Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing. An occational stew, beef more often than lamb, hash most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, sometimes squab as a treat on Sundays- these consumed three-fourths of his income. The rest went for a light woolen tunic and velvet breeches and hose of the same materal for feast days, which weekdays were honored with dun-colored coarse cloth. He had a housekeeper past forty, a niece not yet twenty, and man-of-all-work who did everything from saddling the horse to pruning the trees. Our gentleman was approximately fifty years old; his complexion was weathered, his flesh scrawny, his face gaunt, and he was a very early riser and a great lover of the hunt. Some claim that his family name was Quixada, or Quexada, for there is a certain amount of disagreement among the authors who write of this matter, althought reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name was Quexana.

At a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to remember, there lived a little while agoone fo those gentlemen who are wont to keep a lance in the rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, and a swift greyhound. His stew had more beef than mutton in it and most nights he ate a hodgepodge, pickled and cold. Lentil soup on Fridays, "tripe and trouble" on Saturdays, and an occasional pigeon as an extra delicacy on Sundays consumed three quarters of his income. The remainder was spent on a jerkin of fine puce, velvet breeches, and slippers of the sname stuff for holidays, and a suit of good, honest homespun for weekdays. His family consisted of a housekeeper about fourty, a niece not yet twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at home and could saddle the horse or use the pruning knife. Our gentleman was about fifty years of age, of a sturdy constitution, but wizened and gaunt-featured, an early riser and a devotee of the chase. They say that his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for on this point the authors who have written on this subject differ), but we may reasonably conjecture that his name was Quixana.

Down in a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to recollect, there lived, not long ago, one of those gentlemen who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean stallion, and a coursing greyhound. Soup, composed of somewhat more mutton than beef, the fragments served up cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, eggs and collops on Saturdays, and pigeon, by way of addition, on Sundays, consumed three quarters of his income; the remainder of it supplied him with with a cloak of fine cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for holidays, and a suit of the best homespun, in which he adorned himself on week-days. His family consisted of a housekeeper above forty, a niece not quite twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at home, who could saddle the horse or handle the pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years; he was of strong constution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and a lover of the chase.

In a village in La Mancha, the name of which I cannot quite recall, there lived not long ago one of those country gentlemen or hildalgos who keep a lance in a rack, an ancient leather shield, a scrawny hack and a greyhound for coursing. A midday stew with rather more shin of beef than leg of lamb, the leftovers for supper most nights, lardy eggs on Saturdays, lentil broth on Fridays and an occasional pigeon as a Sunday treat ate up three-quarters of his income. The rest went on a cape of black broadcloth, with breeches of velvet and slippers to match for holy days, and on weekdays he walked proudly in the finest homespun. He maintained a housekeeper the wrong side of forty, a niece the right sight of twenty and a jack of all trades who was good at saddling the nag as at plying the pruning shears. Our hidalgo himself was nearly fifty; he had a robust constitution, dried-up flesh and a withered face, and he was an early riser and a keen huntsman. His surname's said to have been Quixada, or Quesada (as if he were a jawbowne, or a cheesecake): concerning this detail there's some discrepancy among the authors who have written on the subject, although a credible conjecture does suggest he might have been a plaintive Quexana.

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I purposefully omit, there lived not long ago, one of those gentlemen, who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing. A dish of boiled meat, consisting of somewhat more beef than mutton, the fragments served up cold on most nights, an omelet on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a small pigeon by way of addition on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his income. The rest was laid out in a surtout of fine black cloth, a pair of velvet breeches for holidays, with slippers of the same; and on week-days he prided himself in the very best of his own homespun cloth. His family consisted of a housekeeper somewhat above forty, a niece not quite twenty, and a lad for the field and market, who both saddled the horse and handled the pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years. He was of a robust constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage; a very early riser, and a keen sportsman. It is said that his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for in this there is some difference amonng the authors who have written upon this subject), though by probable conjectures it may be gathered that he was called Quixana. But this is of little importance to our story; let it suffice that in relating we do not swerve a jot from the truth.

