"'And if that may not be,' said the wretched Durandarte in a low andfeeble voice, 'if that may not be, then, my cousin, I say "patienceand shuffle;"' and turning over on his side, he relapsed into hisformer silence without uttering another word.
"And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompaniedby deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystalwall I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two linesof fair damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans ofTurkish fashion on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, therecame a lady, for so from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad inblack, with a white veil so long and ample that it swept the ground.Her turban was twice as large as the largest of any of the others; hereyebrows met, her nose was rather flat, her mouth was large but withruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at times she allowed a glimpse,were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as white as peeled almonds.She carried in her hands a fine cloth, and in it, as well as I couldmake out, a heart that had been mummied, so parched and dried wasit. Montesinos told me that all those forming the procession werethe attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted therewith their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried theheart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her damsels,four days in the week went in procession singing, or rather weeping,dirges over the body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that ifshe appeared to me somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as famereported her, it was because of the bad nights and worse days that shepassed in that enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circlesround her eyes, and her sickly complexion; 'her sallowness, and therings round her eyes,' said he, 'are not caused by the periodicalailment usual with women, for it is many months and even years sinceshe has had any, but by the grief her own heart suffers because ofthat which she holds in her hand perpetually, and which recalls andbrings back to her memory the sad fate of her lost lover; were itnot for this, hardly would the great Dulcinea del Toboso, socelebrated in all these parts, and even in the world, come up to herfor beauty, grace, and gaiety.'
"'Hold hard!' said I at this, 'tell your story as you ought, SenorDon Montesinos, for you know very well that all comparisons areodious, and there is no occasion to compare one person with another;the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady DonaBelerma is what she is and has been, and that's enough.' To which hemade answer, 'Forgive me, Senor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong andspoke unadvisedly in saying that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely comeup to the lady Belerma; for it were enough for me to have learned,by what means I know not, that youare her knight, to make me bite mytongue out before I compared her to anything save heaven itself.'After this apology which the great Montesinos made me, my heartrecovered itself from the shock I had received in hearing my ladycompared with Belerma."
"Still I wonder," said Sancho, "that your worship did not get uponthe old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluckhis beard until you didn't leave a hair in it."
"Nay, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "it would not havebeen right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect tothe aged, even though they be not knights, but especially to those whoare, and who are enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as hebrought in the many other questions and answers we exchanged."
"I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote," remarked the cousinhere, "how it is that your worship, in such a short space of time asyou have been below there, could have seen so many things, and saidand answered so much."
"How long is it since I went down?" asked Don Quixote.
"Little better than an hour," replied Sancho.
"That cannot be," returned Don Quixote, "because night overtook mewhile I was there, and day came, and it was night again and dayagain three times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days inthose remote regions beyond our ken."
"My master must be right," replied Sancho; "for as everything thathas happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to us anhour would seem three days and nights there."
"That's it," said Don Quixote.
"And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor?" askedthe cousin.
"I never touched a morsel," answered Don Quixote, "nor did I feelhunger, or think of it."
"And do the enchanted eat?" said the cousin.
"They neither eat," said Don Quixote; "nor are they subject to thegreater excrements, though it is thought that their nails, beards, andhair grow."
"And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?" asked Sancho.
"Certainly not," replied Don Quixote; "at least, during thosethree days I was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did Ieither."
"The proverb, 'Tell me what company thou keepest and I'll tellthee what thou art,' is to the point here," said Sancho; "your worshipkeeps company with enchanted people that are always fasting andwatching; what wonder is it, then, that you neither eat nor sleepwhile you are with them? But forgive me, senor, if I say that of allthis you have told us now, may God take me- I was just going to saythe devil- if I believe a single particle."
"What!" said the cousin, "has Senor Don Quixote, then, been lying?Why, even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and puttogether such a host of lies."
"I don't believe my master lies," said Sancho.
"If not, what dost thou believe?" asked Don Quixote.
"I believe," replied Sancho, "that this Merlin, or thoseenchanters who enchanted the whole crew your worship says you sawand discoursed with down there, stuffed your imagination or yourmind with all this rigmarole you have been treating us to, and allthat is still to come."
"All that might be, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but it is not so,for everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes, andtouched with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you nowhow, among the countless other marvellous things Montesinos showedme （of which at leisure and at the proper time I will give thee anaccount in the course of our journey, for they would not be all inplace here）， he showed me three country girls who went skipping andcapering like goats over the pleasant fields there, and the instantI beheld them I knew one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, andthe other two those same country girls that were with her and thatwe spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I asked Montesinos if heknew them, and he told me he did not, but he thought they must be someenchanted ladies of distinction, for it was only a few days beforethat they had made their appearance in those meadows; but I was not tobe surprised at that, because there were a great many other ladiesthere of times past and present, enchanted in various strangeshapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and herdame Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he camefrom Britain."
When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to takeleave of his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the realtruth about the pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himselfhad been the enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made uphis mind at last that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of hiswits and stark mad, so he said to him, "It was an evil hour, a worseseason, and a sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, wentdown to the other world, and an unlucky moment when you met with SenorMontesinos, who has sent you back to us like this. You were wellenough here above in your full senses, such as God had given you,delivering maxims and giving advice at every turn, and not as youare now, talking the greatest nonsense that can be imagined."
"As I know thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I heed not thy words."
"Nor I your worship's," said Sancho, "whether you beat me or kill mefor those I have spoken, and will speak if you don't correct andmend your own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or bywhat did you recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her,what did you say, and what did she answer?"
"I recognised her," said Don Quixote, "by her wearing the samegarments she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her,but she did not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned herback on me and took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt couldnot have overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done sohad not Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as itwould be useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when itwould be necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover,that in course of time he would let me know how he and Belerma, andDurandarte, and all who were there, were to be disenchanted. But ofall I saw and observed down there, what gave me most pain was, thatwhile Montesinos was speaking to me, one of the two companions ofthe hapless Dulcinea approached me on one without my having seen hercoming, and with tears in her eyes said to me, in a low, agitatedvoice, 'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your worship's hands, andentreats you to do her the favour of letting her know how you are;and, being in great need, she also entreats your worship asearnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a dozenreals, or as much as you may have about you, on this new dimitypetticoat that I have here; and she promises to repay them veryspeedily.' I was amazed and taken aback by such a message, and turningto Senor Montesinos I asked him, 'Is it possible, Senor Montesinos,that persons of distinction under enchantment can be in need?' Towhich he replied, 'Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that which is calledneed is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters andreaches everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; and as thelady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and thepledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but togive them to her, for no doubt she must be in some great strait.' 'Iwill take no pledge of her,' I replied, 'nor yet can I give her whatshe asks, for all I have is four reals; which I gave （they werethose which thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in almsupon the poor I met along the road）， and I said, 'Tell yourmistress, my dear, that I am grieved to the heart because of herdistresses, and wish I was a Fucar to remedy them, and that I wouldhave her know that I cannot be, and ought not be, in health whiledeprived of the happiness of seeing her and enjoying her discreetconversation, and that I implore her as earnestly as I can, to allowherself to be seen and addressed by this her captive servant andforlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects it she willhear it announced that I have made an oath and vow after the fashionof that which the Marquis of Mantua made to avenge his nephew Baldwin,when he found him at the point of death in the heart of the mountains,which was, not to eat bread off a tablecloth, and other triflingmatters which he added, until he had avenged him; and I will makethe same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the earthmore thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamedthem, until I have disenchanted her.' 'All that and more, you owe mylady,' the damsel's answer to me, and taking the four reals, insteadof making me a curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full yardsinto the air."