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'There,' said Herbert, as he closed the book. 'In my opinion, Don
Quixote was the best man that ever lived.'
'But he did not ever live,' said Lady Annabel, smiling.
'He lives to us,' said Herbert. 'He is the same to this age as if he
had absolutely wandered over the plains of Castile and watched in the
Sierra Morena. We cannot, indeed, find his tomb; but he has left us
his great example. In his hero, Cervantes has given us the picture
of a great and benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho, a complete
personification of the world, selfish and cunning, and yet overawed
by the genius that he cannot comprehend: alive to all the material
interests of existence, yet sighing after the ideal; securing his four
young foals of the she-ass, yet indulging in dreams of empire.'
'But what do you think of the assault on the windmills, Marmion?' said
Lady Annabel.
'In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset of our lives, he
was misled by his enthusiasm,' replied Herbert, 'without which, after
all, we can do nothing. But the result is, Don Quixote was a redresser
of wrongs, and therefore the world esteemed him mad.'
In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with their pursuits, and
occasionally listening to some passage which Herbert called to their
attention, and which ever served as the occasion for some critical
remarks, always as striking from their originality as they were happy
in their expression, the freshness of the morning disappeared; the sun
now crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and they re-entered the
villa.
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