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“Señora, let us sleep for the little bit of night we have left, and tomorrow, with God’s help, things will go well for us if I have any skill in such matters.”

After this they were silent, and a profound stillness fell over the inn; only the innkeeper’s daughter and her maid, Maritornes, were not asleep, for they, knowing the madness that afflicted Don Quixote, who was outside their window, armed, mounted, and on guard, decided to play a trick on him or, at least, to pass the time listening to his foolishness.

It so happened that in all the inn there was no window that opened onto the fields except for a narrow opening in a loft through which they pitched out straw. The two semi-maidens stood at this opening and saw that Don Quixote was on horseback, leaning on his lance, and from time to time heaving sighs so mournful and deep that each one seemed to break his heart in two, and saying in a gentle, tender, and loving voice:

“Oh, Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, pinnacle of all beauty, summit and crest of discernment, archive of grace and wit, depository of virtue, and, finally, ideal of all goodness, modesty, and joy in the world! What can thy grace be doing now? Can thy thoughts be turned to thy captive knight, who hath willingly faced so many dangers for the sake of serving thee? Oh, giveth me news of her, thou three-faced luminary! Perhaps with envy of her brilliance thou art looking at her now, or perhaps she strolleth along a gallery in one of her sumptuous palaces, or leaneth against a balustrade and considereth how, while protecting her modesty and greatness, she canst soften the anguish that this my heart suffereth for her sake, and reward my grief with glory, and lighten my care, and, finally, grant life to my death and recompense for my services. And thou, O sun, who even now must be making haste to saddle thy steeds, and climb the heavens, and see my lady, I pray thee when thou seest her to greet her on my behalf, but be thou certain not to kiss her face when thou seest and greetest her, for then I shall be more envious of thee than thou wert of that fleet ingrate who madest thee to perspire and race across the plains of Thessaly or along the banks of the Peneus, for I do not remember precisely where thou rannest then so envious and enamored.”3

Don Quixote had reached this point in his piteous lament when the innkeeper’s daughter began to attract his attention by saying, “Psst, psst,” and calling to him:

“Señor, please come here, if your grace doesn’t mind.”

Don Quixote heard her voice, turned his head, and saw by the light of the moon, which was then at its brightest, that he was being called from the loft opening that to him seemed a window with grillework of gold, as befits luxurious castles, which is what he imagined the inn to be; then, in an instant, it seemed to him in his mad imagination that once again, as she had in the past, the beauteous damsel, daughter to the chatelaine of that castle, had been overcome by love for him and was soliciting his favors; with this thought in mind, and not wishing to seem discourteous and ungrateful, he pulled on Rocinante’s reins and rode to the opening, and when he saw the two young women, he said:

“I am sorely grieved, beauteous lady, that thou hast turned thy amorous thoughts to a place where there is no possibility that they will be returned as thy great worth and nobility deserve; for this thou should’st not blame a wretched knight errant whom love preventeth from giving his heart to any but the one who, when his eyes first saweth her, became the absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, good lady, and withdraw to thy chamber, and revealest thou no more of thy desires to me so that I may not appear even more ungrateful; if, in the love thou hast for me, thou findest aught else in me that is not love itself but can make thee content, asketh it of me, for I swear to thee by that sweet and absent enemy of mine that I shall grant it without delay, e’en if thou asketh a lock of the hair of Medusa, which is nought but vipers, or the rays