THE MORNING was cool, and the day promised to be as well, when don Quixote left the inn, having first found out what the shortest way to go to Barcelona was without setting foot in Zaragoza, such was his desire to prove untruthful the new historian who they said had abused him so.
It happened, then, that in more than six days nothing happened to him that’s worthy of writing about, at the end of which, as night overtook him he veered off the road among some dense oak or cork trees—for in this, Cide Hamete is not as meticulous as he is in other matters. Master and man dismounted, and once they had gotten comfortable against trunks of trees, Sancho (who had had an afternoon snack) allowed himself to plunge headlong through the doors of sleep, but don Quixote (whose thoughts kept him awake much more than his hunger did) couldn’t close his eyes, but his thoughts wandered in all directions. Now it almost seemed to him that he was in the Cave of Montesinos, watching Dulcinea transformed into a peasant, leap onto her she-ass. Later the words of the wizard Merlin about what had to be done to disenchant Dulcinea buzzed in his ears.
He despaired seeing the sloth and lack of charity on Sancho’s part, because he understood that Sancho had given himself only five lashes—a small number, and very little in comparison with the infinite number that remained. He was so vexed and angered by this that he began this discourse: “If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knot saying: ‘It’s the same thing to cut as it is to untie it’ and for all that didn’t fail to become the lord of all of Asia, neither more nor less can happen now with the disenchantment of Dulcinea if I whip Sancho in spite of himself. If the condition for this remedy lies in Sancho receiving three thousand or so lashes, what difference is it to me if he gives them to himself or if someone else gives them to him, since the essential thing is that he gets them, no matter from where.”
With this in mind, he went over to Sancho, having first taken Rocinante’s reins, holding them so he could begin whipping with them, and began to remove the cord—for the common opinion is that he had only one—holding up Sancho’s pants.
But hardly had he begun when Sancho woke up with a start and said: “What’s going on? Who’s touching me and taking my pants off?”
“I am,” responded don Quixote, “and I’ve come to make up for your deficiencies and to bring an end to my travails. I’ve come to whip you, Sancho, and to remove in part your debt. Dulcinea is languishing, you’re living without cares. I’m dying with desire, so lower your pants of your free will, for mine is to give you at least two thousand lashes in this solitude.”
“No,” said Sancho. “Don’t move another step, your grace. If not, by the true God, the deaf will hear us. The lashes I agreed to must be voluntary, and not by force, and right now I don’t feel like whipping myself. It’s enough that I give you my promise to whip and swat myself when I feel like it.”
“There’s no leaving it up to you, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “because you’re hard-hearted, and although a rustic, you have tender flesh.”
And so he struggled to remove his belt. When Sancho realized what was going on, he stood up and tackled his master, gripping him on equal terms, tripped him, and threw him to the ground on his back. He then put his right knee in don Quixote’s chest, and grasped his hands, so don Quixote could hardly move or breathe.
Don Quixote said to him: “How can you rebel against your master and natural lord, you traitor? You dare to do this to the man who gives you your bread?”
“«I neither pull down nor raise up a king»,” responded Sancho, “«I only am defending myself, for I’m my own lord». Your grace must promise me that you’ll be still and won’t try to whip me for now and I’ll release you, and if not: «Here you will die, you traitor, enemy of doña Sancha.»”
Don Quixote promised him, and swore that he would never again touch a hair on Sancho’s head, and that he’d leave the matter of whipping himself whenever he pleased to his free will. Sancho got up and went over some distance to lean against a tree and felt that something was touching his head. He raised his hands and discovered two feet of a person, with shoes and stockings. He trembled in fear, and rushed over to another tree where the same thing happened. He began to shout, calling don Quixote to protect him. Don Quixote went over, asking what had happened and what he was afraid of, and Sancho responded that all those trees were filled with human legs and feet.
Don Quixote felt them and realized then what it had to be, and said to Sancho: “You don’t have to be afraid, because these feet and legs you can feel but can’t see doubtless belong to outlaws and highwaymen who have been hanged in these trees. In this area, Justice, when it catches them, hangs them by twenties or thirties, so I’m led to believe I must be near Barcelona.”
And what he imagined was true.
