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“Those that until now,” replied Don Quixote, “have been real, to my detriment, will, with the help of heaven, be turned to my benefit by my death. Señores, I feel that I am dying very rapidly; let us put all jokes aside, and bring me a confessor to hear my confession, and a scribe to write my will, for at critical moments like these a man cannot play games with his soul; and so, while the priest hears my confession, I beg you to bring the scribe.”

They exchanged glances, astonished by Don Quixote’s words, and although they had their doubts, they tended to believe him; one of the signs that led them to think he really was dying was how easily he had moved from madness to sanity, because to the words already cited he added many others that were so well-spoken, so Christian, and so reasonable that their doubts were completely dispelled and they believed he was sane.

The priest had everyone leave, and was alone with him, and heard his confession.

The bachelor went for the scribe and returned a short time later with him and with Sancho Panza, and Sancho—who had already been told by the bachelor about his master’s condition—found the housekeeper and the niece weeping, and he began to sob and shed tears. When the confession had ended the priest came out and said:

“Alonso Quixano the Good is truly dying, and he has truly recovered his reason; we ought to go in so that he can make his will.”

This news put terrible pressure on the already full eyes of his housekeeper, his niece, and his good squire, Sancho Panza, forcing tears from their eyes and a thousand deep sighs from their bosoms, because the truth is, as has already been said, that whether Don Quixote was simply Alonso Quixano the Good, or whether he was Don Quixote of La Mancha, he always had a gentle disposition and was kind in his treatment of others, and for this reason he was dearly loved not only by those in his household, but by everyone who knew him.

The scribe came in with the others, and after Don Quixote had completed the preface to the will and tended to his soul with all the Christian particulars that are required, he came to the bequests and said:

“Item: it is my will that with regard to certain monies held by Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my squire, because between him and me there were certain accounts and debts and payments, and I do not want him held responsible for them, nor should any accounting be demanded of him, but if anything is left over after he has taken what I owe him, the remainder, which will not amount to much, should be his, and may it do him good; and if, when I was mad, I was party to giving him the governorship of the ínsula, now, when I am sane, if I could give him the governorship of a kingdom, I would, because the simplicity of his nature and the fidelity of his actions deserve it.”

And turning to Sancho, he said:

“Forgive me, my friend, for the opportunity I gave you to seem as mad as I, making you fall into the error into which I fell, thinking that there were and are knights errant in the world.”

“Oh!” responded Sancho, weeping. “Don’t die, Señor; your grace should take my advice and live for many years, because the greatest madness a man can commit in this life is to let himself die, just like that, without anybody killing him or any other hands ending his life except those of melancholy. Look, don’t be lazy, but get up from that bed and let’s go to the countryside dressed as shepherds, just like we arranged: maybe behind some bush we’ll find Señora Doña Dulcinea disenchanted, as pretty as you please. If you’re dying of sorrow over being defeated, blame me for that and say you were toppled because I didn’t tighten Rocinante’s cinches; besides, your grace must have seen in your books of chivalry that it’s a very common thing for one knight to topple another, and for the one who’s vanquished today to be the victor tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” said Sansón, “and our good Sancho Panza knows the truth of these cases.”

“Señores,” said Don Quixote,