All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our

knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the

golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary

argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement

without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate

acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they had

hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.

Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the

end of which one of the goatherds said, "That your worship, senor

knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you hospitality with

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ready good-will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making one of

our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and he is a very

intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he can read and

write and play on the rebeck to perfection."

The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck

reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very

good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him if

he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had already made

the offer said to him:

"In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of singing

a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in the

mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of thy

accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we say

true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy

love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much liked

in the town."

"With all my heart," said the young man, and without waiting for more

pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his

rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.

ANTONIO'S BALLAD

Thou dost love me well, Olalla;

Well I know it, even though

Love's mute tongues, thine eyes, have never

By their glances told me so.

For I know my love thou knowest,

Therefore thine to claim I dare:

Once it ceases to be secret,

Love need never feel despair.

True it is, Olalla, sometimes

Thou hast all too plainly shown

That thy heart is brass in hardness,

And thy snowy bosom stone.

Yet for all that, in thy coyness,

And thy fickle fits between,

Hope is there--at least the border

Of her garment may be seen.




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