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Don Quixote spent more time speaking than it took to finish supper, but when it was concluded, one of the goatherds said:

“So that your grace, Señor Knight, can say even more truly that we welcomed you with a ready goodwill, we want to give you joy and pleasure by having a friend of ours sing for you; he’ll be here very soon; he’s a smart lad, and very much in love, and above all, he knows how to read and write and is so good a musician on the rebec2 that you couldn’t ask for anything better.”

No sooner had the goatherd said this than the sound of the rebec reached their ears, and a short while later the one playing it appeared, a good-looking boy no more than twenty-two years of age. His friends asked if he had eaten, and when he answered that he had, the one who had made the offer said:

“That means, Antonio, that you could do us the favor of singing a little, and this gentleman, our guest, can see that in the woods and forests we also have somebody who knows about music. We told him about your talents and we want you to show them and prove we told the truth, and so I ask you please to sit down and sing the ballad about your love that your uncle the vicar composed for you, the one the people in the village liked so much.”

“I’d be happy to,” the boy replied.

And without having to be asked a second time, he sat on the trunk of a fallen oak and, after tuning his rebec, with great charm he soon began to sing these words:

ANTONIO

I know, Olalla, that you adore me

though you haven’t told me so,

not even with your eyes,

in the silent language of love.

Since I know that you are clever,

that you love me I do claim;

for love was ne’er unrequited

if it has been proclaimed.

It is true that once or twice

Olalla, you’ve made it known

that your soul is made of bronze

and your white bosom of stone.

But hiding behind your reproaches

and your virtuous rebukes

hope may reveal a glimpse of

the hemmed edge of her cloak.

My faith is firm and steadfast,

its eager response ne’er wanes

because not called, ne’er waxes

because it has been chosen.

If love is courtesy, then

yours lets me conclude

that the outcome of my hopes

will be just as I assume.

And if service plays a part

in making a bosom kind,

then those that I have rendered

will help to sway your mind.

For if you think about it,

more than once have I worn

the same clothes on a Monday

that honored Sunday morn.

For love and finery

always walk hand in hand,

and in your eyes I wish

always to seem gallant.

Speak not of my dances for you,

the songs that I bestow

so late into the night

and before the rooster’s crow.

Speak not of my praises of you,

that I tell to all the world;

though they have earned for me

the displeasure of many a girl.

I was singing your praises,

and Teresa del Berrocal said:

“He thinks he adores an angel,

and he loves a monkey instead.

Thanks to all her trinkets,

her dyes and wigs and falls,

the god of Love is deceived

by beauty that is false.”

I said she lied; she grew angry;

her cousin came to her aid

and challenged me; you know

what he and I did and said.

I love no one but you, yet

I don’t court you sinfully;

though I beseech and woo you

there’s more virtue in my plea.

Mother Church has chains

whose links are made of silk;

I will join you there

if you bend your neck to the yoke.

If not, I make this vow

by the blessed saintly choir

not to leave these mountains

except as a Capuchin friar.

Here the goatherd ended his song, and although Don Quixote asked him to sing something else, Sancho Panza did not concur because he was readier for sleep than for hearing songs. And so he said to his master:

“Your grace ought to decide now where you’re going to spend the night; the work these good men do all day doesn’t allow them to spend their nights singing.”

“I understand you very well, Sancho,” Don Quixote responded. “It is clear to me that your visits to the wineskin ask to be repaid with sleep rather than music.”

“It tasted good to all of us, thanks be to God,” replied Sancho.

“I do