if
you try three thousand three hundred times; don't answer me a word or
I'll tear your soul out."

On hearing this Merlin said, "That will not do, for the lashes worthy
Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free will and not by
force, and at whatever time he pleases, for there is no fixed limit
assigned to him; but it is permitted him, if he likes to commute by half
the pain of this whipping, to let them be given by the hand of another,
though it may be somewhat weighty."

"Not a hand, my own or anybody else's, weighty or weighable, shall touch
me," said Sancho. "Was it I that gave birth to the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, that my backside is to pay for the sins of her eyes? My master,
indeed, that's a part of her--for, he's always calling her 'my life' and
'my soul,' and his stay and prop--may and ought to whip himself for her
and take all the trouble required for her disenchantment. But for me to
whip myself! Abernuncio!"

As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver that was at the
side of Merlin's ghost stood up, and removing the thin veil from her face
disclosed one that seemed to all something more than exceedingly
beautiful; and with a masculine freedom from embarrassment and in a voice
not very like a lady's, addressing Sancho directly, said, "Thou wretched
squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork tree, with bowels of flint and
pebbles; if, thou impudent thief, they bade thee throw thyself down from
some lofty tower; if, enemy of mankind, they asked thee to swallow a
dozen of toads, two of lizards, and three of adders; if they wanted thee
to slay thy wife and children with a sharp murderous scimitar, it would
be no wonder for thee to show thyself stubborn and squeamish. But to make
a piece of work about three thousand three hundred lashes, what every
poor little charity-boy gets every month--it is enough to amaze,
astonish, astound the compassionate bowels of all who hear it, nay, all
who come to hear it in the course of time. Turn, O miserable,
hard-hearted animal, turn, I say, those timorous owl's eyes upon these of
mine that are compared to radiant stars, and thou wilt see them weeping
trickling streams and rills, and tracing furrows, tracks, and paths over
the fair fields of my cheeks. Let it move thee, crafty, ill-conditioned
monster, to see my blooming youth--still in its teens, for I am not yet
twenty--wasting and withering away beneath the husk of a rude peasant
wench; and if I do