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Title: The Legend of the Glorious Adventures of Tyl Ulenspiegel in the land of Flanders and elsewhere

Author: Charles de Coster

Illustrator: Albert Delstanche

Translator: Geoffrey Arundel Whitworth

Release date: October 2, 2011 [eBook #37599]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
        Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
        made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGEND OF THE GLORIOUS ADVENTURES OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL IN THE LAND OF FLANDERS AND ELSEWHERE ***




Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)








                           THE LEGEND OF THE
                          GLORIOUS ADVENTURES
                       OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL IN THE
                      LAND OF FLANDERS & ELSEWHERE



                          by CHARLES DE COSTER

                       Translated from the French
                         By Geoffrey Whitworth







ILLUSTRATIONS


    Lamme and Ulenspiegel at the Minne-Water            Frontispiece
    At Damme when the Hawthorn was in flower        Facing page    2
    Claes and Soetkin                                              8
    Philip and the Monkey                                         26
    Nele and Ulenspiegel                                          44
    The Feast of the Blind Men                                    54
    The Monk's Sermon                                             76
    Father and Son                                                94
    Ulenspiegel and Soetkin by the Dead Body of Claes            118
    "Ah! The lovely month of May!"                               174
    Lamme succours Ulenspiegel                                   218
    The Mock Marriage                                            224
    Lamme the Victor                                             232
    "'Tis van te beven de klinkaert"                             242
    The Death of Betkin                                          248
    "The ashes of Claes beat upon my heart"                      262
    Nele accuses Hans                                            268
    Katheline led to the Trial by Water                          278
    "Shame on you!" cried Ulenspiegel                            284
    The Sixth Song                                               302







FOREWORD


The book here offered in English to the English-speaking public has
long been known and admired by students as the first and perhaps
the most notable example of modern Belgian literature. Its author
was born of obscure parentage in 1827, and, after a life passed
in not much less obscurity, died in 1879. The ten years which were
devoted to the composition of "The Legend of Tyl Ulenspiegel" were
devoted to what proved, for de Coster, little more than a labour of
love. Recognition came to him but from the few, and it was not till
some thirty years after his death that an official monument was raised
at Brussels to his memory, and an official oration delivered in his
praise by Camille Lemonnier.

To the undiscerning among his contemporaries de Coster may have
appeared little else than a rather eccentric journalist with
archæological tastes. For a time, indeed, he held a post on the
Royal Commission which was appointed in 1860 to investigate and
publish old Flemish laws. And towards the end of his life he became
a Professor of History and French Literature at the Military School
in Brussels. Never, certainly, has a work of imagination, planned
on an epic scale, been composed with a closer regard for historical
detail than this Legend. But if our present age is less likely to be
held by this than by those other qualities in the book of vitality
and passion, it can only be that de Coster poured into his work not
merely the knowledge and accuracy of an historian, but the love as
well and the ardour of a poet and a patriot.

The objection--if it be an objection--that de Coster borrowed
unblushingly from his predecessors need never be disputed. His style
is frankly Rabelaisian. The stage whereon his actors play their parts
is set, scene almost for scene, from the generally available documents
that served such a writer as Thomas Motley for his "History of the
Rise of the Dutch Republic." Even the name, the very lineaments
of Ulenspiegel, are borrowed from that familiar figure of the
sixteenth-century chap-books [1] whose jolly pranks and schoolboy
frolics have been crystallized in the French word espièglerie,
and in our own day set to music in one of the symphonic poems of
Richard Strauss.

Yet from such well-worn ingredients de Coster's genius has mixed a
potion most individually his own. The style of Rabelais is tempered
with a finish, a neatness, and a wit that are as truly the product
of the modern spirit as was the flamboyant jollity of Rabelais
the product of his own Renaissance age; the sensible, historical
foreground of a Motley becomes the coloured background to a romantic
drama of human vice and virtue, linked in its turn to a conception
of the cosmic process which has no other home, surely, than in the
author's brain. While Ulenspiegel himself is now not simply the type
of young high spirits and animal good humour, but a being as complex,
as many-sided almost as humanity--all brightness of intellect, all
warmth of heart, all honour, and all dream--the immortal Spirit of
Flanders that knows not what it is to be beaten, whose last song must
for ever remain unsung.

