“That matters little,” replied Don Quixote; “there may be Haldudos knights; 63 moreover, everyone is the son of his works.” 64

“That is true,” said Andrés; “but this master of mine⁠—of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?”

“I do not refuse, brother Andrés,” said the farmer, “be good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed.” 65