hance
for a new-made knight to give battle to these giants, and to rid the
country of this wretched horde.'

'What giants?' asked Sancho, staring about him. 'I see none.'

'Those drawn up over there,' replied the Don. 'Never did I behold such
arms! Those nearest us must be two miles long.'

'Go not within reach of them, good master,' answered Sancho anxiously,
'for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are
the sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones.'

'How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!'
replied Don Quixote. 'I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants.
Know, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at
the sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying,
and I will fight them alone.'

[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO ATTACK THE WINDMILLS]

And with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the
windmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never
heard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the
pictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, 'Do
not fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with
whom you must do battle!' And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come
to his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest
windmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail
struck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled
over together, while the lance broke into small pieces.

When Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don--though indeed it was no
more than he had expected--he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man
and horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote's
body was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho's complaint
that no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those
who had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:

'Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know
nothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed
me of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my
glory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power
against my keen blade!'

'I pray that it may be so,' said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup
for his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.

'Sit straighter in your saddle,' wen