What shall we say of those other homely personages who fill the
scene--symbols no less of Flemish character at its finest and of the
enduringly domestic springs of Flemish national life? Claes the trusty
fatherhood, Soetkin the valiant motherhood of Flanders, Nele her true
heart, Lamme Goedzak her great belly that hungers always for more and
yet more good things to eat and is never satisfied? Or what, again,
of the tragic Katheline, half witch, half martyr, and the centre of
that dark intrigue which seems to throb like a shuttle through the
mazy pattern of the plot, threading it all into unity?

From yet another standpoint: as an envisagement of the horrors of the
Spanish Inquisition, de Coster's work is probably without parallel
in an already well-tilled field. The sinister figure of the King of
Spain broods over it all like a Kaiser, and the episodes of stake and
torture are recorded with a realism which might appear exaggerated
had not modern Belgium--though in terms of "scientific warfare"--an
even more devilish tale to tell. The fact is that de Coster's trick of
stating horror and leaving it to make its full effect without a touch
of the rhetoric of indignation, proves the deadliest of all corrosive
weapons; and it is hardly surprising that the book had been hailed
in some quarters as a Protestant tract. But de Coster himself was in
no sense a theological partisan, and his sympathy with the Beggarmen
sprang from his enthusiasm for national liberty far more than from
any bias towards the Protestant cause as such. That Catholicism has
ever been identified with tyranny the best Catholic will most deplore,
nor will de Coster's "traditional" irreverence blind such a reader's
eyes to the spiritual generosity which permeates the whole work,
and is, indeed, its most essential characteristic.

It remains to add that, in the interests of war-time publishing,
the present version represents a curtailment of the Legend as it left
the author's hands. Here and there also, to maintain the continuity of
incident, the translator has permitted himself some slight modification
of the original text. By this means it is hoped that the proportions
of the whole have been fairly maintained, and that no vital aspect
of plot or atmosphere has been altogether suppressed or allowed an
undue prominence.


G. A. W.







HERE BEGINS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE LEGEND OF THE GLORIOUS JOYOUS AND
HEROIC ADVENTURES OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL AND LAMME GOEDZAK IN THE LAND
OF FLANDERS AND ELSEWHERE


I


At Damme, in Flanders, when the May hawthorn was coming into flower,
Ulenspiegel was born, the son of Claes.

When she had wrapped him in warm swaddling-clothes, Katheline, the
midwife, made a careful examination of the infant's head, and found
a piece of skin hanging therefrom.

"Born with a caul!" she cried out joyfully. "Born under a lucky
star!" But a moment later, noticing a small black mole on the baby's
shoulder, she fell into lamentation.

"Alas!" she wept, "it is the black finger-print of the devil!"

"Monsieur Satan," said Claes, "must have risen early this morning,
if already he has found time to set his sign upon my son!"

"Be sure, he never went to bed," answered Katheline. "Here is
Chanticleer only just awakening the hens!"

And so saying she went out of the room, leaving the baby in the arms
of Claes.

Then it was that the dawn came bursting through the clouds of night,
and the swallows skimmed chirruping over the fields, while the sun
began to show his dazzling face on the horizon. Claes opened the
window and thus addressed himself to Ulenspiegel.

"O babe born with a caul, behold! Here is my Lord the Sun who comes
to make his salutation to the land of Flanders. Gaze on Him whenever
you can; and if ever in after years you come to be in any doubt or
difficulty, not knowing what is right to do, ask counsel of Him. He
is bright and He is warm. Be sincere as that brightness, and virtuous
as that warmth."

"Claes, my good man," said Soetkin, "you are preaching to the
deaf. Come, drink, son of mine."

And so saying, the mother offered to her new-born babe a draught from
nature's fountain.






II


While Ulenspiegel nestled close and drank his fill, all the birds in
the country-side began to waken.

Claes, who was tying up sticks, regarded his wife as she gave the
breast to Ulenspiegel.

"Wife," he said, "hast made good provision of this fine milk?"

"The pitchers are full," she said, "but that doth not suffice for my
peace of mind."

"It seems that you are downhearted over your good fortune," said Claes.

"I was thinking," she said, "that there is not so much as a penny
piece in that leather bag of ours hanging on the wall."

