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(a lie made true by the mere passage of time),

I am the prince of Magic, king and fount

of Zoroastrian science and lore,

and enemy to those ages and times

that attempt to conceal the gallant deeds

of the brave and courageous errant knights

whom I so dearly loved, and still do love.

Although the disposition of enchanters,

of mages and magicians always is

flinthearted, harsh, and ruthless, mine alone is tender, soft, and loving, wanting no more

than always to do good to everyone.

Down in the dark mournful caverns of Dis,3

where my soul passed endless time in giving shape

to certain forms, and characters, and rhomboids,

the melancholy voice of the beauteous

and peerless Dulcinea of Toboso

reached my ears. I learned of her enchantment,

her misfortune, her transformation from

highborn lady into a peasant girl;

my heart was moved, and I encased my spirit

in the shell of this fierce and fearsome skeleton,

and pored over a hundred thousand books

of my diabolic and vicious lore,

and come now with the remedy to cure

so grievous a sorrow, so great an ill.

O you, glory and honor of all who don

tunics of adamant steel and diamond,

light and lantern, pilot, polestar and guide

of those who abandon the languor of sleep,

their idle beds, to take up and profess

the unbearable burden and exercise

of blood-drenched and weighty arms, I say to you,

O famous knight, never sufficiently praised,

to you, both valiant and wise, O Don Quixote, the splendor of La Mancha and star of Spain,

that for the peerless lady Dulcinea

to regain and recover her first state,

your squire, Sancho, needs to give himself

three thousand and three hundred blows upon

both of his broad buttocks, robust and large, bared to the whip, and struck in such a way

that they turn red, and smart, and give him pain.

This is the decision of all the authors

of her misfortune, woe, and alteration, and for this I have come, my lords and ladies.”

“By my soul!” said Sancho. “I won’t talk about three thousand lashes, but I’d as soon give myself three as stab myself three times! To the devil with that kind of disenchanting! I don’t know what my backside has to do with enchantments! By God, if Señor Merlin hasn’t found any other way to disenchant Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, then she can go to her grave enchanted!”

“I shall take you,”4 said Don Quixote, “Don Peasant, you churl stuffed with garlic, and I shall tie you to a tree as naked as the day you were born, and I shall give you not three thousand and three hundred, but six thousand and six hundred lashes, and they will go so deep that they will not come off even if you pull them three thousand and three hundred times. And if you say a word to me, I shall tear out your soul.”

Hearing which, Merlin said:

“That cannot be, because the lashes our good Sancho is to receive must be by his own will and not by force, and he can take as long as he desires, for there is no fixed time limit; he is also permitted, if he wishes to save himself half the abuse of this whipping, to allow another’s hand, even if somewhat heavy, to lash him.”

“Not another’s, not mine, not heavy, not ready to be weighed,” replied Sancho. “No hand at all is going to touch me. Did I, by some chance, give birth to Señora Dulcinea of Toboso? Is that why my backside has to pay for the sins of her eyes? My master certainly is part of her, for he’s always calling her my life, my soul, his help and protection, so he can and ought to be lashed for her sake and take the steps he needs to in order to disenchant her, but me whipping myself? I renunce thee!”5

No sooner had Sancho said this than the silvered nymph who was next to the spirit of Merlin rose to her feet, removed the sheer veil, and revealed her face, which everyone thought was exceptionally beautiful, and with masculine self-assurance, and a voice not especially feminine, she spoke directly to Sancho Panza, saying:

“O ill-fated squire with your unfeeling soul, torpid heart, stony and flinty nature. If you were commanded, O shameless thief, to throw yourself