Cide Hamete Benengeli prefaces the chapter by saying he can’t believe that Quixote’s story is true, nor can he believe that Quixote lied, though there’s a rumor that he admitted to inventing the story on his deathbed. As they ride along, the three travellers see a man carrying arms to a nearby inn for some important event, and they are so curious that they too decide to spend the night at the inn. They also run into a young man on his way to enlist in the royal army, and Quixote delivers an elegant speech about the honor and glory of war. The three men arrive at the inn that night.
The adventure did not take place, yet it was perfectly real for Quixote. It occupies a middle ground between truth and falsehood. It has no real-life counterpart, not even a false one, as in the adventure of the windmills. And we can’t help but feel that Quixote knows that the adventure is a little too perfect, too complete; we sense a dash of self-awareness.