In fine, Don Quixote, finding that he was tied up and that the ladies were gone, began at once to imagine that all this had been done by way of enchantment, as the time before when he and Sancho had suffered such strange adventures. Then he was wroth with himself for his want of judgment and discretion in venturing to enter the Castle a second time, seeing that he had come off so badly the first. For it was a maxim with the Knights Errant, that when they had attempted an adventure and had not come well out of it, it was a token that it was not reserved for them but for some other.
Yet for all this he drew forward his arm to see if he might deliver himself, but he was so well bound that all his efforts proved vain. It is true that he drew his arm cautiously, lest Rozinante should stir, and though he longed to get into the seat of his saddle again, yet he could do no other but stand upright or wrench off his arm. Many times did he wish for the sword of Amadis against which no enchantment had power. Then he fell to cursing his stars, or again called upon the Lady Dulcinea to remember him anew. Now he would call on his good Squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep, stretched out upon his pack-saddle, heard him not, and then he called in vain on the Sage Urganda to release him.
Finally, the morning found him so full of despair and confusion, that he roared like a bull, for he had no hope that daylight would bring him any cure, as he fully believed his enchantment would prove everlasting. This belief was strengthened inasmuch as Rozinante had not budged ever so little, and he came to the conclusion that both he and his horse should abide in that state without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until either the evil influences of the stars were passed, or some great Enchanter had disenchanted him.
In this he was deceived, for scarce did day begin to peep than there arrived four horsemen at the Inn door, with firelocks on their saddle-bows, who were officers of the Holy Brotherhood. They called out at the Inn door, which was still shut, giving loud knocks, which, being heard by Don Quixote from the place where he stood sentinel, he cried out in a loud and arrogant voice: 'Knights or Squires, or whatsoever else ye be, you are not to knock any more at the gates of this Castle, seeing that at such an hour as this either those who are within are sleeping, or else are not wont to open their fortress until Phœbus hath spread his beams over the earth. Therefore stand back and wait until it be clear day, and then we will see whether it be just or no, that they should open their gates unto you.'