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“And so am I,” added the niece.

“Well, then,” said the housekeeper, “hand them over and into the corral with them.”

They handed them to her, and there were a good many of them, and she saved herself a trip down the stairs and tossed them all out the window.

“Who’s that big fellow?” asked the priest.

“This,” replied the barber, “is Don Olivante of Laura.”5

“The author of that book,” said the priest, “was the same one who composed Garden of Flowers, and the truth is I can’t decide which of the two is more true or, I should say, less false; all I can say is that this one goes to the corral, because it is silly and arrogant.”

“This next one is Felixmarte of Hyrcania,”6 said the barber.

“Is Sir Felixmarte there?” the priest responded. “Well, by my faith, into the corral with him quickly, despite his strange birth and resounding adventures, for the harshness and dryness of his style allow no other course of action. Into the corral with him and this other one, Señora Housekeeper.”

“With pleasure, Señor,” she replied, and with great joy she carried out her orders.

“This one is The Knight Platir,”7 said the barber.

“That’s an old book,” said the priest, “and I don’t find anything in it that would warrant forgiveness. Let it join the others, with no defense.”

And that is what happened. Another book was opened and they saw that its title was The Knight of the Cross.8

“Because of the holy name this book bears one might pardon its stupidity, but as the saying goes, ‘The devil can hide behind the cross.’ Into the fire.”

Picking up another book, the barber said:

“This is The Mirror of Chivalry.”9

“I already know his grace,” said the priest. “There you’ll find Reinaldos de Montalbán and his friends and companions, greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers along with that true historian Turpín,10 and the truth is I’m inclined to condemn them to no more than perpetual exile, if only because they contain part of the invention of the famous Matteo Boiardo, from which the cloth was woven by the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto,11 who, if I find him here, speaking in some language not his own, I will have no respect for him at all; but if he speaks in his own language, I bow down to him.”

“Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I don’t understand it.”

“There’s no reason you should,” replied the priest, “and here we would pardon the captain if he had not brought it to Spain and translated it into Castilian, for he took away a good deal of its original value, which is what all who attempt to translate books of poetry into another language will do as well: no matter the care they use and the skill they show, they will never achieve the quality the verses had in their first birth. In fact, I say that this book, and all those you find that deal with the matter of France, should be thrown into a dry well and kept there until we can agree on what should be done with them, except for a Bernardo del Carpio that’s out there, and another called Roncesvalles,12 for these, on reaching my hands, will pass into the housekeeper’s and then into the fire, with no chance of a pardon.”

All this the barber seconded, and thought it right and proper, for he understood that the priest was so good a Christian and so loved the truth that he would not speak a falsehood for anything in the world. And opening another book, he saw that it was Palmerín of the Olive,13 and with it was another called Palmerín of England, and seeing this, the priest said:

“The olive branch should be cut up immediately and burned until there’s nothing left but ashes, but the palm branch of England should be kept and preserved as something unique; a chest should be made for it like the one Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and which he designated for preserving the works of the poet Homer. This book, my friend, has authority for two reasons: one, because it is very good in and of itself, and two, because it is well-known that it was composed by a wise and prudent king of Portugal. All the adventures in the castle