the ghost with it!  Besides, I don’t intend ever to do anything that may give occasion for the use of it, for my fixed resolution is, with all my five senses, to preserve myself from hurting and from being hurt by anybody.  As to being tossed in a blanket again, I have nothing to say to that, for there is no remedy for accidents but patience, it seems; so if it ever be my lot to be served so again, I’ll even shrink up my shoulders, hold my breath, and shut my eyes, and then happy be lucky, let the blanket and fortune even toss on to the end of the chapter.”

“Truly,” said Don Quixote, “I am afraid thou art no good Christian, Sancho, thou never forgettest injuries.  Let me tell thee, it is the part of noble and generous spirits to pass by trifles.  Where art thou lame? which of thy ribs is broken, or what part of thy skull is bruised, that thou canst never think on that jest without malice? for, after all, it was nothing but a jest, a harmless piece of pastime; had I looked upon it otherwise, I had returned to that place before this time, and had made more noble mischief in revenge of the abuse than ever the incensed Grecians did at Troy, for the detention of their Helen, that famed beauty of the ancient world; who, however, had she lived in our age, or had my Dulcinea adorned hers, would have found her charms outrivaled by my mistress’s perfections;” and saying this, he heaved up a deep sigh.  “Well, then,” quoth Sancho, “I will not rip up old sores; let it go for a jest, since there is no revenging it in earnest.”

DON QUIXOTE’S BATTLE WITH THE GIANTS

By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Sancho Panza came running out of Don Quixote’s chamber in a terrible fright, crying out, “Help, help, good people, help my master!  He is just now at it, tooth and nail, with that same giant, the Princess Micomicona’s foe; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my born days.  He has lent him such a sliver, that whip off went the giant’s head, as round as a turnip.”—­“You are mad, Sancho,” said the curate, interrupted in his reading; “is thy master such a devil of a hero, as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues’ distance?” Upon this, they presently heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, “Stay, villain, robber, stay; since I have thee here, thy scimitar shall but little avail thee;” and with this, they heard him strike with his sword, with all his force, against the walls.—­“Good folks,” said Sancho, “my master does not want your hearkening; why do not you run in and help him? though I believe there’s no need now, for sure the giant is by this time dead, and giving an account of his ill life:  for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head sailing in the middle on it; but such a head! it is bigger than any wine skin in Spain.”—­“Death and hell!” cries the innkeeper, “I will be cut like a cucumber, if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has not been hacking my wine skins that stood filled at his bed’s head, and this coxcomb has taken the spilt liquor for blood.”  Then running with the whole company into the room, they found the poor knight in the most comical posture imaginable.