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By Root 708 0

them in those clothes, he could not control his laughter. The barber, in fact, agreed to everything the priest said, and as they traded disguises, the priest informed him how he should behave and the words he had to say to Don Quixote in order to move and oblige him to go away with him and leave the place he had chosen for his useless penance. The barber responded that he had no need of instruction and would do everything perfectly. He did not want to put on his disguise until they were near the place where they would find Don Quixote, and so he folded the garments, and the priest adjusted the beard, and they continued their journey, led by Sancho Panza, who recounted what had happened with the madman they had come across in the sierra, although he did hide the discovery of the traveling case and everything that was in it, for although he was a fool, the squire was somewhat greedy.

On the following day, they reached the place where Sancho had made the trail of broom so that he could find the spot where he had left his master; and when he saw this, he said that this was the way into the mountains and they ought to put on their disguises if that was needed to achieve his master’s freedom; they had told him earlier that doing what they were doing and dressing in that fashion were crucial to freeing his master from the injudicious life he had chosen, and they had charged him repeatedly that he was not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew them; if his master asked, as he was bound to ask, if he had given the letter to Dulcinea, he was to say yes, and because she did not know how to read she had spoken her reply, saying that she ordered him, under pain of her displeasure, to come to see her immediately, and it was very important because with this, and what they intended to say to him, they were certain they could turn him to a better life and set him on the road to becoming an emperor or a monarch; as for becoming an archbishop, there was no reason to worry about that.

Sancho listened to everything, and noted it carefully in his mind, and thanked them profusely for their intention to advise his master to be an emperor and not an archbishop, because in his opinion, as far as granting favors to their squires was concerned, emperors could do more than archbishops errant. He also said it would be a good idea if he went first and found his master and told him his lady’s reply, for that would probably be enough to make him leave the place, saving them a good deal of trouble. What Sancho said seemed reasonable, and they decided to wait until he came back with the news that he had found his master.

Sancho entered the ravines of the sierra, leaving the priest and barber in one where a small, gentle stream ran in the cool, pleasant shade cast by other rocky crags and the trees that grew all around. They had come there on a day in August, and the heat was intense, particularly in that area; the time was three in the afternoon, making the spot even more pleasant, and inviting them to wait until Sancho returned, which is what they did.

While the two men were resting in the shade, a voice unaccompanied by the music of any other instrument reached their ears, and it sounded so sweet and delicate that they were more than a little taken aback, for the place did not seem the kind where there would be anyone who could sing so well. Although it is often said that in the forests and fields one can find shepherds with extremely fine voices, these are more the exaggerations of poets than the truth; they were especially surprised when they realized that they were hearing the verses not of rustic shepherds but of learned courtiers. And in confirmation of this truth, these were the verses they heard:

Who makes all my joy to wane?

Disdain.

And who prolongs this misery?

Jealousy.

And who assails and tears my patience?

Absence.

And therefore, in my deep-felt sorrow,

I see no cure on the morrow,

for I am killed by hope in vain,

absence, jealousy, and disdain.

Who causes me to sigh and grieve?

Love.

And who deems glory’s not my