearing the singer while I tend to your distress, for I think he’s going to sing another song with new verses.”
And so as not to hear him she covered her ears with both hands, and this also amazed Dorotea, who, listening to what he was singing, heard that he continued in this way:
Here the singer ended his song and here began renewed sobs on Clara’s part. All this kindled Dorotea’s desire to find out the cause of such a sweet song and such bitter weeping. So she asked her once again what she’d meant before. Then Clara, fearing that Luscinda would hear her, holding Dorotea close, put her mouth so close to Dorotea’s ear that she could safely speak without being heard by anyone else, said: “This young man who is singing, señora mía, is the son of a gentleman from the kingdom of Aragón, lord of two villages, who lived opposite my father’s house in the capital. Although my father had the windows of his house covered with curtains in the winter and blinds in the summer, I don’t know how, but this young man, who was a student, saw me—in church or somewhere else, I don’t know—and fell in love with me, and made me understand from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I had to believe him and even love him, without knowing what he wanted of me. Among the signs that he made was to join one hand with the other, giving me to understand that he wanted to marry me, and although I’d like that very much, since I was alone and without a mother, I didn’t know who I could confide in, and so I just left it as it was, showing him no favor, except (when my father and his were away from home), to raise the curtain or blinds a bit and let him see me, which excited him so much that I thought it would drive him crazy.
“The time finally came for my father’s departure, which the boy found out about, and not from me, because I never could say anything to him. He fell sick from grief, the way I understand it, and so the day we left I didn’t see him to say good-bye, if only with my eyes. But after we were on the road for two days, when we went into an inn at some distance from here, I saw him dressed as a mule-boy, so well disguised that if I didn’t have him etched in my memory, I wouldn’t have recognized him. I knew it was him; I was amazed, and I was glad. He looked at me undetected by my father, from whom he always hides when he goes in front of me along the roads and in the inns where we stay. And since I know who he is, and I think that because of his love for me he’s making this journey on foot and with so much hardship, I’m dying of grief; and wherever he puts his feet, I put my eyes. I don’t know what his intention is or how he could have escaped from his father, who loves him beyond measure, because he has no other heir, and because his son is so worthy, as your grace will realize when you see him. And what else I can say about him is that everything he sings, he’s made up out of his head, and I’ve heard that he’s a great student and poet. And what’s more, every time I see him or hear him sing, I tremble all over, and I my heart skips a beat, fearing that my father will recognize him and come to know our desires. I’ve never spoken to him in my life, and even so, I love him and cannot live without him. This is, señora, what I can tell you about this musician whose voice has given you so much pleasure, and by his voice alone you’ll see that he isn’t a mule-boy as you say, but a lord of souls and towns, as I’ve told you.”
“Say no more, señora doña Clara,” Dorotea said, kissing her a thousand times. “Say no more, I say, and wait for the new day to come, and I’ll hope that God will arrange it so your affair might have the happy ending that such a virtuous beginning warrants.”
“Oh, señora,” said doña Clara, “what ending can I expect if his father is such an important man, and so rich that it seems that I can’t even be his son’s maid, not to mention his wife? And I can’t just get married without my father’s permission for anything in the world. I only want this young fellow to go away and leave me alone. Perhaps by not seeing him, and with the great distance we are to travel, it will ease my pain, although I think the remedy I’ve suggested will do me little good. I don’t know how the devil this has happened, nor how this love I bear him came to me since I’m so young and so is he. In truth I believe we’re the same age—I’m not yet sixteen, but I’ll be on St. Michael’s day, according to my father.”
Dorotea couldn’t help but laugh at the childish way doña Clara spoke, and she said to her: “Let’s rest, señora, for the little that remains of the night, and «God will send another day and we’ll do fine», provided my skill doesn’t fail me.”
With this they went to sleep and the whole inn was shrouded in silence. The only ones who weren’t sleeping were the innkeeper’s daughter and Maritornes, her maid. Since they already knew the mental state of don Quixote, and that he was outside the inn on guard, in armor and on horseback, they thought they would play a joke on him, or at least spend some time listening to his nonsense.