As they were talking, they saw thirty or forty of the windmills found in that countryside, and as soon as Don Quixote caught sight of them, he said to his squire:
"Good fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have desired, for there you see, friend Sancho Panza, thirty or more enormous giants with whom I intend to do battle and whose lives I intend to take, and with the spoils we shall begin to grow rich, for this is righteous warfar, and it is a great service to God to remove so evil a breed from the face of the earth."
"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
"Those you see over there," replied his master, "with the long arms;
somtimes they are almost two leagues long."
"Look, your grace," Sancho responded, "those things that appear over there aren't giants but windmills, and what looks like their arms are the sails that are turned by the wind and make the grindstone move."
"It seems clear to me," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not well versed in the matter adventures: these are giants; and if thou are afraid, move aside and start to pray whilst I enter with them in fierce and unequal combat."

Just then they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that rise from that plain, and no sooner did Don Quixote see them than he said to his squire: Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished. Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with them and slay them. With their spoils we shall begin to be rich, for this is a righteous war and the removal of so foul a brood from off the face of the earth is a service God will bless."
"What giants?" asked Sancho Panza.
"Those you see over there," replied his master, "with their long arms; some of them have well-nigh two leagues in length."
"Take care, sir," cried Sancho. "Those over there are not giants but windmills, and those things that seem to be arms are their sails, which when they are whirled around by the wind turn the millstone."
"It is clear," replied Don Quixote, "that you are not experienced in adventures. Those are giants, and if you are afraid, turn aside, and pray whilst I enter into fierce and enequal battle with them."

Engaged in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills, which are in that plain; and, as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire:
Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired: look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where thou mayest discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay, and with their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful war, and doing God good service to remove so wicked a generation from off the face of the earth."
"What giants," said Sancho Panza.
"Thos thou seest yonder," answered his master, "with their long arms; for some are wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues."
"Look, sir," answered Sancho, "those which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills; and what seem to be arms are the sails, which whirled about by the wind, make the mill-stone go."
It is very evident," answered Don Quixote, "that thou art not versed in the business of adventures: they are giants: and, if thou art afraid, get thee aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in fierce and unequal combat."

As he was saying this, they caught sight of thirty or forty windmills standing on the plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire: 'Fortune is directing our affairs even better than we could have wished: for you can see over there, good friend Sancho Panza, a place where stand thirty or more monstrous giants with whom I intend to fight a battle and whose lives I intend to take; and with the booty we shall begin to prosper. For just as this is a just war, and it is a great service to God to wipe such a wicked breed from the face of the earth.'

'What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
'Those giants that you can see over there," replied his master, 'with long arms: there are giants with arms almost six miles long.'
'Look you here,' Sancho retorted, 'those over there aren't giants, they're windmills, and what look to you like arms are sails—when the wind turns them they make the millstones go round.'
'It is perfectly clear," replied Don Quixote, 'that you are but a raw novice in this matter of adventures. They are giants; and if you are frightened, you can take yourself away and say your prayers while I engage them in fierce and arduous combat.'

As they were thus discoursing, they perceived some thirty or forty windmills that are in that plain; and as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire: 'Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired; look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where you may discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, with whom I intend to fight, and take away all their lives: with whose spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is a lawful war, and doing God good service to take away so wicked a generation from the face of the earth.'
'What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
'Those you see yonder," answered his master, 'with those long arms; for some of them are wont to have them almost the length of two leagues.'
'Consider, Sir,' answered Sancho, 'that those which appear yonder, are not giants, but windmills; and what seem to be arms are the sails, which, whirled by the wind, make the millstone go.'
'One may easily see," answered Don Quixote, 'that you are not versed in the business of adventures: they are giants; and if you are afraid, get aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in a fierce and unequal combat.'

