DON QUIXOTE

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"I don't mean it that way, senora," said Sancho; "and if you think the
letter doesn't run as it ought to do, it's only to tear it up and make
another; and maybe it will be a worse one if it is left to my gumption."

"No, no," said the duchess, "this one will do, and I wish the duke to see
it."

With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to dine, and
the duchess showed Sancho's letter to the duke, who was highly delighted
with it. They dined, and after the cloth had been removed and they had
amused themselves for a while with Sancho's rich conversation, the
melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant drum made itself heard.
All seemed somewhat put out by this dull, confused, martial harmony,
especially Don Quixote, who could not keep his seat from pure
disquietude; as to Sancho, it is needless to say that fear drove him to
his usual refuge, the side or the skirts of the duchess; and indeed and
in truth the sound they heard was a most doleful and melancholy one.