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“This, Sancho, is undoubtedly an exceedingly great and dangerous adventure, in which it will be necessary for me to demonstrate all my valor and courage.”

“Woe is me!” Sancho responded. “If this adventure has anything to do with phantoms, which is how it’s looking to me, who has the ribs that can stand it?”

“Whether they are phantoms or not,” said Don Quixote, “I shall not permit any of them to touch even a thread of your garments, for if they had their fun with you the last time, it was because I could not get over the wall of the corral, but now we are in open country, where I shall be able to wield my sword as I choose.”

“And if they enchant you and stop you from moving the way they did the last time,” said Sancho, “what difference will it make if you’re in open country or not?”

“Despite everything,” replied Don Quixote, “I beg you, Sancho, to have courage, for experience will allow you to understand the extent of mine.”

“I will, may it please God,” responded Sancho.

And the two of them moved to the side of the road and began again to look closely to see what those traveling lights might be, and it was not long before they were able to make out a good number of shirted men,2 and at that fearful sight Sancho completely lost his courage, and his teeth began to chatter as if he had quartain fever, and the clatter of his teeth grew louder when they could make out clearly what this was, because they saw some twenty shirted men, all of them mounted and carrying burning torches in their hands, and behind them came a litter covered in mourning, followed by another six mounted men draped in mourning down to the hooves of their mules, for the calm gait made it clear that these were not horses. The shirted men were talking quietly among themselves in low, sorrowful voices. This strange vision, at that hour and in so deserted a place, was more than enough to instill fear in Sancho’s heart, and even in his master’s, and if that was true for Don Quixote, then Sancho had already lost whatever courage he had. But the opposite happened to his master, for in his vivid imagination this appeared to be another adventure from his books.

It seemed to him that the litter was a bier carrying a gravely wounded or dead knight, and that it was reserved for him alone to take revenge on his behalf, and so, without another word, he couched his lance, positioned himself in the saddle, and with a gallant spirit and bearing stopped in the middle of the road along which the shirted men necessarily had to pass; when he saw that they were near, he raised his voice and said:

“Halt, O knights, or whomsoever you may be, and give an account of yourselves: from whence you come, whither you are going, and whom you carry on that bier; for by all indications either you have committed an offense or one has been committed against you, and it is needful and proper that I know of it, either to punish you for your evil deeds or to avenge the wrong that has been done to you.”

“We’re in a hurry,” responded one of the shirted men, “and the inn is far, and we can’t stop to give the accounting you ask for.”

And spurring his mule, he rode forward. Don Quixote took great offense at this reply, and seizing the mule’s bridle, he said:

“Halt, and be more courteous, and give the accounting for which I have asked; otherwise, all of you must do battle with me.”

The mule was skittish, and when his bridle was seized he became so frightened that he bucked and threw his rider to the ground. A servant who was on foot, seeing the shirted man fall, began to insult Don Quixote, who was angry by now, and without waiting to hear more, he couched his lance, attacked one of the mourners, wounded him, and knocked him to the ground; when he turned to face the rest of them, it was wonderful to see how quickly he charged and routed them, for at that moment Rocinante moved with such speed and arrogance, it seemed as if he had sprouted wings.

All the shirted men were timorous and unarmed, and at the first opportunity they immediately left the fray and