all men not to have been born in theirs. Had I fallen in with those
gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned or Carthage destroyed, for it
would have been only for me to slay Paris, and all these misfortunes
would have been avoided."

"I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a tavern,
roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of our doings
won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of a better
painter than painted these."

"Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is like
Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him what he
was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if he chanced
to paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a cock,' for fear they
might think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it's all the same,
who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come out, must
have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote
'whatever it might turn out;' or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon
that was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard
whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he
replied De donde diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast
thou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou
rather have it indoors or in the open air?"

"Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it comes
all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields; still I'd
like it to be among trees; for I think they are company for me and help
me to bear my pain wonderfully."

"And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "but, to