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“Oh, Señor, heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has willed Rocinante not to move, and if you persist, and spur and urge him on, that will anger Fortune, and it will be, as they say, like kicking at thorns.”

At this Don Quixote grew desperate, for no matter how hard he spurred his horse, he could not make him move; then, not realizing that the animal’s legs had been tied, he thought it a good idea to be calm and wait, either for the dawn or until Rocinante could move forward, believing, no doubt, that this situation was caused by something other than Sancho’s labors, and so he said to him:

“Well, Sancho, since Rocinante cannot move, I am content to wait until dawn smiles upon us, although I weep at how long she will take to arrive.”

“There’s no reason to cry,” responded Sancho. “I’ll entertain your grace by telling you stories until daylight, unless you want to dismount and sleep a little on the green grass, in the manner of knights errant, so that you’ll be rested when day comes, and ready to embark on the unrivaled adventure that awaits you.”

“What do you mean, dismount and sleep?” said Don Quixote. “Am I, perchance, one of those knights who take their rest in the midst of dangers? You sleep, for you were born to sleep, or do whatever you wish, and I shall do what I deem most becoming to my profession.”

“Señor, your grace shouldn’t be angry,” responded Sancho, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

And, going up to him, Sancho placed one hand on the front of the saddle and the other on the rear, so that he stood with his arms around his master’s left thigh, not daring to move a finger’s breadth away from him, so great was the fear he had of the pounding, which continued to sound rhythmically. Don Quixote told him to recount some story to amuse him, as he had promised, to which Sancho replied that he would, if his terror at what he was hearing allowed him to.

“But, even so, I’ll make an effort to tell a story, and if I manage to tell it and my fear doesn’t stop me, it’s the best of all stories; and your grace should pay careful attention, because here I go. ‘Once upon a time, and may good come to all and evil to him who seeks it…’ And, Señor, your grace should notice that the beginnings the ancients gave to their tales didn’t come out of nowhere; this was a maxim of the Roman Cato Nonsensor,2 and it says: ‘Evil to him who seeks it,’ which fits here like the ring on your finger and means that your grace should stay put and not go looking for evil anywhere, and we should take another route, nobody’s forcing us to continue on this one with so many frightening things to scare us.”

“You go on with your story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and leave the route we shall follow to me.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Sancho continued, “that somewhere in Extremadura there was a goatherd, I mean to say the man tended goats, and this goatherd I was telling you about in my story was named Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess named Torralba, and this shepherdess named Torralba was the daughter of a rich herder, and this rich herder—”

“If you tell your story this way, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “repeating everything you say two times, you will not finish in two days; tell it in a continuous way, and speak like a man of understanding, or do not say anything at all.”

“The way I’m telling it,” responded Sancho, “is how tales are told in my village, and I don’t know any other way to tell it, and it isn’t right for your grace to ask me to do things in new ways.”

“Tell it however you wish,” responded Don Quixote. “Fate has willed that I cannot help listening to you, and so continue.”

“And so it was, Señor of my soul,” Sancho continued, “that, as I’ve already said, this goatherd was in love with Torralba, the shepherdess, who was a stout girl, and wild, and a little mannish because she had something of a mustache; it’s as if I could see her now.”

“Then, did you know her?” said Don Quixote.

“I didn’t know her,” responded Sancho. “But the man who told me this story said it was