"The order will be written in the same notebook, and it will be signed, and when my niece sees it, there will be no difficulty putting it into effect. As for the love letter, as a signature you will have them put: 'Thine until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Face.' And it will not matter if it is written in another's hand, because, if I remember correctly, Dulcinea does not know how to read or write, and never in her life has she seen my wrting or a letter of mine, because my love and her love have always been platonic, not going beyond a virtuous glance. And even this was so infrequent that I could never truly swear that in the twelve years I have loved her more than the light of these eyes that will be consumed by the earth, I have not seen her more than four times; and it well may be that with regard to these four times, she might not have noticed the one time I looked at her; such is the retirement and seclusion in which her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales, have reared her."
"Well, well,! said Sancho, "Are you saying that Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo, is the lady Dulcinea of Toboso?"
"She is," said Don Quixote, "and she is worthy of being lady and mistress of the entire universe."
"I know her very well," said Sancho, "and I can say that she can throw a metal bar just as well as the brawniest lad in the village. Praise our Maker, she's a fine girl in every, sturdy as a horse, and just the one to pull any knight errant or about to be errant, who has her for his lady, right out of any mudhole he's fallen into! Damn, but she's strong! And what a voice she has!"

"The order for the foals will be signed in the diary," said Don Quixote, "and when my niece sees it, she'll make no difficulty in executing it. As for the love letter, you must end it thus: 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Figure.' It does not matter if it is written in a strange hand, for as far as I can remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write nor has she ever seen my handwriting. For our love for each other has always been of the platonic kind, never going beyond an occasional modest glance at each other; and even that was so rare that I can truly swear that during the twelve years I have loved her more than the light of these eyes of mine, which the earth must one day consume, I have not seen her more than four times. In fact, I even doubt if she ever noticed me gazing at her--such was the reserve and seclusion in which her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales, brought her up."
"Oho!" cried Sancho. "The daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! Is she Lady Dulcinea of El Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?"
"That she is," said Don Quixote, "and she deserves to be mistress of the universe."
I know her well," said Sancho, "and I assure you she can pitch the iron bar as well as the strongest lad in our village. God save us! Why, she's a lusty lass, tall and straight, with hair on her chest, who can pull the chestnuts out of the fire for any knight-errant now or to come who has her for his lady. God, what a woman she is!"

"The order shall be signed in the same pocket-book; and at sight of it my niece will make no difficulty in complying with it. As so the love-letter, let it be subscribed thus, 'Yours, until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.' And it is of little importance whether it be written in another hand; for I remember Dulcinea can neither write nor read, nor has she ever seen a letter or writing of mine in her whole life; for our loves have always been of a Platonic kind, extending no farther than to modest glances at each other; and even those so very rarely that I can truly swear that, during the twelve years that I have loved her more than the light of these eyes, which the earth must one day consume, I have not seen her four times; and perhaps of these four times she may not have once perceived that I looked upon her--such is the reserve and seclusion in which she is brought up by her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales!"
"Hey day!" quoth Sancho, "what, the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! Is she the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?" "It is even she," said Don Quixote, "and she deserves to be mistress of the universe."
"I know her well," quoth Sancho; "and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in the parish. Long live the giver! why, she is a lass of mettle, tall, straight, and vigorous, and I warrant can make her part good with any knight-errant that shall have her for a mistress. O, the jade, what a pair of lungs and a voice she has!

'The warrant will be signed in the notebook, and when my niece sees it she will not raise any objections about complying with it. And as regards the love-letter, you will have it signed: "Yours until death, The Knight of the Sorry Face." It will matter little that it is signed in another hand, because as far as I remember Dulcinea cannot read or write, and she has never seen a letter written by me, because the love between us has always been platonic, never going beyond a modest glance. And even this has been so occasional that I can truly swear that, in the twelve years I have loved her more than the light of these eyes that the earth will one day devour, I have not seen her as many as four times; and it is possible that on those four occations she has not even once noticed that I was looking at her, such is the reserve and seclusion in which her father Lorenzo Chorchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.'
'Oho!' said Sancho. 'So Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter is the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo, is she?' 'She is,' said Don Quixote, 'and she it is who deserves to be the mistress of the entire universe.'
'I know her well,' said Sancho, 'and let me tell you she pitches a bar as far as the strongest lad in all the village. Good God, she's a lusty lass all right, hale and hearty, strong as an ox, and any knight errant who has her as his lady now or in the future can count on her to pull him out of the mire! The little baggage, what muscles she's got on her, and what a voice!'