Claes took hold of the bag and shook it. But in vain. There was no
sign of any money. He looked crestfallen. Nevertheless, hoping to
comfort his good wife--

"What are you worrying about?" says he. "Have we not in the bin that
cake we offered Katheline yesterday? And don't I see a great piece of
meat over there that should make good milk for the child for three
days at the least? And this tub of butter, is it a ghost-tub? And
are they spectres, those apples ranged like flags and banners all
in battle order, row after row, in the storeroom? And is there no
promise of cool refreshment guarded safe in the paunch of our fine
old cask of cuyte de Bruges?"

Soetkin said: "When we take the child to be christened we shall have
to give two patards to the priest, and a florin for the feasting."

But at this moment Katheline returned, with a great bundle of herbs
in her arms.

"For the child that is born with a caul," she cried. "Angelica that
keeps men from luxury; fenel that preserves them from Satan...."

"Have you none of that herb," asked Claes, "which is called florins?"

"No," said she.

"Very well," he answered, "I shall go and see if I cannot find any
growing in the canal."

And with that he went off, with his line and his fishing-net, knowing
that he would not be likely to meet any one, since it was yet an hour
before the oosterzon, which is, in the land of Flanders, six o'clock
in the morning.






III


Claes came to the Bruges canal, not far from the sea. There, having
baited his hook, he cast it into the water and let out the line. On
the opposite bank, a little boy was lying against a clump of earth,
fast asleep. The boy, who was not dressed like a peasant, woke up at
the noise that Claes was making, and began to run away, fearing no
doubt that it was the village constable come to dislodge him from his
bed and to hale him off as a vagabond to the steen. But he soon lost
his fear when he recognized Claes, and when Claes called out to him:

"Would you like to earn a penny, my boy? Well then, drive the fish
over to my side!"

At this proposal the little boy, who was somewhat stout for his years,
jumped into the water, and arming himself with a plume of long reeds,
he began to drive the fish towards Claes. When the fishing was over,
Claes drew up his line and his landing-net, and came over by the lock
gate towards where the youngster was standing.

"Your name," said Claes, "is Lamme by baptism, and Goedzak by nature,
because you are of a gentle disposition, and you dwell in the rue
Héron behind the Church of Our Lady. But tell me why it is that,
young as you are, and well dressed, you are yet obliged to sleep out
here in the open?"

"Woe is me, Mr. Charcoal-burner," answered the boy. "I have a sister
at home, a year younger than I am, who fairly thrashes me at the
least occasion of disagreement. But I dare not take my revenge upon
her back for fear of doing her some injury, sir. Last night at supper
I was very hungry, and I was clearing out with my fingers the bottom
of a dish of beef and beans. She wanted to share it, but there was
not enough for us both, sir. And when she saw me licking my lips
because the sauce smelt good, she went mad with rage, and smote me
with all her force, so hard indeed that I fled away from the house,
beaten all black and blue."

Claes asked him what his father and mother were doing during this
scene.

"My father hit me on one shoulder and my mother on the other, crying,
'Strike back at her, you coward!' but I, not wishing to strike a girl,
made my escape."

All at once, Lamme went pale all over and began to tremble in every
limb, and Claes saw a tall woman approaching, and by her side a young
girl, very thin and fierce of aspect.

"Oh, oh!" cried Lamme, holding on to Claes by his breeches, "here
are my mother and my sister come to find me. Protect me, please,
Mr. Charcoal-burner!"

"Wait," said Claes. "First of all let me give you this penny-farthing
as your wages, and now let us go and meet them without fear."

When the two women saw Lamme, they ran up and both began to belabour
him--the mother because of the fright he had given her, the sister
because it was her habit so to do. Lamme took refuge behind Claes,
and cried out:

"I have earned a penny-farthing! I have earned a penny-farthing! Do
not beat me!"

By this time, however, his mother had begun to embrace him, while the
girl was trying to force open his hands and to get at the money. But
Lamme shouted:

"The money belongs to me. You shall not have it."

And he kept his fingers tightly closed. But Claes shook the girl
roughly by the ears, and said to her:

"If you go on picking quarrels like this with your brother, he that is
as good and gentle as a lamb, I shall put you in a black charcoal-pit,
and then it won't be I any longer that will be shaking you by the ears,
but the red devil himself from hell, and he will pull you into pieces
with his great claws and his teeth that are like forks."

At these words the girl averted her eyes from Claes, nor did she go
near Lamme, but hid behind her mother's skirts, and when she got back
into the town, she went about crying everywhere:

"The Charcoal-man has beaten me, and he keeps the devil in his cave."

