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Sancho Panza knew who they were and decided to hide the place and condition in which he had left his master, and so he replied that his master was busy somewhere with something that was very important to him, but by the eyes in his head he could not reveal what it was.

“No, no, Sancho Panza,” said the barber, “if you don’t tell us where he is, we’ll think, and we already do think, that you killed and robbed him, since you’re riding his horse. As a matter of fact, you’d better tell us where the horse’s owner is or you’ll regret it.”

“There’s no reason to threaten me, I’m not the kind of man who robs or kills anybody: let each man be killed by fate or by God who made him. My master is doing penance in the middle of those mountains, as happy as can be.”

And then, in a rush and without stopping, he told them of the state in which he had left him, and the adventures that had befallen him, and how he was carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea of Toboso, who was the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo and the one with whom his master was head over heels in love.

They were both astonished at what Sancho Panza told them, and although they already knew of the madness of Don Quixote, and knew what kind of madness it was, whenever they heard about it they were astonished all over again. They asked Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was carrying to the lady Dulcinea of Toboso. He said it was written in a notebook, and his master had ordered him to have it copied onto paper in the first town he came to; the priest replied that he should show it to him, and he would copy it in a very fine hand. Sancho Panza put his hand in the bosom of his shirt, looking for the notebook, but he did not find it and would not have found it if he had looked for it from then until now, because Don Quixote had kept it and had not given it to him, and he had not remembered to ask for it.

When Sancho saw that he could not find the book, his face turned deathly pale, and quickly patting down his entire body again, he saw again that he could not find it, and without further ado he put both hands to his beard and tore out half of it, and then, very quickly and without stopping, he punched himself half a dozen times on the face and nose until they were bathed in blood. Seeing which, the priest and the barber asked him what had happened to drive him to such lengths.

“What else could have happened,” responded Sancho, “except that from one moment to the next, in an instant, I’ve lost three donkeys, each one as sturdy as a castle?”

“How did that happen?” replied the barber.

“I’ve lost the notebook,” responded Sancho, “that had the letter to Dulcinea, and a document signed by her uncle that told his niece to give me three of the four or five donkeys he has at home.”

And he recounted the loss of the gray. The priest consoled him and told him that when they found his master, he would revalidate the order and write the transfer out on paper, as was the usual custom, since the ones written in notebooks were never accepted or executed.

This comforted Sancho, and he said that if this was true, he did not feel too bad about losing the letter to Dulcinea because he knew it almost by heart, and it could be copied wherever and whenever they wished.

“Then tell it to us, Sancho,” said the barber, “and we’ll copy it later.”

Sancho Panza stopped and scratched his head to bring the letter to mind, and he stood now on one foot, now on the other; sometimes he looked at the ground, sometimes at the sky, and after a very long while, when he had gnawed off half a fingertip, keeping those who were waiting for him to speak in suspense, he said:

“By God, Señor Licentiate, may the devil carry away what I remember of the letter, but at the beginning it did say: ‘High and sullied lady.’”

“It wouldn’t,” said the barber, “say sullied, but supreme or sovereign lady.”

“That’s right,” said Sancho. “Then, as I recall, it went on to say…as I recall: ‘This ignorant and sleepless and sore wounded man kisses the hands of your grace, ungrateful and