"The warrant shall be signed in the same pocket-book; and at sight of it my niece will make no difficulty to comply with it. As to what concerns the love-letter, let it be subscribed thus: 'Yours, until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure'. And it is no great matter if it be in another hand; for, by what I remember, Dulcinea can neither write nor read, nor has she ever seen a letter or writing of mine in her whole life; for our loves have always been of the Platonic kind, extending no farther than to modest looks at one another; and even those so very rarely, that I dare truly swear, in twelve years that I have loved her more than the sight of these eyes, which the earth must one day devour, I have not seen her four times; and perhaps of those four times she may not have once perceived that I looked at her. Such is the reserve and strictness with which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.'
'Hey day!' quoth Sancho, 'what, the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! is she the lady Dulcinea del Tobosos, alias Aldonza Lorenzo?' 'It is even she' said Don Quixote; 'and she who deserves to be mistress of the universe.'
'I know her well,' quoth Sancho; 'and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in the parish: Long live the giver; why, she is a mettled lass, tall, straight, and vigorous, and can make her part good with any knight-errant that shall have her for a mistress. O the jade! what a pair of lungs and a voice she has!'"

"Sancho my friend, night is coming on more hurriedly and more darkly than we require if we are to see Toboso at dawn, for I am determined to go there before I embark on another adventure, and there I shall receive the blessing and approval of the peerless Dulcinea, and with this approval I believe and am certain that I shall finish and bring to a happy conclusion every dangerous aventure, for nothing in this life makes kinghts errant more valiant than finding themselves favored by their ladies."

I believe that, too," responded Sancho, "but I think it will be difficult for your grace to talk to her or be with her, at least any place where you can receive her blessing, unless she throws it down to you from the fence around the corral where I saw her the first time, when I brought her the letter with news of the foolish and crazy things your grace wa doing in the heart of the Sierra Morena."

"Did you imagine they were corral fences, Sancho," said Don Qixote, "which you looked through or over in order to see that never sufficiently praised elegance and beauty? Surely they were galleries, or passageways, or porticoes, or whatever they are called, of rich and regal palaces."

Don Quixote said to him: 'Sancho, my friend, night is coming on and we shall be unable to reach El Tobos by daylight, for there I am determined to go before I undertake any other kind of adventure and ther I shall receive the blessing and the kind permission of the peerless Dulcinea. When she gives it to me, I feel sure that I bring to a fortunate conclusion every perilous enterprise, for nothing in this life makes knights-errant more valiant than finding themselves favored by their ladies."

"So I believe," replied Sancho, "but I think it will be difficult for your worship to speak with her or see her, much less to receive her blessing, unless she flings it over the wall of the stable yard where I saw her the first time when I took the letter that told the news of the mad follies your worship was doing in the Sierra Morena."

"Did you really think those were stable-yard walls, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where you saw that never-sufficiently celebrated grace and beauty? They must have been the galleries, corridors, or porticoes, or whatever they call them, of some rich and royal palace."

 

"Friend Sancho," said Don Quixote to his squire, "the night comes on apace, and it will be dark before we reach Toboso, whither I am resolved to go before I undertake any other adventure. There will I receive the farewell benediction of the peerless Dulcinea, by which I shall secure the happy accomplishment of every perilous enterprise: for nothing in this life inspires a knight-errant with so much valour as the favour of his mistress."
"I believe it," answered Sancho; "but I am of the opinion it will be difficult for your worship to speak with her alone--at least, in any place where you may receive her benediction; unless she tosses it over the pales of the yard where I saw her last, when I carried her the letter that gave an account of the pranks your worship was playing on the mountain." "Didst thou conceive those to be pales, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote,"Over which thou didst behold that paragon of gentility and beauty? Impossible! Thou must mean galleries, arcades, or cloisters, of some rich and royal palace."

