g between
the heaven of the moon and the last region of the air, we could not have
reached that heaven where the seven she-goats Sancho speaks of are
without being burned; and as we were not burned, either Sancho is lying
or Sancho is dreaming."

"I am neither lying nor dreaming," said Sancho; "only ask me the tokens
of those same goats, and you'll see by that whether I'm telling the
truth or not."

"Tell us them then, Sancho," said the duchess.

"Two of them," said Sancho, "are green, two blood-red, two blue, and one
a mixture of all colors."

"An odd sort of goat, that," said the duke; "in this earthly region of
ours we have no such colors; I mean goats of such colors."

"That's very plain," said Sancho; "of course there must be a difference
between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth."

"Tell me, Sancho," said the duke, "did you see any he-goat among those
she-goats?"

"No senor," said Sancho; "but I have heard say that none ever passed the
horns of the moon."

They did not care to ask him anything more about his journey, for they
saw he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving an
account of everything that went on there, without having ever stirred
from the garden. Such, in short, was the end of the adventure of the
Distressed Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not
only for the time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho something
to talk about for ages, if he lived so long.

THE STORY OF THE LASHES

NOTE.--It had been prophesied, by a pretended enchanter, that the
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso could be freed from the enchantment under
which a wicked magician had placed her, if Sancho would of his own
free will give himself three thousand three hundred lashes.

Sancho went along anything but cheerful, and finally he said to his
master, "Surely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in the world;
there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man he had to
cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only signing a bit
of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he makes up, and,
there, his labor is over; but with me, though to cure somebody else
costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, pin-proddings, and whippings,
nobody gives me a farthing."

"Thou art right, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "and I can say
for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lashes on account
of the disenchantment of