Nevertheless she did not attack Lamme any more; but being the bigger
of the two, she made him work in her place, and the gentle simpleton
obeyed her right willingly.

Now Claes, on his way home, sold his catch to a farmer that often used
to buy fish from him. And when he was home again, he said to Soetkin:

"Behold! Here's what I have found in the bellies of four pike, nine
carp, and a basketful of eels." And he threw on the table a couple
of florins and half a farthing.

"Why don't you go fishing every day, my man?" asked Soetkin.

"For fear of becoming a fish myself, and being caught on the hook of
the village constable," he told her.






IV


Claes, the father of Ulenspiegel, was known in Damme by the name
of Kooldraeger, that is to say, the Charcoal-burner. Claes had a
black head of hair, bright eyes, and a skin the colour of his own
merchandise--save only on Sundays and Feast Days, when his cottage
ran with soap and water. He was a short, thick-set man, strong,
and of a joyful countenance.

Towards the end of the day, when evening was coming on, he would
sometimes visit the tavern on the road to Bruges, there to rinse his
charcoal-blackened throat with a draught of cuyte; and then the women
standing at their doorways to sniff the evening dew would cry out to
him in friendly greeting:

"A good night and a good drink to you, Charcoal-burner."

"A good night to you, and a lively husband!" Claes would reply.

And sometimes the girls, trooping home together from their work in
the fields, would line up in front of him right across the road,
barring his way.

"What will you give us for the right of passage?" they would cry. "A
scarlet ribbon, a buckle of gold, a pair of velvet slippers, or a
florin piece for alms?"

But Claes, holding one of the girls fast by the waist, would give
her a hearty kiss on her fresh cheek or on her neck, just whichever
happened to be nearest, and then he would say:

"You must ask the rest, my dears, of your sweethearts."

And off they would go amidst peals of laughter.

As for the children, they always recognized Claes by his loud voice
and by the noise his clogs made on the road, and they would run up
to him and cry:

"Good evening, Charcoal-burner."

"The same to you, my little angels," he would answer; "but come no
nearer, lest perchance I turn you into blackamoors."

But the children were bold, and oftentimes would make the venture. Then
Claes would seize one of them by the doublet, and rubbing his blackened
hands up and down the little fellow's nose, would send him off all
sooty, but laughing just the same, to the huge delight of the others.

Soetkin, wife of Claes, was a good wife and mother. She was up with
the dawn, and worked as diligently as any ant. She and Claes laboured
together in the field, yoking themselves to the plough as though they
had been oxen. It was hard work dragging it along, but even the plough
was not so heavy as the harrow, that rustic implement whose task it
was to tear up the hardened earth with teeth of wood. But Claes and
his wife worked always with a gay heart, and enlivened themselves with
singing. And in vain was the earth hard, in vain did the sun hurl
down on them his hottest beams, in vain were their knees stiffened
with bending and their loins tired with the cruel effort of dragging
the harrow along, for they had only to stop a moment while Soetkin
turned to Claes her gentle face, and while Claes kissed that mirror
of a gentle heart, and straightway they forgot how tired they were.






V


Now the previous day, the town crier had given notice from before
the Town Hall that Madame, the wife of the Emperor Charles, being
near the time of her delivery, it behoved the people to say prayers
on her behalf.

Katheline came to Claes in a great state of excitement.

"Whatever is the matter, my good woman?" he asked.

"Alas!" she cried, catching her breath, "behold! This night the
ghosts are mowing men down like grass. Little girls are being buried
alive. The executioner is dancing on the body of the dead. And broken,
this night, is that Stone which has been sweating blood these nine
months past and more!"

"Mercy on us!" groaned Soetkin. "Mercy on us, O Lord! This is a black
omen indeed for the land of Flanders."

"Do you see these things with your own eyes wide awake, or perchance
in a dream?" Claes asked her.

