--no, I pronounce it!"

No sooner had Sancho thus declared himself than the spangled nymph who
sat by the side of Merlin arose, and throwing aside her veil, discovered
a face of extraordinary beauty; and with a masculine air and no very
amiable voice, addressed herself to Sancho: "O wretched squire, with no
more soul than a pitcher! thou heart of cork and bowels of flint! hadst
thou been required, nose-slitting thief! to throw thyself from some
high tower; hadst thou been desired, enemy of human kind! to eat a dozen
of toads, two dozen of lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst thou
been requested to kill thy wife and children with some bloody and sharp
scimitar,--no wonder if thou hadst betrayed some squeamishness; but to
hesitate about three thousand three hundred lashes, which there is not a
wretched school-boy but receives every month, it amazes, stupefies, and
affrights the tender bowels of all who hear it, and even of all who
shall hereafter be told it. Cast, thou marble-hearted wretch!--cast, I
say, those huge goggle eyes upon these lovely balls of mine, that shine
like glittering stars, and thou wilt see them weep, drop by drop, and
stream after stream, making furrows, tracks, and paths down these
beautiful cheeks! Relent, malicious and evil-minded monster! Be moved by
my blooming youth, which, though yet in its teens, is pining and
withering beneath the vile bark of a peasant wench; and if at this
moment I appear otherwise, it is by the special favor of Signor Merlin,
here present, hoping that these charms may soften that iron heart, for
the tears of afflicted beauty turn rocks into cotton and tigers into
lambs. Lash, untamed beast! lash away on that brawny flesh of thine, and
rouse from that base sloth which only inclines thee to eat and eat
again, and restore to me the delicacy of my skin, the sweetness of my
temper, and all the charms of beauty. And if for my sake thou wilt not
be mollified into reasonable compliance, let the anguish of that
miserable knight stir thee to compassion,--thy master, I mean, whose
soul I see sticking crosswise in his throat, not ten inches from his
lips, waiting only thy cruel or kind answer either to fly out of his
mouth or to return joyfully into his bosom."

Don Quixote, here putting his finger to his throat, "Before Heaven!"
said he, "Dulcinea is right, for I here feel my soul sticking in my
throat like the stopper of a crossbow!"

"What say you to that, Sancho?" quoth th