“The women of Micamaca call their Emperor the handsomest of men.”
“Remember this, my son,—to raisers of hogs, there is nothing more beautiful than a fat, dull hog.”
There are neither hogs nor raisers of hogs in Micamaca, Your Majesty. The only animals these people eat are lambs as white as snow, and pigeons with feet of cardinals.”
“This only proves that you have been more profoundly enchanted and more successfully fattened than myself. I am but half-dazed. I tell you, my son, if we do not hurry out of this place, we shall soon walk on all fours, and grunt and seek muddy troughs,—like this woman approaching us now.”
“This woman? Dulcinea—Your Majesty—Dulcinea, Empress of Micamaca, whose voice is more beautiful than the song of nightingales, whose face is more radiant than the stars.” Saying this, the Governor-General made many efforts at deep bowing, which he could not accomplish on account of his great body protruding far beyond him, shining with decorations and wide golden bands.
“My Lord, your slave bids you good-day,” spoke or rather sang Dulcinea, Empress of Micamaca, to Don Quijote, Emperor of Micamaca. And she knelt upon her dazzling knees, hidden beneath gorgeous silk. “Take her away, Sancho, my son,—beat her with a stick. Let her not grunt at my feet!
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