adders! Block the
streets with feather-beds! Here with your stink-pots of pitch and
resin, and kettles of boiling oil!"

All these exclamations put fear in the already hard-pressed and
squeezed heart of Sancho Panza, who was wishing where he lay that he
had never seen the sight of an island. He was in such an agony that he
began to pray to the Lord in Heaven to have mercy on him and let him
die, or else let this terrible strife and warfare come to an end.

Heaven must have heard Sancho's prayer, for suddenly he heard cries
of: "Victory! Victory! The enemy retreats!" Then some one jerked him
by the arm, and told him to stand up and enjoy the victory; and
finally some of the bystanders took pity on him, and lifted him up
from his vertical position. But Sancho refused to enjoy any victory.
All he asked for, he said, was that some one wipe the perspiration
from his body, and give him some wine for his parched throat. When
they had fulfilled this desire of his, they carried him to his
chamber, were they put him to bed. Hardly had they got him to bed
before he fainted away, overcome with excitement and governments.

The attendants sprinkled some water in the Governor's face, and he
soon came back to life. The first thing he asked was what time it was.
They replied it was early morning. He rose without saying a word,
dressed himself in haste, and then went out to the stable, where they
found him hanging round his Dapple's neck, kissing and embracing him,
while tears were streaming down his face. Having swallowed the first
flood of tears, the late squire addressed his faithful donkey in the
tenderest and most heartrending terms, telling him that he should
have stuck by him all the time, and not let himself be carried away by
ambitions to become governor of islands.

Sancho then put the pack-saddle on Dapple's back, and mounted--a
process of much pain--and from his dear confederate's back he
addressed the majordomo and those of his staff who had followed him to
the stable. "Make way," he said, "and let me go back to my old
freedom; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself up from
this present death. I was not born to be a governor or to protect
islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack them.
Ploughing and digging, vine-dressing and pruning, are more in my way
than defending provinces or kingdoms. Saint Peter is very well in
Rome: I mean, each of us is best following the trade he was born to. I
would