When the unfortunate Dorothea had finished her story she remained silent, her face flushed with sorrow, and as the priest was about to comfort her Cardenio took her by the hand and said, “Lady, thou art the beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo.”

Dorothea was amazed when she heard her father’s name spoken by a person of such wretched appearance as Cardenio. She answered, “Who art thou, friend, that knowest so well my father’s name? For, unless I am mistaken, I did not once name him throughout all my story.”

“I am,” said Cardenio, “the unlucky one to whom Lucinda was betrothed. And I, too, had thought that I was without hope of comfort. But now that I hear that Lucinda will not marry Fernando because she is mine, and Fernando cannot marry Lucinda because he is yours, it seems to me that there is yet some consolation for both of us. And I vow, on the faith of a gentleman, not to forsake you until I see you in the possession of Don Fernando.”

The curate now told them both the nature of his errand, and begged that they would join him in his travels and stay as long as they pleased at his village. By this time they heard the voice of Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling out as loudly as he might.

They went to meet him and asked for Don Quixote. Sancho told them that he had found him almost naked to his shirt, lean and yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for the Lady Dulcinea. And although he had told him that she commanded him to journey to Tohoso, yet he declared that he had made up his mind not to appear before her until he had done feats worthy of her great beauty.

The curate now returned and told Dorothea of their plan, and she at once offered to act the part of the distressed damsel, for she had a lady’s dress in the bundle which she carried. Dorothea retired to put on her robe of a fine rich woollen cloth, a short mantle of another green stuff, and a collar and many rich jewels which she took from a little casket. With these things she adorned herself so gorgeously that she appeared to be a princess at least. When Sancho saw her he was amazed and asked the curate with great eagerness to tell him who the lady was, and what she was doing in these out of the way places.

“This beautiful lady, brother Sancho,” replied the curate, “is the heiress in direct line of the mighty Kingdom of Micomicon, who has come in search of thy master to ask of him a boon, which is to avenge her of a wrong done by a wicked giant. And, owing to the great fame of thy master which has spread through all lands, this beautiful princess has come to find him out.”

“A happy searcher and a happy finding,” cried Sancho, “my master shall soon slay the great lubber of a giant, unless he turn out to be a phantom, for he has no power over those things. And when this is done, my lord shall marry the princess, whose name, by the bye, you have not yet told me, and by this means shall he become an emperor, and have islands to give away.”

“Her name,” replied the curate, “is the Princess Micomicona, and as to your master’s marriage, I will do what I can to help.”

Sancho was quite satisfied with these answers, and when Dorothea had mounted the mule, he guided them towards the spot where Don Quixote was to be found. And as they went along, the barber told Sancho he must in no way pretend to know who he was, for if he did, Don Quixote would never leave the mountains and would never become an emperor. The curate and Cardenio remained behind, promising to join them again on the first opportunity.

Having travelled about three-quarters of a league, they found Don Quixote clothed, though still unarmed, sitting amidst the rocks. No sooner did Sancho tell Dorothea that this was his master than she whipped up her palfrey, closely followed by the well-bearded barber, who jumped from his mule and ran to help his lady alight.

Quickly dismounting, she threw herself on her knees before Don Quixote and, refusing his efforts to raise her, spoke as follows, “Never will I rise from this position, most valiant and invincible knight, until you grant me a boon which will not only add to your honour and renown, but also assist the most injured and unfortunate damsel that ever the sun beheld. And if the valour of your mighty arm be equal to what I have heard of your immortal fame, you can indeed render aid to a miserable being who comes from a far-distant land to seek your help.”

“Beauteous lady,” replied Don Quixote, “I will not answer one word, nor hear a jot of your affairs, until you rise from the ground.”

“I will not rise, my lord,” answered the unfortunate maiden, “until I have obtained from you the boon I beg.”

“Dear lady,” replied Don Quixote, “it is granted, save that it be not anything that touches my duty to my king, my country, or the chosen queen of my heart.”

“Your kindness shall in no way affect them,” replied Dorothea.

The End, Part One