ray mules covered with white linen,
and upon each of them rode a penitent of light, clothed also in white,
and holding a lighted torch in his hand. The car was more than double
the size of the others which had passed, and twelve penitents were
ranged in order within it, all carrying lighted torches,--a sight which
at once caused surprise and terror. Upon an elevated throne sat a nymph,
covered with a thousand veils of silver tissue, bespangled with
innumerable flowers of gold, so that her dress, if not rich, was gay and
glittering. Over her head was thrown a transparent gauze, so thin that
through its folds might be seen a most beautiful face; and from the
multitude of lights, it was easy to discern that she was young as well
as beautiful, for she was evidently under twenty years of age, though
not less than seventeen. Close by her sat a figure, clad in a
magnificent robe reaching to the feet, having his head covered with a
black veil.

The moment this vast machine arrived opposite to where the duke and
duchess and Don Quixote stood, the attending music ceased, as well as
the harps and lutes within the car. The figure in the gown then stood
up, and throwing open the robe and uncovering his face; displayed the
ghastly countenance of death, looking so terrific that Don Quixote
started, Sancho was struck with terror, and even the duke and duchess
seemed to betray some symptoms of fear. This living Death, standing
erect, in a dull and drowsy tone and with a sleepy articulation, spoke
as follows:--

THE ENCHANTER'S ERRAND.

Merlin I am, miscalled the devil's son
In lying annals, authorized by time;
Monarch supreme, and great depositary
Of magic art and Zoroastic skill;
Rival of envious ages, that would hide
The glorious deeds of errant cavaliers,
Favored by me and my peculiar charge.
Though vile enchanters, still on mischief bent,
To plague mankind their baleful art employ,
Merlin's soft nature, ever prone to good,
His power inclines to bless the human race.

In Hades' chambers, where my busied ghost
Was forming spells and mystic characters,
Dulcinea's voice, peerless Tobosan maid,
With mournful accents reached my pitying ears;
I knew her woe, her metamorphosed form,
From high-born beauty in a palace graced,
To the loathed features of a cottage wench.
With sympathizing grief I straight revolved
The numerous tomes of my detested art,
And in the hollow of this skeleton