up Sancho, who fell fast asleep till the sun waked him.  Then they continued on their journey, which they brought to an end for that day at a village three leagues off.  They alighted at an inn, for it was allowed by Don Quixote to be such, and not a castle, with deep ditch, towers, portcullises, and drawbridge; for since his defeat he spoke with more sense on all matters.  He was lodged in a ground room, in which some old painted serge hangings, such as are often seen in villages, served for stamped leathers.  On one of these was painted in a most vile style the rape of Helen, when the audacious guest stole her away from her husband, Menelaus; and on another was the story of Dido and AEneas,—­the lady upon a lofty turret, as if making signs with half a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was flying from her across the sea in a frigate or brigantine.  It was indicated in the two stories that Helen went with no very ill will, for she was smiling artfully and roguishly, but the fair Dido seemed to be shedding tears as large as walnuts from her eyes.  Seeing which Don Quixote said, “These two ladies were unfortunate in not having been born in this age; and, above all, unfortunate am I for not having been born in theirs!  For had I met those gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned, nor Carthage destroyed; for, by the death of Paris alone, all these miseries had been prevented.”—­“I will lay you a wager,” quoth Sancho, “that before long there will not be a tavern, a victualing house, an inn, or a barber’s shop but will have the story of our deeds painted along it.  But I could wish that it may be done by the hands of a better painter than he that drew these.”—­“Thou art in the right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for this artist is like Orbaneja, a painter who was in Ubeda, who, being asked what he was painting, made answer, ‘Whatever it shall turn out;’ and if he chanced to draw a cock, he under-wrote, ‘This is a cock,’ lest any should take it for a fox.  Of the same sort, it seems to me, Sancho, must be the painter or the writer (for it is all one) who produced the story of this new Don Quixote that has lately come out, for he painted or wrote ’whatever should turn out.’  Or he must be like a poet called Mauleon, who went about Madrid some years ago, and would give answers extempore to any questions, and when somebody asked what was the meaning of ’Deum de Deo,’ answered, ‘Done as one can do.’

“But setting this aside, tell me, Sancho, if you think of taking another turn to-night? and would you rather do it under a roof or in the open air?”—­“Why, truly, sir,” quoth Sancho, “as to what I think of giving myself, it may be done as well at home as in the fields, but withal I could like it to be among trees; for methinks they keep me company, and help me marvelously to bear my sufferings.”

THE RETURN AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra