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Months into his chivalric journey, it is disheartening to report that Don Quixote became afflicted with a cold in the head. However, as to be expected, our noble hero continued on as though nothing were amiss, despite the coughing and sneezing nearly sending him off his horse. But as soon as the fever struck, mild though it was, his entire demeanor changed. The man took to his bed at the first inn they laid eyes on, staggering and insisting that Sancho Panza prop him up as he washed and quit himself of his armor, moaning the whole while like a special breed of dying animal.
The man sneezed and let his sputum decorate the air like fine dust motes on a sunbeam, and his manservant knew it was a matter of time before the ailment found its way to him as well. Still, Sancho Panza let whatever pity stirred in his chest for the poor, strange Don Quixote move him to fix plasters for his master’s chest and elixir’s for his congestion. Sancho pulled the covers to the man’s chin and tucked handkerchiefs around the pillow as the Man of La Mancha raved on, sore throat not in the least bit impeding him. In any other man, the ramblings might have been classed as feverish, but in our noble hero, it can be said they did not depart enough from the ordinary to warrant the designation.
“What if someone has poisoned me?” Don Quixote mused with a thick sniffle. “Let us think, dear Sancho, for I am sure there are many who wish me dead. ‘Tis the fate of a righteous knight to make many enemies of those who do not walk in virtue.”
Sancho Panza stirred the tea which he was warming on the hearth and said mildly. “It would be a most ineffective poison to kill you by way of catarrh and mild fever, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“Ah, but be my enemies many and desperate, I did not say they were all smart! What did you think of the shepherd near Toledo? Do you think he might have slipped a poison into your satchel and tampered with the meats as we passed?”
“Then I would be ill as well. It is all the more likely that you have caught the same cold suffered by the innkeeper’s daughter in Cobisa, whose table and cups you shared.”
Don Quixote coughed for the better part of his servant’s sensible rhetoric, and punctuated this contribution with a raucous sneeze. “Oh, my throat aches , as does every part of me.” A cloud passed, then, over Don Quixote’s countenance, and his eyes shot toward his squire for reassurance. “Could it be the plague? Oh, say you don’t think it so. Or the pox? Whichever of the two it may be, I will surely be with the Lord by nightfall.” If possible, he sunk deeper into the pillows, one long hand over his eyes, and beckoned for his squire with the other. “Come close, then, brave Sancho. Promise me you will avenge me to Dulcinea. Promise me that beloved Rocinante will come by no harm. Promise me… Come closer, my voice fails me already.”
At his Lord’s command, Sancho leaned his ear to Don Quixote’s lips, only to be rewarded with an abrupt and unrepentant sneeze for his efforts.
Sancho Panza jerked back upright, wiping the spittle from his cheek with a grimace. “My Lord,” he said, chewing the title through his teeth. “You will pardon me if I promise you no such thing, for I swear to you if you are not better by the morning next, then the morning after that shall find you in perfect health.” Whether the same could be said for him, that much the squire had cause to doubt.
“Oh God!” Don Quixote cried as tears began to flow freely down his cheeks. “Is this to be my final test upon this earth? Forsaken by my own humble squire in the hour I need him most?”
At present, Sancho Panza did not trust his lips to adequately reassure the man, so he was silent as he bathed his fevered face with a wet cloth. Graciously, it did not take long until the knight was soothed to sleep, his wretched sobs giving way to deep snores, and it was then Sancho Panza was able to join him in sleep as well, ignoring the ache at the back of his own head as the cold hero and squire both seemed destined to share took root.