Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, not long ago there lived a gentleman of the kind who kept a lance in the rack, an ancient shield, a skinny old horse, and a fast greyhound. A stew of mostly beef, with some mutton, cold chopped meat most nights, scraps and eggs on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, an occasional pigeon as a treat on Sundays, consumed three-quarters of his income. The rest went on a fine woolen coat, velvet breeches for holidays with matching slippers, and homespun for weekdays. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece not yet twenty, and a young man who worked both in the fields and in town, who could saddle the old horse as well as handle the pruning shears. Our gentleman was around fifty years old; he was of sturdy build, lean, and gaunt-faced; a keen early riser and a lover of the hunt. They say that he bore the surname Quijada or Quesada (there is some disagreement on this point among the authors who write about this case), although reasonable conjecture suggests that he was called Quijana; but this matters little to our story; it is enough that in the telling of it, we do not stray one bit from the truth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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