The Red Romance Book

Both Rozinante and his master had fared so ill at the hands of the shepherds that they journeyed but slowly, and darkness fell without their having reached an inn, or even caught sight of one. This grieved sorely both knight and squire, for not only did all Don Quixote’s bones ache from the stoning he had undergone, but somehow or other their wallets had been also lost, and it was many hours since they had broken their fast.

In this plight they travelled, man and beast hanging their heads with fatigue, when they saw on the road, coming towards them, a great multitude of lights, bobbing up and down, as if all the stars of heaven were shifting their places. Neither Don Quixote nor Sancho felt much at their ease at this strange spectacle, and both pulled up their beasts, and waited trembling. Even Don Quixote feared he knew not what, and the hair stood up on his head, in spite of his valour, as he said to Sancho:

‘There lies before me, Sancho, a great and perilous adventure, and one in which I must bear a stout heart.’

‘It seems to be an adventure of phantoms,’ whispered Sancho fearfully, ‘which never was to my liking.’

‘Whatever phantoms they be,’ answered the knight, ‘they shall not touch a hair of your head,’ replied Don Quixote soothingly. ‘If they mocked at you in the inn, it was for reason that I could not leap the fence. But here, where the ground is open, I can lay about me as I will.’

‘And what if they bewitch you, as they did that other time?’ asked the squire. ‘How much will the open ground profit you then’?

‘Trust to me,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘for my experience is greater than yours’; and Sancho said no more.

They stood a little on one side watching the lights approaching, and soon they saw a host of men clad in white riding along the road. The squire’s teeth chattered at the sight of them, and his terror increased when he was able to make out that the moving stars were flaming torches which men in white shirts carried in their hands, and that behind them followed a litter draped in black. After the litter came six other men dressed in black and mounted on mules. And Sancho had no doubt that he saw before him shadows from the next world.

Though Don Quixote’s heart quailed for a moment at the strangeness of the vision, he soon recalled his valour. In an instant his fancy had changed the litter into a bier, and the occupant into a knight who had been done to death by foul means, and whom he was bound in honour to avenge. So he moved forward to the middle of the road, and cried in a loud voice:

‘Proud knights, whoever you may be, stand and give me account of yourselves, and tell me who it is that lies in that bier. For either you have done an ill deed to some man, or else a wrong has been done to you.’

‘Pardon me, fair sir,’ answered the foremost of the white-shirted men, ‘but we are in haste, and the inn is far. We have no time for parleying.’

This reply only confirmed Don Quixote’s worst suspicions.

‘Stop, or you are a dead man,’ cried he in tones of thunder. ‘Tell me who you are and whither you are going, or else I will fight you all’; and with that he seized the mule by the bridle. The mule, not being used to such rough treatment, reared herself up on her hind legs, so that her rider slipped off her back. At this sight one of the other men ran to his aid, calling the knight all the ill names he could think of, which so inflamed the anger of Don Quixote that he laid about him with his spear on every side. Even Rozinante seemed to have gotten a new spirit as well as a new body, for he turned him about so nimbly that soon the plain was covered with flying white men, still holding the bobbing torches. The mourners who rode behind did not escape so easily, for their long skirts and cloaks hindered them from moving, and Don Quixote struck and beat them just as he would, till they took him to be a giant or enchanter rather than a man.

Sancho, as was his custom, bore no part in the fray, but stood by and said to himself: ‘Had ever any man such a master!’

When Don Quixote’s rage was somewhat abated, he paused and gazed about him. Then, seeing a burning torch lying on the ground, and a figure near it, he went up, and perceived by the light that it was the man whom he had first attacked.

‘Yield, or I will slay you!’ he shouted, and the man answered grimly:

‘I seem to have “yielded” as much as can be required of me, as my leg is broken. If you are indeed a Christian knight, I pray you of your nobility to spare my life, as I am a member of the Holy Church.’

‘Who brought you here, then?’ asked Don Quixote.

‘Who? My ill fortune,’ replied he. ‘I and the eleven priests who have fled with the torches set forth as escort to the body of the gentleman that lies in the litter, bearing it to its tomb in the city of Segovia, where he was born.’

‘And who killed him?’ said Don Quixote, who never imagined that any man could die naturally.

‘He died by reason of a most pestilent fever,’ answered the wounded man.

‘Then,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I am delivered from the duty of avenging his death, which would otherwise have fallen to me. For in case you are ignorant, I would have you know that I am the knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and it is my place to wander through the world, helping those that suffer wrongs and punishing those who inflict them.’

‘As to helping those who suffer wrongs,’ replied the churchman, ‘for my part I can see nothing but that it is you and no other who have inflicted the wrong upon me. For whereas I was whole before, you have given me a thrust which has broken my leg, and I shall remain injured for ever.’

