At the end of that time he awaked, and, with a loud voice said, “Blessed be Almighty God, who hath done me so much good.  His mercies are without end, nor are they shortened or hindered by the sins of men.”  The niece, hearkening very attentively to these words of her uncle, and finding more sense in them than there was wont to be in his talk, at least since he had fallen ill, asked him, “What is that you say, sir; has anything fresh happened?  What mercies are these or what sins of men?”—­“The mercies, niece,” answered Don Quixote, “are those that heaven has this moment vouchsafed to me, which, as I said, my sins do not prevent.  My judgment is now free and clear, and the murky clouds of ignorance removed, which my painful and continual reading of those detestable books of knight-errantry cast over me.  Now I perceive their nonsense and deceit, and am only sorry the discovery happens so late, when I want time to make some amends by reading others that would enlighten my soul.  I find, niece, that I am at the point of death; and I would meet it in such a manner as to show that my life has not been so evil as to leave me the character of a madman.  Send, my dear, for my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will.”  But this trouble the niece was saved by the entrance of the three.  Don Quixote had scarcely seen them when he said, “Largess, good gentlemen, for I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, the same whom my behavior gave the surname of Good.  I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul and all the endless crowd of his descendants; all the profane stories of knight-errantry are now hateful to me.  I have a sense of my folly and the danger I have run by having read them; and now, through heaven’s mercy and my own experience, I abhor them.”  When the three heard this, they concluded without doubt some new frenzy had possessed him, and Samson said to him, “Now, Signor Don Quixote, when we have just had news that the Lady Dulcinea is disenchanted, do you come out with this? and now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, to spend our lives singing like princes, do you wish to make yourself a hermit?  Peace, on your life; come to yourself and leave idle tales.”

“Those which hitherto have been true, to my prejudice,” replied Don Quixote, “my death, with the assistance of heaven, shall turn to my advantage.  I perceive, sirs, that I am dying with all speed.  Put aside jests, and fetch me a confessor to confess me, and a scrivener to draw up my will, for in such straits as this a man must not play with his soul; and I beg that whilst Master Curate confesses me a scrivener may be fetched.”