t to her who is the sole cause of all!"

"There is no reason why you should threaten me," quoth Sancho, "for I am
not a man to rob or murder anybody. Let every man's fate kill him, or
God who made him. My master is doing a certain penance much to his
liking in the midst of yon mountains."

Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, and, stepping aside, began with
much composure to write the letter; and having finished, he called
Sancho and said he would read it to him that he might have it by heart,
lest he might perchance lose it by the way, for everything was to be
feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir,
two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good
care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly,
for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship,
however, may read it to me. I shall be glad to hear it, for it must
needs be very much to the purpose."

"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written ":--

DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

HIGH AND SOVEREIGN LADY:--He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and
pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets
thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself. If thy
beauty despise me, if thy worth favor me not, and if thy disdain still
pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill support an
affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho
will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, to what a state
I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to relieve me, I am
thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee,--for by my death I shall
at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.

Until death thine,
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE.

One should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged.

LINES DISCOVERED ON THE BARK OF A TREE, ADDRESSED TO DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO.

Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms,
The pride and shelter of the plain;
Ye humble shrubs and flowery charms,
Which here in springing glory reign!
If my complaints may pity move,
Hear the sad story of my love!
While with me here you pass your hours,
Should you grow faded with my cares,
I'll bribe you with refreshing showers;
You shall be watered with my tears.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.