With the dawn of day they raised their eyes and saw that the clusters were bodies of highwaymen. With the arrival of the new day, if the dead men frightened them, they were no less distressed by the sudden appearance of more than forty living ones who surrounded them, telling them in the Catalan language to make no noise and not to move until their captain arrived.
Don Quixote was on foot, his horse without a bridle, his lance leaning against a tree, and as it turns out, was without defense of any kind, so he felt it best to cross his arms and bow his head, waiting for a better time and opportunity. The highwaymen came to scrutinize the grey, and left nothing in the saddlebag and valise. It was fortunate for Sancho that he’d put the escudos from the duke and money he’d brought with him in a belt he was wearing. Yet these good folks would have even rummaged through and looked at everything that might be hidden between his clothing and flesh, if their captain hadn’t arrived just then. He appeared to be about thirty-four years old, robust, taller than average, with a stern look, and dark-complected. He was on a powerful horse and was wearing a coat of mail, and had four pistols, which in that area are called PETRONELS, on both sides. He saw that his squires—for that’s what the people of that profession are called—were about to strip Sancho. He told them not to do it and was instantly obeyed, and that’s how the belt escaped. He was amazed to see the lance resting against the tree, the shield on the ground, and don Quixote in his armor and pensive, with the saddest and most melancholic face that sadness itself could have fashioned.
Approaching him, he said: “Don’t be so sad, my good man, because you haven’t fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but rather into those of Roque Guinart, which are more compassionate than severe.”
“I’m not sad,” responded don Quixote, “because I fell into your hands, gallant Roque, whose fame knows no bounds on this earth, but rather because I was so careless that your soldiers caught me with my horse unbridled—because I was obliged, according to the laws of knight errantry, which I profess, to live in continual alert, being my own sentinel at all times. I’ll have you know, great Roque, if they had found me on horseback with my lance and shield, it would have been difficult for them to subdue me, because I’m don Quixote de La Mancha, that same one whose deeds fill the world.”
It was then that Roque realized that don Quixote’s malady was more due to madness than daring, and although he’d heard him mentioned on some occasions, he never believed that his deeds were true, nor could he be persuaded that such a condition could take over the heart of a man; and he was very pleased to meet him, to be able to touch up close what he’d heard from far away, and so he said to him: “Brave knight, don’t despair, nor consider your situation to be a catastrophe of Fortune, because it may be that through these stumblings your luck will turn around. Heaven, through strange and unheard-of roundabout ways, undreamed-of by men, tends to lift up the fallen and enrich the poor.”
Don Quixote was just about to thank him when he heard coming behind him the pounding of horses’ hooves; but there was just a single horse, on which a young man of twenty, it seemed, was racing toward them, dressed in a loose shirt and in green damask pants trimmed with gold. He was wearing a feathered hat and his tight-fitting boots were waxed. He had a golden dagger and sword, and a small musket in his hands and two pistols at his sides.
On hearing the noise, Roque turned his head and saw this handsome person, who said to him when he arrived: “I have come searching for you, valorous Roque, to find in you, if not a remedy, at least some solace for my misfortune. And so that you won’t be in suspense any longer, since I see you haven’t recognized me, I want to tell you who I am. I’m Claudia Jerónima, the daughter of Simón Forte, your staunch friend, and professed enemy of Clauquel Torrellas, who is your enemy since he’s of a rival faction. And you know that this Torrellas has a son called don Vicente Torrellas, or at least that’s what his name was not two hours ago. This man—to make the story of my misfortune short, I’ll tell you in a few words about the grief he caused me—saw me, courted me, I listened to him, I fell in love with him without my father finding out, because there’s no woman no matter how secluded and shy she may be, who doesn’t have more than enough time to put her hastily conceived desires into effect. He promised to be my husband and I to be his wife, and nothing else happened between us. I learned yesterday that he’d forgotten what he’d promised me, and was getting married to another woman. This news upset my senses and ended my patience. And since my father wasn’t in town, I put on this outfit you see me in, and spurring this horse on, I overtook don Vicente about a league from here, and without bothering to complain to him or hear his excuses, I fired these muskets at him, and these two pistols as well, and I gather I must have lodged more than two bullets in his body, opening doors out of which my honor could escape, covered in his blood. I left him there among his servants, who didn’t dare to, nor could they do anything in his defense. I’ve come looking for you so that you can help me get to France where I have relatives with whom I can live, and also to beg you to protect my father, so that don Vicente’s many relatives won’t try to take undue vengeance on him.”
