our Lord that the might of one malignant
enchanter may not prove so great but that the power of another better
disposed may prove superior to it, and then I promise you my support and
assistance, as I am bound to do by my profession, which is none other
than to give aid to the weak and needy."

The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance and
looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him,
"Senor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such a
strain?"

"Who should it be," said the barber, "but the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector of
damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?"

"That," said the goatherd, "sounds like what one reads in the books of
the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it is
my belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has empty
lodgings in his head."

"You are a great scoundrel," said Don Quixote, "and it is you who are
empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that bore
you;" and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near
him and sent it full in the goatherd's face, with such force that he
flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and
found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying no respect to
carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, and seizing him
by the throat with both hands would no doubt have throttled him, had not
Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the
shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses,
and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding
himself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who, with his face
covered with blood, and soundly kicked by Sancho, was on all fours
feeling about for one of the table-knives to take a bloody revenge with.
The canon and the curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so
contrived it that he got Don Quixote under him, and rained down upon him
such a shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face streamed with
blood as freely as his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with
laughter, the officers were capering with delight, and both the one and
the other hissed them on as they do dogs that are worrying one another in
a fight. Sancho alone was frantic, for he could not free himself from t