"With my own eyes," Katheline told him. And then all pale and tearful,
she continued in these words:

"To-night two children are born: the one in Spain--the infant
Philip--and the other in this land of Flanders--the son of Claes,
he that later on shall be known by the name of Ulenspiegel. Philip
will grow up to be a common hangman, being the child of the Emperor
Charles the Fifth, the destroyer of our country. But Ulenspiegel
will be a master of the merry words and frolics of youth, yet good
of heart withal, having for his father Claes, the brave working man
that knows how to earn his own living with courage, honesty, and
gentleness. Charles the Emperor and Philip the King will go riding
their way through life, doing evil by battle, extortion, and other
crimes. But Claes, working hard all the week, living according to right
and according to law, and laughing at his laborious lot instead of
being cast down thereby, will be the model of all the good workpeople
of Flanders. Ulenspiegel, young and immortal, will ramble over the
world and never settle in one place. And he will be peasant, nobleman,
painter, sculptor, all in one. And he will continue his wanderings
hither and thither, lauding things beautiful and good, and laughing
stupidity to scorn. Claes, then, O noble people of Flanders, is your
courage; Soetkin your valiant motherhood; Ulenspiegel your soul. A
sweet and gentle maiden, lover of Ulenspiegel and immortal like him,
shall be your heart; and Lamme Goedzak, with his pot-belly, shall be
your stomach. And up aloft shall stand the devourers of the people; and
beneath them their victims. On high the thieving hornets; and below the
busy bees. While in heaven bleed for evermore the wounds of Christ."

And when she had thus spoken, Katheline, the kindly sorceress, went
to sleep.






VI


One day Claes caught a large salmon, and on the Sunday he and Soetkin
and Katheline and the little Ulenspiegel had it for their dinner. But
Katheline only ate enough to satisfy a sparrow.

"How now, mother?" said Claes. "What has happened to the air of
Flanders? Has it suddenly grown solid, so that to breathe it is as
nourishing as a plate of beef? Why, if such were the case, I suppose
you will be telling me that the rain is as good as soup, and the hail
like beans, and the snow some sort of celestial fricassee, fit cheer
for a poor traveller?"

But Katheline shook her head, and said not a word.

"Dear me," said Claes, "our mother is in the dumps it seems! What
can it be that grieves her so?"

But Katheline spake as follows, in a voice that was like a breath
of wind:

"The wicked night falls blackly. He tells of his coming from afar,
screaming like the sea-eagle. I tremble, and pray to Our Lady--all
in vain. For the Night knows neither walls nor hedges, neither doors
nor windows. Everywhere, like a spirit, he finds a way in. The ladder
creaks. The Night has entered into the loft where I am sleeping. The
Night seizes me in arms that are cold and hard as marble. His face
is frozen, and his kisses like damp snow. The whole cottage seems to
be tossed about over the earth, riding like a ship at sea...."

Claes said: "I would counsel you to go every morning to Mass, that
our Lord Christ may give you strength to chase away this phantom
from hell."

"He is so beautiful!" said Katheline.






VII


Ulenspiegel was weaned, and began to grow like a young poplar. And
soon Claes gave up caressing him, but loved him in a roughish manner,
fearing to make a milksop of him. And when Ulenspiegel came home
complaining that he had got the worst of it in some boyish affray,
Claes would give him a beating because, forsooth, he had not beaten
the others. And with such an education Ulenspiegel grew up as valiant
as a young lion.

When Claes was from home, Ulenspiegel would ask his mother to give him
a liard with which he might go out and amuse himself. Soetkin would
grow angry, and ask why he wanted to go out for amusement--he would
do better to stay at home and tie up faggots. And when he saw that
she was not going to give him anything, the boy would start yelling
like an eagle, while Soetkin made a great clatter with the pots and
pans that she was washing in the wooden tub, pretending that she did
not hear his noise. Then Ulenspiegel would fall to weeping, and the
gentle mother would stop her pretence at harshness, and would come
and kiss him.

"Will a denier be enough for you?" she would say.

Now it should be noted that a denier is equal to six liards.

Thus did his mother dote on Ulenspiegel even to excess; and when
Claes was not there, he was king in the house.






VIII


One morning Soetkin saw Claes pacing up and down the kitchen with
head bent, like a man lost in thought.

"Whatever is the matter with you, my man?" she asked him. "You are
pale, and you look angry and distracted."

Claes answered her in a low voice, like a dog growling.

"The Emperor is about to reissue those cursed placards. Death once
again is hovering over the land of Flanders. The Informers are to
have one half of the property of their victims, if so be that such
property does not exceed the value of one hundred florins."

"We are poor," Soetkin said.

