or the condition his master was in, and finding the
housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.

The confession over, the curate came out saying: "Alonso Quixano the
Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go
in to him, while he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears
burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for, of a
truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso
Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was
always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence
he was beloved not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew
him.

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the
will had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God
with all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the
bequests, he said: "_Item_: It is my will that, touching certain
moneys in the hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my
squire), inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain
accounts and debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any
account demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything
remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the
balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it
do him; and if as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the
government of an island, so now that I am in my senses could I give
him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his
character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then,
turning to Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to
seem as mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself
fell into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping; "don't die, master, but take my advice and
live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is
to let himself die without rime or reason, without anybody killing
him, or any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't
be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in
shepherd's trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find
the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that
you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, la