'Sancho, my friend, night is coming on faster and darker than suits our plans if we are to reach El Toboso by daybreak, and that is where I have resolved to go before embarking on any more adventures, to receive a blessing and gracious leave from the peerless Dulcinea, for with this here leave I intend to, and indeed consider it certain that I shall, bring any perilous adventure to a happy conclusion; because nothing in this life makes knights errant more courageous than being favoured by their ladies.'
'That's what I think, too,' replied Sancho, 'but you might find it hard to talk to her or see her, anywhere at least where she can give you her blessing, unless she lets you have it over the yard wall, where I saw her the first time, when I took her the letter about the antics and mad deeds I left you doing in the heart of the Sierra Morena.'
'Did you imagine that it was a yard wall, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'where or over which you saw her never sufficiently praised grace and beauty? No, it must have been balconies or galleries or porticos, or whatever it is that they are called, of splending regal chambers.'

"'Friend Sancho, the night is coming on apace, and with too much darkness for us to reach Toboso by daylight; whither I am resolved to go, before I undertake any other adventures: there will I receive the blessing and good leave of the peerless Dulcinea, with which leave I am well assured of finishing, and giving a happy conclusion to every perilous adventure; for nothing in this world inspires knights-errant with so much valour, as the finding themselves favoured by their mistresses.'
'I believe it,' answered Sancho; 'but I am of opinion, it will be difficult for your worship to come to the speech of her, or be alone with her, at least in any place where you may receive her benediction, unless she tosses it over the pales of the yard; from whence I saw her the time before, when I carried her the letter, with the news of the follies and extravagances your worship was playing in the heart of the Sierra Morena.'
'Pales did you fancy them to be, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'over which you saw that paragon of gentility and beauty? impossible! you must mean galleries, arcades, or cloisters of some rich and royal palace.'"

...sudenly, from a gallery that was directly above Don Quixote's jalousied window, a cord was lowered with more than a hundred cowbells attatched to it, and immediately after that a huge sack full of cats, with smaller bells tied to their tails, was emptied out. The clanging of the bells and the yowling of the cats was so loud that even though the duke and dutchess had contrived the joke, it still startled them, and Don Quixote was struck dumb with fear. As luck would have it, two or three of the cats came in the window of his room, and as they raced from one side to the other, it seemed as if a legion of devils had been set loose in the chamber. They made the candles that were burning in the room go out as they looked for a means of escape. The raising and lowering of the cord with the large cowbells on it did not stop; most of the people in the castle, who did not know the truth of what had happened, were amazed and astonished.

Don Quixote rose to his feet, took his sword in hand, and begain to thrust it through the jalousy, shouting:

"Away, evil enchanters! Away, base wizards! For I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, against whom your wicked intentions are powerless and of little use!"

And turning to the cats that were racing around the room, he directed many thrusts against them; they ran to the window and went out, although one of them, finding himself so hounded by Don Quixote's sword thrusts, leaped at his face and sank his claws and teeth into his nose, and the pain was so great that Don Quixote began to shout as loudly as he could.

Immediately after that, a huge sackful of cats, all with smaller bells tied to their tales, was emptied out of the window. The jingling of the bells and the meowing of the cats made such a deafening din that the duke and duchess, though they had been the inventors fo the jest, were scared. Don Quixote himself was panic-stricken. Unluckily two or three cats leaped in through the bars of his window and darted up and down the room as if a whole legion of devils had been flying to or fro. In a moment they put out the candlelights in their frantic efforts to escape from the chamber. Meanwhile the rope with the bigger bells kept ceaselessly bobbing up and down, scaring the majority of those who were not in the secret of the plot. Don Quixote then jumped up, and seizing his sword, he began to fence about him and to make thrusts at the window, shouting: "Out, malicious enchanters! Away hoggish scum! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, against whom your vile intentions are of no avail." Then, turning his attention to the cats that were scampering up and down the room, he laid about him furiously as they made desperate attempts to get out of the window. At last, they made their escape, all but one of them, which, finding itself hard pressed by Don Quixote, sprang at his face, and burying its claws and teeth in his nose, caused him such agonizing pain that he roared at the top of his voice.

