uixote called him, licentiate,
replied, "I have nothing whatever to say further, but that from the
moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be married to
Camacho the rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard to utter
rational word, and he always goes about moody and dejected, talking to
himself in a way that shows plainly he is out of his senses. He eats
little and sleeps little, and all he eats is fruit, and when he sleeps,
if he sleeps at all, it is in the field on the hard earth like a brute
beast. Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other times he fixes his eyes on
the earth in such an abstracted way that he might be taken for a clothed
statue, with its drapery stirred by the wind. In short, he shows such
signs of a heart crushed by suffering, that all we who know him believe
that when to-morrow the fair Quiteria says 'yes,' it will be his sentence
of death."

"God will guide it better," said Sancho, "for God who gives the wound
gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good many
hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any moment, the
house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the sun shining all
at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who can't stir the
next day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of having driven a
nail into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between a woman's 'yes'
and 'no' I wouldn't venture to put the point of a pin, for there would
not be room for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves Basilio heart and soul,
then I'll give him a bag of good luck; for love, I have heard say, looks
through spectacles that make copper seem gold, poverty wealth, and blear
eyes pearls."

"What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!" said Don Quixote;
"for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings together, no one
can understand thee but Judas himself, and I wish he had thee. Tell me,
thou animal, what dost thou know about nails or wheels, or anything
else?"

"Oh, if you don't understand me," replied Sancho, "it is no wonder my
words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself, and I
know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have said; only your
worship, senor, is always gravelling at everything I say, nay, everything
I do."

"Cavilling, not gravelling," said Don Quixote, "thou prevaricator of
honest language, God confound thee!"

"Don't find fault with me, your worship," returned Sancho, "fo