ests which were the
scenes of the adventures of those knights of bygone years were more real
to him than any of his own doings.

'I wish all those books could be burned,' said the noble gentleman's
housekeeper one day to his niece. 'My poor master's wits are surely
going, for he never understands one word you say to him. Indeed, if you
speak, he hardly seems to see you, much less to hear you!'

What the housekeeper said was true. The things that belonged to her
master's every-day life vanished completely bit by bit. If his niece
related to him some scrap of news which a neighbour had run in to tell
her, he would answer her with a story of the giant Morgante, who alone
among his ill-bred race had manners that befitted a Spanish knight. If
the housekeeper lamented that the flour in her storehouse would not last
out the winter, he turned a deaf ear to all her complaints, and declared
that he would give her and his niece into the bargain for the pleasure
of bestowing one kick on Ganelon the traitor.

At last one day things came to a climax. When the hour of dinner came
round, Don Quixada was nowhere to be found. His niece sought him in his
bedroom, in the little tower where his books were kept, and even in the
stable, where lay the old horse who had served him for more years than
one could count. He was in none of these; but just as she was leaving
the stable a strange noise seemed to come from over the girl's head, and
on looking up she beheld her uncle rubbing a rusty sword that had lain
there long before anybody could remember, while by his side were a steel
cap and other pieces of armour.

[Illustration: Don Quixada declared that he would give his housekeeper
and his niece into the bargain for the pleasure of bestowing one kick on
Ganelon the traitor.]

From that moment Don Quixada became deaf and blind to the things of
this world. He was in despair because the steel cap was not a proper
helmet, but only a morion without a vizor to let down. Perhaps a smith
might have made him what he wanted, but the Don was too proud to ask
him, and, getting some cardboard, cut and painted it like a vizor, and
then fastened it to the morion. Nothing could look--at a little
distance--more like the helmet the Cid might have worn, but Don Quixada
knew well that no knight ever went forth in search of adventures without
first proving the goodness of his armour, so, fixing the helmet against
the wall, he made a slash at it with his swor