[Illustration:  Covering himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante’s utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come at and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along with it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field.  Sancho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master, whom he found lying and not able to stir, such a blow had he and Rozinante received]

This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they made the best of their way towards the pass of Lapice, for Don Quixote took that road, believing he could not miss of adventure in one so mightily frequented.  However, the loss of his lance was no small affliction to him; and as he was making his complaint about it to his squire, “I have read,” said he, “friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, whose name was Diego Perez de Vargas, having broke his sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree, or at least tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and his posterity the surname of The Pounder, or Bruiser.  I tell thee this, because I intend to tear up the next oak or holm tree we meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds that thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honor to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe.”—­“Heaven grant you may,” cried Sancho; “I believe it all, because your worship says it.  But, an’t please you, sit a little more upright in your saddle; you ride sideling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your being bruised by the fall.”—­“It does so,” replied Don Quixote; “and if I do not complain of the pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds, though his bowels were dropping out through them.”—­“Then I have no more to say,” quoth Sancho; “and yet Heaven knows my heart, I should be glad to hear your worship hone a little now and then when something ails you:  for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless indeed it can be proved, that the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as knights.”

Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his squire; and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased, but as much as he pleased, whether he had any cause or no; for he had never yet read anything to the contrary in any books of chivalry.

THE INNKEEPER’S BILL

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra