tinuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed
in a distinct but courteous tone, "Who goes there? What are you? Do you
belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?"

"Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.

"Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it is to
woe itself and affliction itself you come."

Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous
manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.

The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down here,
sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this
place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of
knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made answer, "A knight I
am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and
calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the
misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what
you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from
the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament."

In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground
peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not
going to break one another's heads.

"Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Grove of Don
Quixote.

"By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising from
well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than
misfortunes."

"That is true," returned he of the Grove, "if scorn did not unsettle our
reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge."

"I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.

"Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as a
lamb, and softer than a roll of butter."

"Is this your squire?" asked he of the Grove.

"He is," said Don Quixote.

"I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Grove, "who ventured to speak
when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as
his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his lips when
I am speaking."

"By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in
the presence of one as much, or even--but never mind--it only makes it
worse to stir it."

The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, "Let us
two go where we