Roque, astonished at the gallantry, pluck, good looks, and initiative of the beautiful Claudia, said to her: “Come, señora, and let’s go see if your enemy is dead, then we’ll figure out what is best for you.”
Don Quixote was listening attentively to what Claudia Jerónima had said and what Roque Guinart responded, and said: “Let nobody take on the defense of this woman, for I’ll do it on my own. Give me my horse and my arms, and wait for me here. I’ll go looking for this man, and dead or alive, I’ll make him keep the promise made to such a beauty.”
“Let no one doubt this,” said Sancho, “because my master is a very good matchmaker since not many days ago he made another fellow marry a maiden to who he’d broken his promise, and if it hadn’t been for the enchanters who pursue my master and changed the fellow’s face into that of a groom, by now she would have been a maiden no more.”
Roque, who was concentrating more on the beautiful Claudia’s situation than on the words of the master or the man, didn’t hear their words, and commanded his squires to give back everything they had taken from the grey and then to go back to where they had spent the night. Then he left with Claudia at full speed to find the wounded or dead don Vicente. They went to the place where Claudia had caught up to him and all they found was recently spilled blood. They raised their eyes and looked in all directions, and saw some people on the slope, They figured—and it was true—that it must be don Vicente whom his servants were carrying, dead or alive, to treat his wounds or to bury. They sped up to overtake them, and—since the people on the hill were moving slowly—they easily did so.
They found don Vicente in the arms of his servants, whom he was asking with a fatigued and weak voice to let him die there because the pain of the wounds wouldn’t allow him to go any further. Claudia and Roque jumped off their horses and ran over to him. The servants were terrified by the presence of Roque, and Claudia seemed quite disturbed when she saw the state of don Vicente. She went to him half-pitying and half-severe, and grasping his hands, she said: “If you had given me these in accordance with our agreement you would never have seen yourself in such straits.”
The wounded man opened his almost closed eyes. He recognized Claudia and said: “I can see, beautiful and deceived señora, that you were the person who has killed me, a punishment my intentions neither deserved nor caused, for with my ambitions and deeds I’ve never tried to, nor could I offend you.”
“So, it’s not true,” said Claudia, “that you were going to marry Leonora, the daughter of the rich Balvastro this morning?”
“Certainly not,” responded don Vicente. “My bad luck must have given you this news, so that you would take my life in a jealous rage, but since I’m leaving my life while in your hands and arms, I consider my luck fortunate. And to prove this truth, take my hand and receive me as your husband, if you want. I have no better way to satisfy you for the offense that you think I did you.”
Claudia took his hand and pressed it against her heart and she fell into a faint on the bloody chest of don Vicente, and he was seized by a mortal convulsion. Roque was perplexed and didn’t know what to do. The servants went to look for water to throw into their faces, which they did. Claudia came to, but don Vicente didn’t recover from his convulsion, because his life was over. When Claudia saw this, realizing that her sweet husband was no longer living, she rent the air with her sighs, pierced the sky with her complaints, tore out her hair and threw it to the winds, scratched her face with her own hands, thus showing all the pain and feeling that can be imagined of a grieving heart.
“Oh, cruel and inconsiderate woman,” she said, “how rashly you put your wicked design into effect! Oh, raging power of jealousy, to what desperate lengths you lead those that welcome you into their hearts! Oh, my husband, whose unfortunate luck, because you were my prize, has taken you from the wedding bed to the grave!”
Claudia’s ravings were so sad they brought tears to the eyes of Roque, which were not accustomed to shedding them on any occasion. The servants all wept, Claudia fainted again and again, and the surroundings seemed like a field of sadness and a place of misfortune. Roque Guinart told don Vicente’s servants to take the body to his father’s village, which was nearby, so that he could be buried. Claudia said to Roque that she wanted to go to a convent where an aunt of hers was the abbess, and she planned to spend the rest of her life there, accompanied by a better and more eternal Husband. Roque praised her good intention, and offered to accompany her wherever she wanted to go, and to defend her father from don Vicente’s relatives and from everyone else, if they tried to harm him. Claudia refused his company and thanked him for his offer, using the best words she could muster, and bade him farewell, weeping. The servants of don Vicente carried off his body, and Roque went back to his men. And this was the end of the loves of Claudia Jerónima. But what wonder, since the intrigue of her lamentable story was woven by the invincible power of jealousy?
