The barber, who, as he peaceably went along, saw that terrible apparition come thundering upon him at unawares, had no other way to avoid being run through with his lance, but to throw himself off from his ass to the ground; and then as hastily getting up, he took to his heels, and ran over the fields swifter than the wind, leaving his ass and his basin behind him.  Don Quixote finding himself thus master of the field and of the basin, “The miscreant,” cried he, “who has left this helmet, has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, finding himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to save his life, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for which his natural instinct tells him he is followed.”—­Then he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet.—­“On my word,” quoth Sancho, having taken it up, “it is a special basin, and as well worth a piece of eight as a thief is worth a halter.”

With that he gave it to his master, who presently clapped it on his head, turning it every way to find out the beaver or vizor; and at last seeing it had none, “Doubtless,” said he, “the pagan for whom this famous helmet was first made, had a head of a prodigious size; but the worst is, that there is at least one-half of it wanting.”  Sancho could not forbear smiling to hear his master call the barber’s basin a helmet, and, had not his fear dashed his mirth, he had certainly laughed outright.  “What does the fool grin at now?” cried Don Quixote.—­“I laugh,” said he, “to think what a hugeous jolt-head he must needs have had who was the owner of this same helmet, that looks for all the world like a barber’s basin.”—­“I fancy,” said Don Quixote, “this enchanted helmet has fallen by some strange accident into the hands of some person who, not knowing the value of it, for the lucre of a little money, finding it to be of pure gold, melted one half, and of the other made this headpiece, which, as thou sayest, has some resemblance to a barber’s basin:  but to me, who know the worth of it, the metamorphosis signifies little; for as soon as ever I come to some town where there is an armorer, I will have it altered so much for the better, that then even the helmet which the god of smiths made for the god of war shall not deserve to be compared with it.  In the meantime I’ll wear it as it is; it is better than nothing, and will serve at least to save part of my head from the violent encounter of a stone.”—­“Ay, that it will,” quoth Sancho, “so it is not hurled out of a sling, as were those at the battle between the two armies, when they hit you that confounded dowse o’ the chops, that saluted your worship’s cheek-teeth, and broke the pot about your ears in which you kept that blessed drench.”—­“True,” cried Don Quixote, “there I lost my precious balsam indeed; but I do not much repine at it, for thou knowest I have the receipt in my memory.”—­“So have I, too,” quoth Sancho, “and shall have while I have breath to draw; but if ever I make any of that stuff, or taste it again, may I give up