do not hurt a good payer,” said Sancho, “I mean to give it to myself in such a way that it hurts without killing me, for in this must lie the essence of this miracle.”  With that he stripped himself from the waist upwards, and seizing the lash began to lay on; while Don Quixote began to tell the strokes.  But by the time Sancho had applied seven or eight lashes, he felt that the jest was a heavy one, and its price very cheap.  Whereupon, after a short pause, he told his master that he had been deceived; for such lashes as these were each worth being paid for with a half-real, not a quartillo.  “Go on, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “take courage, I will double the pay.”—­“God save us, let it rain stripes in that case,” quoth Sancho.  But the cunning knave left off laying on his back, and fell upon the trees, with groans every now and then, that one would have thought at each one of them he had been giving up the ghost.  Don Quixote, who was tender-hearted, fearing he might make an end of his life, and that, by Sancho’s imprudence, his wishes should not be attained, said, “On thy life, my friend, let this business rest at this point.  This seems to be a very sharp sort of physic, and it will be well to take it at intervals.  Rome was not built in a day.  If I have not told wrong, thou hast given thyself above a thousand stripes; that is enough for the present; for, to use a homely phrase, ’the ass will carry his load, but not more than his load.’”—­“No, no,” quoth Sancho, “it shall never be said of me, ’When money’s paid the arms are stayed.’  Stand off a little, and let me lay on another thousand lashes or so, and then with another bout like this we shall have done with this job, and have something over.”—­“Since thou art so well in the humor,” said Don Quixote, “I will withdraw, and Heaven strengthen and reward thee.”  Sancho fell to work so freshly that he soon fetched the bark off a number of trees; such was the severity with which he thrashed them!  At length, raising his voice, and giving an outrageous blow to one of the beeches:  “There!” cried he, “die thou shalt, Samson, and all that are about thee!” At the sound of this dismal cry, and the blow of the dreadful stroke, Don Quixote presently ran up, and laying hold on the twisted halter which served Sancho for a thong, “Fate forbid,” cried he, “friend Sancho, that thou shouldst for my pleasure lose thy life, which has to serve for the maintenance of thy wife and children!  Let Dulcinea stay for a better opportunity.  I will contain myself within the limits of the hope that is nigh, and will wait till thou recoverest new strength, that the business may be accomplished to everybody’s satisfaction.”—­“Well, sir,” replied Sancho, “if it be your pleasure it should be so, so let it be, and welcome; and do so much as throw your cloak over my shoulders; for I am all in a sweat, and I have no mind to catch cold, for that is the danger that new disciplinants run.”  This Don Quixote did, and leaving himself unclad, covered