“It seems to me, Sancho—and it is
impossible it can be otherwise-that some strayed traveller
must have crossed this sierra and been attacked and
slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot
to bury him.”
“That cannot be,” answered Sancho, “because
if they had been robbers they would not have left
this money.”
“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and
I cannot guess or explain what this may mean; but
stay; let us see if in this memorandum book there is
anything written by which we may be able to trace out
or discover what we want to know.”
He opened it, and the first thing he found in it,
written roughly but in a very good hand, was a sonnet,
and reading it aloud that Sancho might hear it, he
found that it ran as follows:
Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
Or to the height of cruelty attains,
Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
That he knows all, and certain it remains
No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;
Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
I only know it is my fate to die.
To him who knows not whence his malady
A miracle alone a cure can give.
“There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,”
said Sancho, “unless by that clue there’s
in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole matter.”
“What clue is there?” said Don Quixote.
“I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,”
said Sancho.
“I only said Chloe,” replied Don Quixote;
“and that no doubt, is the name of the lady
of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, faith,
he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the
craft.”
“Then your worship understands rhyming too?”
“And better than thou thinkest,” replied
Don Quixote, “as thou shalt see when thou carriest
a letter written in verse from beginning to end to
my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee
know, Sancho, that all or most of the knights-errant
in days of yore were great troubadours and great musicians,
for both of these accomplishments, or more properly
speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of lovers-errant:
true it is that the verses of the knights of old have
more spirit than neatness in them.”
“Read more, your worship,” said Sancho,
“and you will find something that will enlighten
us.”
Don Quixote turned the page and said, “This
is prose and seems to be a letter.”
“A correspondence letter, senor?”
“From the beginning it seems to be a love letter,”
replied Don Quixote.
“Then let your worship read it aloud,”
said Sancho, “for I am very fond of love matters.”
