The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber,
and the others having disposed themselves with as
little discomfort as they could, Don Quixote sallied
out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as
he had promised. It happened, however, that a
little before the approach of dawn a voice so musical
and sweet reached the ears of the ladies that it forced
them all to listen attentively, but especially Dorothea,
who had been awake, and by whose side Dona Clara de
Viedma, for so the Judge’s daughter was called,
lay sleeping. No one could imagine who it was
that sang so sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied
by any instrument. At one moment it seemed to
them as if the singer were in the courtyard, at another
in the stable; and as they were all attention, wondering,
Cardenio came to the door and said, “Listen,
whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a muleteer’s
voice that enchants as it chants.”
“We are listening to it already, senor,”
said Dorothea; on which Cardenio went away; and Dorothea,
giving all her attention to it, made out the words
of the song to be these:
CHAPTER XLIII.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
Ah me, Love’s mariner am I
On Love’s deep ocean sailing;
I know not where the haven lies,
I dare not hope to gain it.
One solitary distant star
Is all I have to guide me,
A brighter orb than those of old
That Palinurus lighted.
And vaguely drifting am I borne,
I know not where it leads me;
I fix my gaze on it alone,
Of all beside it heedless.
But over-cautious prudery,
And coyness cold and cruel,
When most I need it, these, like clouds,
Its longed-for light refuse me.
Bright star, goal of my yearning eyes
As thou above me beamest,
When thou shalt hide thee from my sight
I’ll know that death is near me.
The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea
that it was not fair to let Clara miss hearing such
a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side to side,
she woke her, saying:
“Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do
so that thou mayest have the pleasure of hearing the
best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps, in all thy
life.”
Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at
the moment what Dorothea said, asked her what it was;
she repeated what she had said, and Clara became attentive
at once; but she had hardly heard two lines, as the
singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her,
as if she were suffering from a severe attack of quartan
ague, and throwing her arms round Dorothea she said:
“Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did
you wake me? The greatest kindness fortune could
do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so as
neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.”
