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incise there and impress there all you will;

your will, I swear, shall be my eternal rule.

With an Oh! torn, apparently, from the very depths of his heart, the Knight of the Wood ended his song, and then, a short while later, in a sad and sorrowful voice, he said:

“O most beautiful and ungrateful woman in the world! How can you, most serene Casildea of Vandalia, allow this your captive knight to be consumed and to perish in continual wanderings and harsh and rigorous labors? Is it not enough that I have obliged all the knights of Navarra, León, Andalucía, Castilla, and La Mancha to confess that you are the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“Oh no,” said Don Quixote, “for I am from La Mancha, and I have confessed no such thing, and I could not and ought not confess anything so prejudicial to the beauty of my lady; now you can see, Sancho, that this knight is talking nonsense. But let us listen: perhaps he will say more about himself.”

“He’s bound to,” replied Sancho, “because he seems ready to complain for a month without stopping.”

But that did not happen, because the Knight of the Wood, hearing voices speaking nearby, lamented no further but rose to his feet and said in a loud but courteous voice:

“Who is it? Who are you? Do you count yourself among the contented or the afflicted?”

“The afflicted,” responded Don Quixote.

“Then approach,” responded the Knight of the Wood, “and you shall realize that you are approaching sorrow and affliction personified.”

Don Quixote, seeing that his reply was gentle and courteous, approached him, and Sancho did the same.

The lamenting knight grasped Don Quixote’s arm, saying:

“Sit here, Señor Knight; for me to understand that you are a knight, and one who professes knight errantry, it is enough to find you in this place, where solitude and the night dews are your companions, the natural couches and proper lodgings of knights errant.”

To which Don Quixote responded:

“I am a knight, of the profession you say, and though sorrow, sadness, and misfortune have their own places in my soul, this does not mean that the compassion I feel for other people’s afflictions has fled. I gathered from what you sang a little while ago that your woes are amorous, I mean, the result of the love you have for that beautiful ingrate you named in your lamentations.”

During this conversation they sat together on the hard ground, in peace and good fellowship, as if at break of day they would not need to break each other’s heads.

“By any chance, Señor Knight,” the Knight of the Wood asked Don Quixote, “are you in love?”

“Unfortunately I am,” responded Don Quixote, “although the adversities born of well-placed thoughts should be considered mercies rather than misfortunes.”

“That is true,” said the Knight of the Wood, “if too much disdain does not confound our reason and understanding and begin to resemble revenge.”

“I never was disdained by my lady,” responded Don Quixote.

“No, of course not,” said Sancho, who was close to them, “because my lady is as meek as a lamb: she’s as soft as butter.”

“Is this your squire?” asked the Knight of the Wood.

“Yes, it is,” responded Don Quixote.

“I have never seen a squire,” replied the Knight of the Wood, “who would dare speak when his master was speaking: at least, there stands mine, as big as his father, and no one can prove he has even moved his lips while I am speaking.”

“Well, by my faith,” said Sancho, “I have spoken, and can speak, in front of any…enough said, we’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”

The squire of the Knight of the Wood took Sancho by the arm and said:

“Let’s go where we can talk in a squirely way about anything we like, and leave these master gentlemen of ours to argue and tell each other stories about their loves; I’ll bet they’re still at it at dawn, and no closer to finishing.”

“All right, then,” said Sancho, “and I’ll tell your grace who I am, and then you can tell me whether or not I’m a match for any talkative squire.”

Saying this, the two squires moved away, and their conversation was as amusing as