"as the pair of them were going
to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon the
gentleman's taking the head of the table, and the gentleman insisted upon
the labourer's taking it, as his orders should be obeyed in his house;
but the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness and good breeding,
would not on any account, until the gentleman, out of patience, putting
his hands on his shoulders, compelled him by force to sit down, saying,
'Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever I sit will be the head to you;
and that's the story, and, troth, I think it hasn't been brought in amiss
here."

Don Quixote turned all colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled it
till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their
laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixote, for they saw
through Sancho's impertinence; and to change the conversation, and keep
Sancho from uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote what
news he had of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any presents of
giants or miscreants lately, for he could not but have vanquished a good
many.

To which Don Quixote replied, "Senora, my misfortunes, though they had a
beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants and I have
sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to find her if she
is enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured peasant wench that can
be imagined?"

"I don't know," said Sancho Panza; "to me she seems the fairest creature
in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and jumping she won't give in to
a tumbler; by my faith, senora duchess, she leaps from the ground on to
the back of an ass like a cat."

"Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?" asked the duke.

"What, seen her!" said Sancho; "why, who the devil was it but myself that
first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much enchanted as my
father."

The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and caitiffs and
enchantments, began to suspect that this must be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, whose story the duke was always reading; and he had himself often
reproved him for it, telling him it was foolish to read such fooleries;
and becoming convinced that his suspicion was correct, addressing the
duke, he said very angrily to him, "Senor, your excellence will have to
give account to God for what this good man does. This Don Quixote, or Don
Simpleton, or whatever his name is, cannot, I imagine, be such a