Roused from his nap by a knock on the head, he searches for an assailant. Olives are a curious choice of weapon, but he’s never underestimated a foe, and he won’t start now. After all, there’s an entire village to protect. Damsels to save. Dangerous conquests to undertake. I’m under attack, he thinks, and those windmills look mighty suspicious.
The olive tree is sturdy against his back. The sun warms his face. Exhausted from noble feats and unparalleled chivalry, he lets the caress of a soft breeze whisk him off to sleep. He dreams of forthcoming clashes with unseen foes, of Dulcinea dancing elegantly on a hillside, and of endless parades in his honor.