There happened to be no window in the inn overlooking the countryside, except for one through which they threw straw out. The two semi-maidens placed themselves at the window and saw that don Quixote was mounted on horseback, leaning on his lance, and heaving very mournful and deep sighs once in a while, it seemed as if with each one his soul was being yanked out. And they also heard him say with a soft, delicate, and loving voice: “Oh, my señora Dulcinea del Toboso, sum of all beauty, model of discretion, archive of grace, repository of virtue, and finally, essence of all that is worthy, chaste, and delectable in the world! What must your grace be doing now? Are you thinking, perhaps, of your captive knight, who of his free will has exposed himself to so many perils just to serve you? Give me news of her, oh, luminary of three faces! Perhaps envying her face, you’re looking at her now, either strolling through some gallery in her sumptuous palace, or leaning on some balcony to consider with no detriment to her chastity and greatness, how she can tame the torment which for her, this afflicted heart, is suffering; what glory she can bestow on my grief, what relief to my worry; and finally, what life to my death, and what prize for my services. And you, oh, bright sun! You must be in a hurry to saddle your horses to start the day and come out to see my lady; and when you see her, I beg you to greet her for me. But be careful when you see her and greet her not to kiss her on the cheek, for I’ll be more jealous of you than if you were that flighty woman who made you sweat so much and race through the plains of Thessaly or along the shores of Peneius —for I don’t remember too well where you were running then, all jealous and in love.”
When don Quixote got to this point in his doleful speech, the daughter of the innkeeper beckoned him and to said to him: “Señor mío, come over here, if you please.”
When he heard this request and this voice, don Quixote turned his head and saw by the light of the moon, which was still quite bright, that he was being called from that opening, which seemed to be a window to him, and even one with a golden grating, as the rich castles ought to have, and as he imagined that inn to be. And then in his irrational imagination he conjured up that once again, as the last time, the beautiful maiden, daughter of the warden of that castle, conquered by her love for him, was trying to win his affections. With this thought, so as not to appear discourteous and ungrateful, he turned Rocinante around and went over to the window, and as soon as he saw the two young women, he said: “I’m sorry, beautiful señora, you’ve put your amorous thoughts where it’s not possible to find a response your great merit and elegance deserve, and you must not blame this wretched knight errant, whom love has made incapable of submission to any other than her whom, from the instant his eyes fell upon her, he made the absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, good señora—go back to your room and don’t reveal more of your desires to me, so that I won’t show myself more ungrateful still. But if your love for me suggests to you any other way I may serve you, other than by reciprocating your yearning, just ask, and I swear by that absent enemy of mine, to give it to you immediately, even if you ask for a lock of hair from Medusa, which was nothing but snakes, or even the rays of the sun placed into a bottle.”
“My lady has need of nothing like that, señor knight,” said Maritornes.
“What does your mistress need, discreet dueña?” responded don Quixote.
“Just one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, “to be able satisfy the passion that brought her to this window, so in detriment to her honor, that if her father heard her, the least slice he would take from her would be her ear.”
“I’d like to see that,” responded don Quixote, “but he’d better be careful if he doesn’t want to meet the most disastrous end ever met by a father for having touched a love-stricken daughter.”
It seemed to Maritornes that don Quixote would offer the hand they had asked for, and she figured out what she would do. She got down from the opening and went to the stable, where she took the halter of Sancho Panza’s donkey, and with great speed returned to the window, just when don Quixote stood up onto Rocinante’s saddle to reach the gold-grated window where he imagined the love-lorn maiden to be, and when he gave her his hand, he said: “Take this hand, señora, or rather, this punisher of the evildoers of the world. Take this hand, I say, that no other woman has ever touched—not even she who has entire possession of my whole body. I’m not giving it to you so you can kiss it, but rather so you can examine the network of sinews, the complexity of its muscles, and the breadth and the capacity of its veins, from which you can infer the strength of the arm that has such a hand.”
“Now, we shall see,” said Maritornes. And making a slipknot with the halter, she put it around his wrist and lowered herself from the opening and tied the other end tightly to the door latch of the hayloft.
Don Quixote felt the roughness of the cord on his wrist and said: “It seems to me that you are scraping, rather than caressing my hand. Don’t treat it so harshly since it’s not to blame for what my will has done you, nor is it good for you to take vengeance on such a small part of me. Remember that one who loves well should not avenge so ill.”
But no one heard these words of don Quixote, because as soon as Maritornes tied his wrist, she and the other girl fled, dying of laughter; and they left him tied up in such a way that it was impossible for him to get loose. He was, then, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his whole arm in the window and his wrist tied to the latch of the door, greatly fearing and worried that if Rocinante moved a little bit, he would be left hanging by his arm. So he didn’t dare move at all, although the patience and calm of Rocinante could be counted on, because he wouldn’t move for a whole century.
