er of
the field and of the basin, "The miscreant," cried he, "who has left
this helmet, has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, finding
himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to save his life, tears and cuts
off with his teeth that for which his natural instinct tells him he is
followed."--Then he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet.--"On my
word," quoth Sancho, having taken it up, "it is a special basin, and
as well worth a piece of eight as a thief is worth a halter."

With that he gave it to his master, who presently clapped it on his
head, turning it every way to find out the beaver or vizor; and at
last seeing it had none, "Doubtless," said he, "the pagan for whom
this famous helmet was first made, had a head of a prodigious size;
but the worst is, that there is at least one-half of it wanting."
Sancho could not forbear smiling to hear his master call the barber's
basin a helmet, and, had not his fear dashed his mirth, he had
certainly laughed outright. "What does the fool grin at now?" cried
Don Quixote.--"I laugh," said he, "to think what a hugeous jolt-head
he must needs have had who was the owner of this same helmet, that
looks for all the world like a barber's basin."--"I fancy," said Don
Quixote, "this enchanted helmet has fallen by some strange accident
into the hands of some person who, not knowing the value of it, for
the lucre of a little money, finding it to be of pure gold, melted one
half, and of the other made this headpiece, which, as thou sayest, has
some resemblance to a barber's basin: but to me, who know the worth of
it, the metamorphosis signifies little; for as soon as ever I come to
some town where there is an armorer, I will have it altered so much
for the better, that then even the helmet which the god of smiths made
for the god of war shall not deserve to be compared with it. In the
meantime I'll wear it as it is; it is better than nothing, and will
serve at least to save part of my head from the violent encounter of a
stone."--"Ay, that it will," quoth Sancho, "so it is not hurled out of
a sling, as were those at the battle between the two armies, when they
hit you that confounded dowse o' the chops, that saluted your
worship's cheek-teeth, and broke the pot about your ears in which you
kept that blessed drench."--"True," cried Don Quixote, "there I lost
my precious balsam indeed; but I do not much repine at it, for thou
knowest I have the receipt in my memory."--"So have I, too,"