Roque Guinart found his squires where he’d told them to go, and don Quixote was among them on Rocinante, delivering a speech to persuade them to leave that way of life, which was as dangerous for their souls as for their bodies. But since most of them were from Gascony, rustic and lawless men, don Quixote’s speech didn’t sit well with them. When Roque arrived, he asked Sancho Panza if his men had returned his belongings and precious objects they had taken from the grey. Sancho said they had, except for the three kerchiefs, which were worth three cities.
“What do you mean by that?” asked one of those present. “I have them and they’re not worth three reales.”
“That’s true,” said don Quixote, “but I can tell by what he said that my squire prizes them because of who gave them to me.”
Roque Guinart had them given back, and called his men to form a half-circle around him, and had all the clothing, jewels, and money, and everything else brought there that they had robbed since the last distribution, and after making a rough estimate, returning what couldn’t be distributed, he calculated how much money it was worth, and divided it among all his men so equally and prudently that he didn’t defraud distributive justice in any way.
Having done this—and everyone was happy, satisfied, and gratified with it—Roque said to don Quixote: “If I weren’t so meticulous with these fellows, it would be impossible to live with them.”
To which Sancho said: “By what I’ve seen here, justice is such a good thing, you have to practice it with thieves themselves.”
One of the squires heard this, and he raised the butt of his musket with which he doubtless would have opened Sancho’s head, if Roque Guinart had not shouted to him not to. Sancho was stunned, and vowed to keep his mouth shut tight while they were with those people. At this point, one of the several squires who were positioned as sentinels along the road, to see if anyone was coming along, rushed over to tell their chief what was going on, and he said: “Señor, not far from here, on the road to Barcelona a bunch of people are coming.”
To which Roque responded: “Can you tell if they’re of the kind that are looking for us or the kind we’re looking for?”
“They’re the kind we’re looking for,” responded the squire.
“Everyone get moving,” replied Roque, “and bring them to me right away, and don’t let anyone escape!”
They all went away leaving don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque alone, waiting to see what the squires would bring, and in the meantime Roque said to don Quixote: “Our way of life—new adventures, new events, all these dangers—must seem strange to you. And I don’t wonder that it would, because I really confess that there’s no way of life more nerve-wracking or more terrifying than ours. What got me into it was the desire for revenge, which can pervert the calmest of hearts. I’m compassionate and good-intentioned by nature, but as I’ve said, the desire to avenge myself of an offense done to me has brought down all my good intentions. I persevere in this calling in spite and in defiance of my better judgment. And just as one abyss calls another, and one sin calls another, these acts of revenge have been linking one to another so that I take not only mine, but I’ve taken upon myself also those of others. But God is pleased that, although I find myself in the middle of the labyrinth of my perplexity, I haven’t lost hope of getting out of it and arriving at a safe port.”
Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque talk so elegantly, because he thought that among those whose profession it was to rob, kill, and plunder, there could be no one who had sound judgment, and he responded: “Señor Roque, the beginning of health is to recognize the illness and for the sick person to take the medicine the doctor prescribes. Your grace is sick, you recognize your illness, and heaven—or really God, who is our Doctor—will give you medicine to cure you—a bit at a time, not quickly, or by a miracle. And what’s more, wise sinners are nearer to correcting their sins than the simpletons, and since your grace has shown your judiciousness through your words, all you have to do is have a good spirit and wait for the cure for the malady of your conscience. And if your grace wants to save time and get on the road to salvation sooner, join me. I’ll teach you to be a knight errant, where one has so many travails and misadventures, that if they’re taken as a penance, in an instant they’ll have you in heaven.”
Roque had to laugh at the advice of don Quixote, and he changed the subject and told him about the tragic event about Claudia Jerónima, which grieved Sancho tremendously. The girl’s beauty, boldness, and energy had really impressed him. At this point the squires returned with their captives, bringing with them two men on horseback and two pilgrims on foot, a coach with women and up to six servants who were accompanying them on foot and on horseback, with other mule boys the gentlemen were bringing. The squires arrived surrounding them, and all of them were very still, waiting for the great Roque to speak. He asked the men who they were and where they were going, and how much money they had with them.
