"Look, Sancho!" The emaciated figure tugged at the reins of his bony steed so that the animal faced the washerwoman. "Specters from the underworld have surfaced and are trying to rob the damsel of her innocent soul. Look at how she is surrounded by unholy specters! See how she struggles unsuccessfully to liberate herself?"

"She's merely hanging up clothes to dry, my lord."

"Clothes! Sancho, you fool! Those are not clothes, but spirits!" With his lance held upright, Don Quixote spurred Rozinante and charged towards the clotheslines, spearing the billowing shirts and impaling them. When the surrounding garments (or in his mind, an army of phantoms) were vanquished, the Knight of the Rueful Figure cast aside the lance in exchange for his sword and, ignoring her shouts of protests, removed the tangled garments from Inez's hands before slashing them into bits. "Victory!"

"Victory, my foot!" Inez spat. "Just look at what you did!" She furiously gestured to the disarray around her: clothes mangled, in tatters and even filthier than they had been before she washed them. "Look at this!" Inez waved a battered shirt in front of Don Quixote's visor. "Unfit to wear, thanks to you!"

The knight removed his helmet, his lips pulled into a serene smile as he eyed her in worshipful admiration. True, the maiden was screaming, and such behavior was unbecoming to such a highborn lady, but Don Quixote was pardoning for he knew that her hysteria was a result of terror. No doubt her ladyship was half-crazed from the attack. But perhaps he could pacify the maiden through his tender words and chivalrous demeanor. With that notion in mind, Don Quixote descended from Rozinante,

"My lady," he said, sinking to one knee, and very tenderly he went on. "I am fortunate to assist such a beauteous damsel as yourself- you, whose beauty rivals only that of sweet, fair Dulcinea. I declare that whilst I reside at this fine castle, I will serve you most devotedly as once the temple priests served Venus in her place of worship." As he spoke, the knight's eyes flicked upward towards the washerwoman's face and then dropped again to the ground like a pilgrim standing before a holy relic.

Inez glared from the kneeling Don Quixote to the rotund man who came sheepishly forward to collect the fallen helmet and lance. Sancho casually shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Yes, I know that my master is not in his right mind."

"Lady, am I?" Inez snipped, her attention focused again on Quixote. "Lady indeed! Just how many ladies do you see dressed in rags and dripping with sweat?"

Quixote shook his head in puzzlement. "Is my lady under an enchantment? Does she not know she is dressed in gossamer and the drops that sprinkle her fair face are not sweat, but crystal tears?"

Mechanically Inez's arm whipped out to smack some sense into Quixote's head, but the knight misinterpreted Inez's actions and believed that the lady was sweetly offering her hand, which he took at once. It was dry and cracked, but to Quixote's idealistic senses, the skin he felt was smoother than the finest silk.

Boisterous chortles made Inez aware of the crowd that had gathered to glimpse the Quixote, some of them curious, others wanting a good chuckle. The sight of the madman pathetically kneeing in the dust and courting a middle-aged trollop such as Inez was too much for them. They were all laughing.

Humiliated and disgusted by Quixote's display, Inez tugged herself free. "Go to the devil!"