Don Quixote rode on, deep in thought. He could not get it out of his head that the enchanters had turned Dulcinea into an ugly peasant girl. However hard he thought about how to bring her back to her true form, he could see no way. Without noticing, he let the reins go slack, and Rocinante stopped at every step to crop the grass of the fields.
Sancho pulled him out of his thoughts. “Master, sadness was made for people, not for beasts. But they say that if people hold on to sadness too long, they turn into beasts. Pull yourself together and take Rocinante’s reins. Let Satan carry off every Dulcinea in the world. The health of one knight-errant is worth more than all the spells and shape-changing on earth.”
Don Quixote answered in a voice that had not quite lost its strength. “Hush, Sancho. Do not curse that enchanted lady. Her misfortune is all my fault. It is because wicked people envy me that she has suffered this.”