One of them said: “Señor, we’re two captains in the Spanish infantry. Our companies are in Naples and we’re going to embark on one of four galleys that they say are in Barcelona, with orders to go to Sicily. We have between two and three hundred escudos, and feel we’re rich and content, since the ordinary lot of soldiers doesn’t allow greater treasures.”
Roque asked the pilgrims the same question as the captains. He was answered that they were embarking for Rome, and that between them they had about sixty reales. He also wanted to know who was in the coach, where they were going, and how much money they had. One of the men on horseback said: “My lady doña Guiomar de Quiñones, the wife of the president of the court of justice in Naples, with a small daughter, a maid, and a duenna are those that are in the coach. We’re six servants accompanying her, and our money totals six hundred escudos.”
“So,” said Roque Guinart, “we have nine-hundred escudos and sixty reales. I must have about sixty soldiers. Let’s see how much that is for each one, for I’m bad at arithmetic.”
When the highwaymen heard this, they said in a single voice: “May Roque Guinart live many years, in spite of the lladres who are looking for him.”
The captains looked grieved, the president of the court of justice’s wife became sad, and the pilgrims weren’t too pleased either, seeing their wealth confiscated. Roque held them all in suspense for a while, but he didn’t want their sadness to last, for it was easy to recognize a musket-shot away; and turning to the captains, he said: “Your graces, señores captains, out of courtesy, please lend me sixty escudos, and the señora president of the court of justice’s wife, eighty to satisfy this squadron that accompanies me, because «the abbot dines on what he sings». And then you can continue traveling freely for I’ll give you a safe-conduct pass so that if you run into any other of my squadrons I’ve scattered around this area, they will do you no harm, because it’s not my intention to harm soldiers or any woman, especially those of high social status.”
The captains thanked Roque with many cordial words for being courteous and liberal, for that’s how they considered his having left them with their money. Señora Guiomar de Quiñones tried to jump out of the coach and kiss the feet and hands of the great Roque, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He rather begged their pardon for the wrong done her, since he had to comply with the obligations required by his wicked calling. The lady had a servant of hers hand over the eighty escudos that were assessed, and the captains gave their sixty.
The pilgrims were going to tender their pittance, but Roque told them to stay still, and turning toward his men, said: “Of these escudos, two will be given to each one of you, and that leaves twenty left over. Ten of them will be given to these pilgrims and the other ten will go to this good squire so that he’ll have something good to say about this adventure.”
They then brought Roque material to write with—which he always had at hand—and gave them passes addressed to the captains of his squadrons, and bade them farewell, leaving them all in admiration of his nobility, gallant demeanor, and unusual conduct, holding him to be more an Alexander the Great than a well-known thief.
One of the squires said in his Gascon/Catalan language: “This captain of ours is better suited to be a frade than a highwayman. If he wants to show how liberal he is from now on, let him do it with his own money, not ours.”
The unfortunate fellow didn’t speak so softly that Roque couldn’t hear, and he took out his sword and almost split the fellow’s head in two, saying: “This is the way I punish insolent and daring men.”
Everyone was stunned, and no one dared to say anything, such was the submission to his authority. Roque drew away and wrote a letter to a friend of his in Barcelona, advising him that the famous don Quixote de La Mancha—that knight errant about whom so many things were being said—was with him, and that he wanted him to know that he was the most amusing and the most intelligent man in the world, and that four days hence, which was the day of St. John the Baptist, he would lead him right to the beach of the city, in full armor, on Rocinante, his horse, and also Sancho on his donkey, and that he should let his friends the Niarros know, so that they could be entertained by them. Similarly, he didn’t want the Cadells, his enemies, to participate in this entertainment. He realized, though, that this would be impossible, since the crazy doings and shrewdness of don Quixote and the witticisms of Sancho Panza couldn’t fail to delight everyone. He sent this letter with one of his squires, who changed his outfit from that of a highwayman to that of a peasant, and delivered it in Barcelona to the person to whom it was addressed.