"Not poor enough," Claes answered. "Evil folk there are--crows
and corpse-devouring vultures--who would as readily denounce us
to the Emperor for half a sackful of coal as for half a sackful of
florins. What had she, poor old Widow Tanneken that was wife to Sis
the tailor, she that was buried alive at Heyst? Nothing but a Latin
Bible, three gold florins, and a few household utensils of English
pewter. But they were coveted by a neighbour. Then there was Joanna
Martens whom they burnt as a witch after she had been thrown into
the water, for her body did not sink and they held it for a sign of
sorcery. She had a few miserable pieces of furniture and seven gold
pieces in a bag, and the Informer wanted his half of them. Alas! I
could go on till to-morrow morning giving you instances of the same
kind. But to cut a long story short, Mother, life's no longer worth
living in Flanders, and all on account of these placards. Soon every
night-time the death-cart will be passing through the town, and we
shall hear the arid click of bones as the skeletons shake in the wind."

Soetkin said: "You ought not to try and frighten me, my man. The
Emperor is the father of Flanders and Brabant, and as such he is
endowed with long-suffering, gentleness, patience, and pity."

"He would be obliged to renounce too much if he were all that,"
Claes answered, "for he has inherited a great amount of confiscated
property."

At that very moment the sound of a trumpet was heard, and the clash
of the Heralds' cymbals. Claes and Soetkin, carrying Ulenspiegel in
their arms by turns, rushed out towards where the sound came from,
and with them went a great concourse of people. They came to the Town
Hall, in front of which stood the Heralds on horseback, blowing their
trumpets and sounding their cymbals, and the Provost with his staff
of justice, and the Town Proctor, also on horseback and holding in
his hands the Imperial Edict which he was preparing to read out to
the assembled multitude.

Claes heard every word, how "that it was once again forbidden to all
and sundry to print, read, to possess or to defend, the writings,
books or doctrines of Martin Luther, of John Wycliffe, John Hus,
Marcilius de Padua, Æcolampadius, Ulricus Zwynglius, Philip Melancthon,
Franciscus Lambertus, Joannes Pomeranus, Otto Brunselsius, Justus
Jonas, Joannes Puperis, and Gorciamus; as well as any copies of the
New Testament printed by Adrien de Berghes, Christophe de Remonda,
and Joannes Xel, which books were full of Lutheran and other kinds
of heresy, and had been condemned and rejected by the Doctors of
Theology at the University of Louvain.

"Likewise and in the same manner it was forbidden to paint, portray
or cause to be painted or portrayed any opprobrious paintings or
figures of God, or of the Blessed Virgin Mary, or of the saints;
or to break, destroy or deface the images or pictures made to the
honour, remembrance or recollection of God, the Virgin Mary, or of
the saints recognized by the Church.

"Furthermore," said the placard, "no one, whatever his position in
life, should presume to discuss or dispute concerning Holy Writ, even
in regard to matters admittedly doubtful, unless he were a theologian,
well known and approved by some established university.

"His Sacred Majesty decreed, among other penalties, that
suspected persons should not be allowed to carry on any honourable
occupation. And as for men who had fallen again into error, or who
were obstinate in the same, they should be condemned to be burnt by
fire, slow or fast, either in a covering of straw, or else bound
to a stake, according to the discretion of the judge. Others, if
they were men of noble or of gentle birth, were to be executed at
the point of the sword, while working people were to be hung, and
the women buried alive. Afterwards their heads were to be fixed on
the top of poles for an example. The property of all the aforesaid,
in so far as it was situate in places subject to confiscation, was
to be made over to the benefit of the Emperor.

"To the Informers His Sacred Majesty gave one half of all the property
of the dead, provided that such property did not exceed, on any one
occasion, a hundred pounds gross in Flemish money. As for the half
that went to the Emperor, he would reserve it for works of piety and
mercy, as was done in the case of the confiscations at Rome."

And Claes went away sadly, with Soetkin and Ulenspiegel.






IX


Once again did Soetkin bear under her girdle the sign of approaching
motherhood; and Katheline also was in a like condition. But she was
afraid, and never ventured out of her house.

When Soetkin went to see her, "Alas!" said Katheline, "what shall I
do? Must I smother the ill-starred fruit of my womb? I would rather
die myself. And yet if the Sergeant summons me for having a child
without being married, they will make me pay twenty florins like a
girl of no reputation, and I shall be flogged in the Market Square."

