while I live;
speak more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant, who are
courtesy itself, your words don't seem to me to be very becoming."

"O how little you know about compliments, sir squire," returned he of the
Grove. "What! don't you know that when a horseman delivers a good lance
thrust at the bull in the plaza, or when anyone does anything very well,
the people are wont to say, 'Ha, whoreson rip! how well he has done it!'
and that what seems to be abuse in the expression is high praise? Disown
sons and daughters, senor, who don't do what deserves that compliments of
this sort should be paid to their parents."

"I do disown them," replied Sancho, "and in this way, and by the same
reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife all the
strumpets in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind that in the
highest degree deserves the same praise; and to see them again I pray God
to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to the same thing, to
deliver me from this perilous calling of squire into which I have fallen
a second time, decayed and beguiled by a purse with a hundred ducats that
I found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena; and the devil is
always putting a bag full of doubloons before my eyes, here, there,
everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I am putting my hand on it, and
hugging it, and carrying it home with me, and making investments, and
getting interest, and living like a prince; and so long as I think of
this I make light of all the hardships I endure with this simpleton of a
master of mine, who, I well know, is more of a madman than a knight."

"There's why they say that 'covetousness bursts the bag,'" said he of the
Grove; "but if you come to talk of that sort, there is not a greater one
in the world than my master, for he is one of those of whom they say,
'the cares of others kill the ass;' for, in order that another knight may
recover the senses he has lost, he makes a madman of himself and goes
looking for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly in his own face."
"And is he in love perchance?" asked Sancho.

"He is," said of the Grove, "with one Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest
and best roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that rawness is
not the only foot he limps on, for he has greater schemes rumbling in his
bowels, as will be seen before many hours are over."

"There's no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it," said
Sancho; "in