‘You and your friends the priests,’ answered Don Quixote, in no wise abashed by this remark, ‘have wrought the evil yourselves by coming in such wise, and by night, that no man could think but that you were ill creatures from another world.’

‘Then, if you repent you of the wrong that you have done me,’ said the man, ‘I pray you, worshipful knight, to deliver my leg from the bondage of this ass, who has my leg fastened between the stirrup and the saddle.’

The kind heart of Don Quixote was shocked at his thoughtlessness, and he answered quickly:

‘You should have told me of your pain before, or I might have talked on till to-morrow’; and he called to Sancho Panza, who was busily robbing the mule that carried the provisions. Hearing his master’s voice, Sancho left off with an ill grace, and, placing the bag of food on his own donkey, went to see what his master wanted.

Between them both they set the mule on its feet, and the man on its saddle. Don Quixote then put the torch in his hand and bade him ride after his companions, and not to forget to ask their pardon in his name for the wrong he had unconsciously done them.

‘And,’ added the squire, ‘if your friends should ask the name of this gentleman, who now craves their forgiveness, tell them that it is the famous Don Quixote, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance!’

THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO

The morning after the last adventure Don Quixote and his squire were riding along the road, when the knight saw in front of him a man on horseback, with something on his head which looked as if it were made of gold.

‘If my eyes do not deceive me,’ he said, turning to Sancho Panza, ‘here comes one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino.’

‘If I had your worship’s leave to speak,’ answered Sancho, who was by this time beginning to learn a little wisdom, ‘I could give many reasons to show that you are mistaken.’

‘How can I be mistaken?’ cried Don Quixote angrily. ‘Do not you see for yourself that a knight is coming towards us, mounted on a grey horse and with a golden helmet on his head?’

‘All that I can see,’ replied the squire, ‘is that the man is mounted on a grey donkey like my own, and he has on his head something that glitters.’

‘What you see,’ answered Don Quixote solemnly, ‘is the helmet of Mambrino.[1 - Mambrino was one of the Moorish kings, to whom the helmet belonged. He who wore it could not be wounded in battle.] Go, stand aside and let me deal with him, for without even speaking to him I will get possession of his helmet, for which my soul has always longed.’

Truth to tell, the real story of the helmet, for so Don Quixote took it to be, was very simple. A rich man who lived in a village only a few miles away had sent for the nearest barber to shave and bleed him. The man started, taking with him a brass basin, which he was accustomed to use, and, as a shower of rain soon came on, he put the basin on his head to save his hat, which was a new one. The ass, as Sancho Panza rightly said, was very like his own.

The good man was jogging comfortably along, thinking what he would like for supper, when suddenly he saw Don Quixote galloping towards him, head bent and lance in rest. As he drew near he cried loudly:

‘Defend yourself, or give me up the helmet, to which you have no right.’

The barber was so taken by surprise that for a moment he did nothing; then he had only just time to escape the lance thrust by sliding off his ass and running so swiftly over the plain that even the wind could scarcely overtake him. In his flight the basin fell from his head, to the great pleasure of Don Quixote, who bade his squire bring it to him.

‘The Unbeliever who wore this helmet first must have had indeed a large head,’ cried he, turning it over in his hands, seeking the vizor; ‘yet, even so, half of it is wanting.’

At this Sancho began to laugh, and his master asked him what he found to divert him so much.

‘I cannot but laugh when I think how large was the head of the Unbeliever,’ replied Sancho gravely, knowing that the knight did not love the mirth of other men. ‘But, to my mind, the helmet looks exactly like a barber’s basin.’

‘Listen to me,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘and I will tell you what has happened. By a strange accident this famous helmet must have fallen to the lot of someone who did not know the value of his prize. But, seeing it was pure gold, he melted half of it for his own uses, and the rest he made into a barber’s basin. Be sure that in the first village where I can meet with a skilled workman I will have it restored to its own shape again, and meanwhile I will wear it as it is, for half a helmet is better than none.’

‘And what,’ inquired Sancho, ‘shall we do with the grey horse that looks so like an ass? The beast is a good beast.’

‘Leave the ass or horse, whichever it pleases you to call it,’ replied the Don, ‘for no knight ever takes the steed of his foe, unless it is won in fair fight. And perchance, when we have ridden out of sight, its master will come back and seek for it.’

Sancho, however, was not overmuch pleased by this speech.

‘Truly the laws of chivalry are strict,’ he grumbled, ‘if they will not let a man change one donkey for another! And is it forbidden to change the pack-saddle also?’

‘Of that I am in doubt,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and until I have certain information on this point, if your need is great, you may take what you need.’

Sancho hardly expected such good fortune to befall him, and stripping the ass of his harness he speedily put it upon his own beast, and then laid out the dinner he had stolen from the sumpter mule for himself and his master.