thee, that I may vie with the valorous Peter, and press the seat that was once pressed by him?  Come, blindfold thyself, poor spiritless animal, and let me not hear thee betray the least symptom of fear, at least not in my presence.”—­“Well,” quoth Sancho, “let them bind me; but, if you will not let one say his prayers nor be prayed for, it is no marvel one should fear that we may have a legion of imps about us to deal with us, as at Peralvillo.”

Now, both being hoodwinked, and Don Quixote perceiving everything ready, be began to turn the pin; and no sooner had he set his hand to it than the waitingwomen and all the company set up their throats, calling out, “Speed you well, valorous knight; Heaven be your guide, undaunted squire!  Now, now, you fly aloft, cutting the air more swiftly than an arrow, while the gazing world wonders at your course!  Sit fast, courageous Sancho! you do not sit steady; have a care of falling; for your fall would be greater than the aspiring youth’s that sought to guide the chariot of the sun-god, his father.”  All this Sancho heard, and, girting his arms fast about his master, “Sir,” quoth he, “why do they say we are so high, since we can hear their voices?  Truly I hear them so plainly that one would think they were talking close by us.”—­“Never mind that,” answered Don Quixote; “for in these extraordinary kinds of flight you can hear and see what you wish a thousand leagues off.  But do not hold me so hard, for you will make me tumble off.  I know not what makes thee tremble so, for I dare swear I never rode easier in all my life; our horse goes as if he did not move at all.  Take courage, then; for the affair is in a good way, and we have the wind astern.”—­“I think so, too,” quoth Sancho; “for I feel the wind puff as briskly here as if a thousand pairs of bellows were blowing on me at my back.”  Sancho was not in the wrong; for two or three pairs of bellows were indeed giving air; so well had the plot of this adventure been laid by the duke, the duchess, and their steward, that nothing was wanting to perfect it.

Don Quixote at last feeling the wind, “Sure,” said he, “we must be risen to the second region of the air, where are engendered the hail and snow; thunder, lightning, and thunderbolts are produced in the third region; so that, if we mount at this rate, we shall be in the region of fire presently; and I do not know how to manage this pin, so as to avoid being scorched.”  At the same time some flax, easy to light and to quench at a distance, was clapped to the end of a long stick, and made their faces hot; and the heat affecting Sancho, he cried, “May I be hanged, if we be not come to this fire region or very near it; for the half of my beard is singed already.  I have a mind to peep out and see whereabouts we are.”—­“By no means,” answered Don Quixote, “but remember the true story of Doctor Torralva, whom the devil carried to Rome hoodwinked, and, bestriding a reed, in twelve hours’ time setting him down in the tower of