The merchants stopped at the sound of these words to behold the marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spake them, and at once suspected the madness of the speaker.
Curious to know the meaning of the confession he demanded from them, one of the merchants, who was a bit of a wag and very sharp-witted, said to Don Quixote: 'Sir Knight, we know not who that good lady may be you speak of. Show her therefore to us, and if she be as beautiful as you report, we will with right good-will, and without further trouble, confess the truth of what you demand.'
'If I did show her to you,' replied Don Quixote, 'what merit would there be in confessing a truth which is clear to all beholders? The importance of my demand is that without seeing her you must believe it, which if you refuse to do I challenge you all to battle, ye proud preposterous crew. And now come on! One by one as the order of Knighthood requires, or all at once as is the custom and base usage of those of your breed. Here I await you, confiding in the right I have on my side.'
'Sir Knight,' replied the Merchant, 'I request you in the name of all the Princes here present, that in order that we may not burden our conscience by confessing a thing which we have never beheld nor heard, you will be pleased to show us some portrait of the lady, although it be no bigger than a grain of wheat. For I do believe that we are already so much on your side, that though her portrait showed her to us a-squint of one eye, and wearing a hump on her back, we should say all that you wish in her favour.'
'Infamous rabble,' replied Don Quixote, mightily enraged; 'she is neither crook-eyed nor hump-backed, but is straighter than a spindle of Guadamara. Dearly shall you pay for the foul words you have uttered against so immense a beauty as my Lady.' So saying, he lowered his lance against him who had spoken, with such wrath and fury, that if Rozinante had not tripped and fallen in the midst of his career, it would have fared ill with the rash Merchant.
But, alas! Rozinante fell; his master went rolling some distance across the field, and though he struggled to arise yet was he never able, so encumbered was he by his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old-fashioned armour. And while he strove to rise he shouted; 'Fly not, cowardly brood! Tarry a little, ye base caitiffs! for not by any fault of mine, but of my horse, am I thus discomfited!'