ne called Barcino and the other
Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

[A] Jacopo Sannazaro, the Neapolitan poet, author of the
'Arcadia.'

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His
friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well
satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him
to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad
way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his
niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him
lying dead before them. The doctor's opinion was that melancholy and
depression were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote begged them to
leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. They obeyed,
and he slept at one stretch, as the saying is, more than six hours, so
that the housekeeper and niece thought he was going to sleep forever.
But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a loud voice exclaimed,
"Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me such goodness! In truth
his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can neither limit them
nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they
struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least
during his illness, so she asked: "What are you saying, senor? Has
anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you
talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this
moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of
chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and
deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my
illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some
amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece,
I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in such
a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should leave
behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I would
not that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to me,
my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and
Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will."

But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the th