he stage set for the performance; the tapers
of wax were lit, it was a bright and beautiful scene. Master Pedro
disappeared and took his place behind the scenes, for he was the one
who created the life in the puppets. A lad who acted as interpreter,
calling out the scenes and describing the action of the play, placed
himself outside the theater. Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the
scholar seated themselves in the front row; and the show began.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE
PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH
RIGHT GOOD

The play, which depicted how Melisendra was released by her husband,
Senor Don Gaiferos, from the hands of the Moors in the city of
Sansuena, now called Saragossa, had only proceeded a short way when
Don Quixote became impatient with the young man who was making the
explanations to the audience. The knight thought he drifted into
unnecessary and superfluous language, and was quick to reprimand him.
The show was continued, and again Don Quixote broke in, criticising
some of the stage effects: bells were never used by the Moors, only
kettledrums, he said. But here Master Pedro begged him not to be so
particular, pleading that the show was given for the sake of
amusement.

Don Quixote acceded, and the show began again.

But it was not long before a number of horsemen were galloping across the
stage in pursuit of the two lovers. Their escape was accompanied by such
blowing of horns and trumpets and beating of drums, that the noise and
din of it all were too much for the poor knight's imagination which was
now stirred to such a pitch that he believed himself in the midst of a
real battle. He drew his sword and plunged against the Moorish horseman
with such vehemence and force, cutting and slashing in all directions,
that every one in the room was aghast at his madness, and ran to hide in
safety. Master Pedro came within an inch of having his ear, not to say
his whole head, cut off, and Don Quixote's fury was not at an end until
he had decapitated all the Moorish pasteboard figures. Lucky it was that
no blood could flow from them, or there would have been a plentiful
stream of it. The ape took refuge on the roof, frightened out of his poor
wits, and even Sancho Panza was more than ordinarily shaken with fear,
for he admitted that he had never seen his master so wrought up.

When Don Quixote was certain of complete victory--in other words,
dest