...a rope was let down, to which above and hundred little tinkling bells were fastened; and immediately after, a huge sackful of cats, each furnished with similar bells, tied to their tails, was also let down to the window. The noise made by these cats and bells was so great and strangethat the duke and duchess, though the inventors of the the jest, were alarmed, and Don Quixote himself was panic-struck. Two of three of the cats made their way into his room, where, scouring about from side to side, seemed as if a legion of devils had broken loose, and were flying about the room. They soon extinguished the lights in the chamber, and endeavoured to make their escape; in the mean time the rope to which the bells were fastened was playing its part, and added to the discord, insomuch that all those who were not in the secret of the plot were amazed and confounded. Don Quixote seized his sword, and made thrusts at the casement, crying aloud: "A vaunt, ye malicious enchanters! avaunt, ye wizard tribe! for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, against whom your wicked arts avail not." Then, assailing the cats in the room, they fled to the window, where they all escaped except one, which, being hard pressed by the knight, sprung at his face, and fixing his claws in his nose, made him roar so loud that the duke and dutchess, hearing and guessing the cause, ran up in haste to his chamber...

...a rope with more than a hundred goat-bells tied to it was let downl and then a great sackful of cats, with smaller bells tied to their tails, was emptied after it. The clanking of the goat-bells and the screeching of the cats made such a din that although the Duke and Dutchess had concocted the joke it scared even them; and Don Quixote was flabbergasted with fear. And as luck would have it, two or three of the cats scrambled in through the grille, and as they raced around the room it seemed as if a whole legion of devils was in there. They extinguished all the candles that were burning in the room as they charged about searching for a way out. The bell rope was being shaken up and down all the while; most of the people in the castle, who didn't know what was happening, were bemused and astonished.

Don Quixote sprang to his feet, drew his sword and began to make thrusts with it through the grille and to cry:

'Away with you, you evil enchanters! Away with you, you rabble of socerers; for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, against whom all your wicked aspirations are powerless, impotent!'

And turning to face the cats that were rushing to and fro in his room, he slashed at them again and again; they raced over to the grille and clambered out, but one of them, hard pressed by Don Quixote's sword, hurled itself at his face and clung on to his nose with its claws and its teeth, the pain of which made him cry out as loud as he could.

"...on a sudden, from an open gallery directly over Don Quixote's window, a rope was let down, to which above a hundred bells were fastened; and immediately after them was emptied a great sackful of cats, which had smaller bells tied to their tails. The noise of the jangling of the bells, and the mewing of the cats was so great, that the duke and duchess, though the inventors of the jest, were frightened thereat, and Don Quixote himself was in a panic: and fortune so ordered it, that two or three of the cats got in at the casement of his chamber, and scouring about from side to side, one would have thought a legion of devils was broke loose in it. They extinguished the lights that were burning in the chamber, and endeavoured to make their escape. The cord to which the bells were fastened was let down and pulled up incessantly. Most of the folks of the castle, who were not in the secret, were in suspense and astonishment.
Don Quixote got upon his feet; and, laying hold on his sword, he began to make thrusts at the casement, and cried out aloud: 'Avaunt, ye malicious enchanters! avaunt, ye rabble of wizards! for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, against whom your wicked arts are of no force nor effect.'
And, turning to the cats, who were running about the room, he gave several cuts at them. They took to the casement, and got out at it all but one, which, finding itself hard pressed by Don Quixote's slashing, flew at his face, and seized him by the nose with its claws and teeth; the pain whereof made him roar as loud as he was able."