you will give me for each lash I give myself?”—­“Were your payment, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to be answerable to the greatness and quality of this cure, the wealth of Venice and the mines of Potosi would be small payment for thee.  But see what you have of mine, and set the price on each stripe.”—­“The lashes,” quoth Sancho, “are three thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have given myself five; the rest are to come.  Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand three hundred, which at a quartillo apiece—­and I will not take less if all the world bid me—­they make three thousand three hundred quartillos, of which three thousand make fifteen hundred half-reals, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred remaining make an hundred and fifty half-reals, and three-score and fifteen reals; put that with the seven hundred and fifty, and it comes altogether to eight hundred and twenty-five reals.  This I will deduct from what I hold of yours, and will return home rich and well pleased, though well whipped.  But one must not think to catch trout—­I say no more.”—­“O blessed Sancho!  O amiable Sancho!” cried Don Quixote.  “How shall Dulcinea and I be bound to serve thee all the days that Heaven shall give us of life!  If she recover from her lost state (and it is not possible that she fail to do so), her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and my defeat to the happiest triumph.  And hark ye, Sancho! when wilt thou enter upon thy discipline?  For if thou hastenest it, I will add further a hundred reals more.”—­“When?” answered Sancho; “this very night without fail.  Do you but order it that we lie in the fields under the open sky, and I will open my flesh.”

Night arrived, awaited by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety; and he fancied Phoebus had broken his chariot wheels, which made the day of so unusual a length,—­as is always the case with lovers, who never make allowance for the reckoning of their desires.  At last they entered amongst some pleasant trees that stood a little out of the road, where, leaving empty the saddle and pannel of Rozinante and Dapple, they stretched themselves upon the green grass, and supped from Sancho’s wallet.

He, having made himself a heavy and flexible whip of Dapple’s headstall and reins, retired about twenty paces from his master, amidst some beeches.  Don Quixote, observing him go with readiness and resolution, said, “Have a care, friend; do not hack thyself to pieces.  Give one stripe time to await another.  Thou shouldst not so hurry in the race that thy breath fails in the midst; go more gently to work, soft and fair goes furthest; I mean, do not give it thyself so sharply that strength fails thee before the desired number is reached.  And that you lose not for a card more or less, I will stand at a distance and keep count on my beads of the strokes thou givest thyself.  Heaven favor thee as thy good intention deserves.”—­“Pledges