Don Quixote

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

He tried his luck again, and things went so smoothly that with no more noise or disturbance than the last time, he found himself rid of the burden that had caused him so much grief. But since Don Quixote had a sense of smell as acute as his hearing, and Sancho was joined so closely to him, and the vapors rose up almost in a straight line, some unavoidably reached his nostrils, and as soon as they did he came to the assistance of his nostrils and squeezed them closed between two fingers, and in a somewhat nasal voice, he said: “It seems to me, Sancho, that you are very frightened.” “Yes, I am,” responded Sancho, “but what makes your grace see that now more than ever?” “Because you smell now more than ever, and not of amber,” responded Don Quixote. “That might be,” said Sancho, “but it’s not my fault, it’s your grace’s for choosing the most ungodly times to put me through the strangest paces.” “Take three or four of them back, friend,” said Don Quixote without removing his fingers from his nose, “and from now on be more mindful of your person and of what you owe to mine; engaging in so much conversation with you has caused this lack of respect.” “I’ll wager,” replied Sancho, “that your grace thinks I’ve done something with my person I shouldn’t have.” “The less said the better, Sancho my friend,” responded Don Quixote.