Finally, since don Quixote realized he was tied fast, and now that the women had gone away, he began to imagine that everything was happening by enchantment, as happened the last time, when in that same castle that enchanted Moor of a muleteer beat him up; and he cursed to himself his lack of discretion and judgment, since having come out so badly the first time, he ventured a second time, when there is a maxim among knights errant that says that when they have undertaken an adventure and have come out badly, it indicates that it’s not meant for them, but for someone else, and so they shouldn’t attempt it a second time. Nonetheless, he tugged on his arm to see if he could get loose, but he was tied so tightly all his efforts were in vain. It’s true he tugged rather delicately since he didn’t want Rocinante to move, and although he wanted to sit on the saddle, he couldn’t, and had to remain standing or have his hand pulled off.
It was then he wished he had Amadís’ sword, against which the powers of enchantment had no effect; then is when he cursed his fortune; then is when he exaggerated the loss the world would suffer by his absence while he was standing there enchanted—and he doubtless thought he was; then it was that he remembered his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then it was that he called his squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched out on the packsaddle of his donkey, was oblivious even of the mother that bore him; then is when he called on the wizards Lirgandeo and Alquife to help him; then is when he invoked the name of his good friend Urganda to rescue him; and finally, when daybreak came, he was so desperate and disheartened that he bellowed like a bull, because he had no hope that the new day would bring relief to his misery, which he was convinced would last forever. And seeing that Rocinante didn’t stir, neither much nor little, he believed that his horse and he would stay without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until the bad influence of the stars passed by, or another wiser enchanter would disenchant him.
But his belief deceived him greatly, because hardly had it begun to get light when four men arrived at the inn on horseback, very well equipped, with muskets across their saddles. They knocked loudly on the gate of the inn, which was still locked, and when don Quixote saw this, still playing the part of the guard, with an arrogant and thunderous voice, said: “Knights or squires, or whoever you are, you have no right to knock on the gates of this castle because it’s amply clear that at this time of morning either they’re all sleeping inside, or they don’t have the custom of opening the fortress until sunlight has spread over the land. Stay outside and wait until daybreak, and then we’ll see if it’s fitting or not to open the gates to you.”
“What the devil kind of fortress or castle is this,” said one, “that forces us to observe these formalities? If you’re the innkeeper, order that the gate be opened to us. We’re travelers and we only want to give barley to our mounts and continue on, because we’re in a hurry.”
“Does it seem to you, señores, that I look like an innkeeper?” responded don Quixote.
“I don’t know what you look like,” responded the other, “but I know that you’re saying nonsense when you call this inn a castle.”
“Castle it is,” replied don Quixote, “and even one of the best ones in this whole province, and there are people inside who have had scepters in their hands and crowns on their heads.”
“It would be better the other way around,” said the traveler, “scepters on their heads and the crowns on their hands. Maybe there’s a group of actors inside who have these scepters and crowns that you mention, because in such a small and quiet inn, I doubt that there are people entitled to real crowns and scepters.”
“You know little of the world,” replied don Quixote, “since you don’t know things that happen in knight errantry.”
The travelers got weary of this conversation with don Quixote and they began to knock again with great fury, causing the innkeeper and everyone else in the inn to wake up, and so he got up to ask who was knocking.
It happened then that one of the mounts on which the travelers came went over to smell Rocinante, who, melancholy and sad, with his ears drooping, was supporting his stretched-out master without moving, and since he was made of flesh and blood, although he seemed to be made of wood, he couldn’t help but feel the effects, and smell the one who was giving him those caresses in return, and so he’d moved only very little when don Quixote lost his footing and slipped off the saddle. He would have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t been hanging by his arm, something that caused him such great pain that he believed that either his wrist was being cut through, or his arm was being torn off, because he was so close to the ground that the tips of his toes kissed the ground, which was all the worse for him because he could feel how little he lacked to be able to put the soles of his feet onto the ground, and he struggled and stretched as much as he could to reach the ground, much like those undergoing the strappado torture, in between touching and not touching, and they themselves aggravate their pain with their efforts to stretch out, deceived by the hope they think they have, that with a little more effort they can reach the ground.