Soetkin consoled and comforted her as sweetly as she could, then left
her, and returned thoughtfully home.

One day she said to Claes:

"If I brought two children into the world instead of one, would you
be angry? Would you beat me, my man?"

"That I cannot say," Claes answered.

"But if the second were not really mine, but turned out to be like
this child of Katheline's, the offspring of some one unknown--the
devil maybe?"

"Devils beget fire, death, smoke," Claes replied, "but
children--no. Yet will I take for my own the child of Katheline."

"You will?" cried Soetkin. "You really will?"

"I have said it," Claes replied.

Soetkin hurried off to tell Katheline the news, who when she heard
it could not contain her delight, but cried aloud with joy.

"He has spoken, the good man, and his words are the salvation of my
body. He will be blessed by God--and blessed by the devil as well,
if really"--and she trembled as she spoke the words--"if really it is
the devil who is father to the little one that begins to stir beneath
my breast!"

And in due time Soetkin and Katheline brought into the world,
the one a baby boy and the other a baby girl. Both were brought to
baptism as the children of Claes. Soetkin's son was christened Hans,
and did not live. But Katheline's daughter, who was christened Nele,
grew up finely.

She drank of the liquor of life from a fourfold flagon. Two of the
flagons belonged to Katheline, and two were Soetkin's. And there was
many a sweet dispute as to whose turn it was to give the child to
drink. But much against her will, Katheline was obliged to let her
milk dry up, lest questions should be asked as to where it came from,
and she no mother....

But when the little Nele, that was her daughter, was weaned, then
Katheline took her home to live with her, nor did she let her go back
to Soetkin except when Nele called for her "mother."

The neighbours said that it was a right and natural thing to do for
Katheline to look after the child of Claes and Soetkin. For they
were needy and poverty-stricken, whereas Katheline was comparatively
well off.






X


One day Soetkin said to Claes:

"Husband, I am heart-broken. This is now the third day that Tyl has
been away. Know you not where he is?"

Claes answered her sadly:

"He is with all the others, roving vagabonds like himself, on the high
road. Verily, it was cruel of God to give us such a son. When he was
born I thought of him as the joy of our old age, and as another help
in our house, for I hoped to make a good workman of him. But now some
evil chance hath turned him into a thief and a good-for-nothing."

"You are too hard on him, my man," said Soetkin. "He is our son, and he
is but nine years old, and filled with childish folly. It is needful
that he also, like the trees of the field, should let fall his husks
by the wayside ere he decks himself with the full foliage of virtue
and honesty. He is mischievous; I do not deny it. But later on this
spirit of his will be turned to good account, if instead of driving
him to tricks and frolics it is put to some useful purpose. He makes
fun of the neighbours; true. But one day you will find him take his
rightful place in the midst of a circle of gay and happy friends. He
is always laughing and frivolous; yes, but a young face that is too
serious bodes ill for the future. And if he is always running about,
it is because his growing body needs to be exercised; and if he is
idle and does no work, it is because he is not yet old enough to
feel the duty of labour. And if, now and then, he does stay away
from us for half a week at a time, it is only because he fails to
realize the grief he causes us; for he has a good heart, husband,
and at bottom he loves us."

Claes shook his head and said nothing, and went to sleep, leaving
Soetkin to her lonely tears. And she, in the morning, afraid lest her
son had fallen sick upon the road, went out and stood at the cottage
doorstep to see if he were coming back. But there was no sign of him,
and she came back into the cottage, and sat by the window, gazing
out all the time into the street. And many a time did her heart dance
within her bosom at the light footfall of some urchin that she thought
might be her own; but when the sound passed by, and she knew that it
was not Ulenspiegel, then she wept, poor mother that she was.

Ulenspiegel, meanwhile, with the fellow-scamps that bore him company,
was away at Bruges, at the Saturday market.

There were to be seen the shoemakers and the cobblers, each in his
separate stall, the tailors selling suits of clothes, the miesevangers
from Antwerp (they that snare tom-tits by night with the aid of an
owl); and the poulterers too, and the rascally dog-fanciers, and
sellers of catskins that are made into gloves, and of breast-pads and
doublets: buyers too of every kind, townsmen and townswomen, valets,
servants, pantlers and butlers, and cooks, male and female, all
together, buying and selling, each according to his quality shouting
his wares, crying up or crying down, with every trick of the trade.

Now in one corner of the market-place stood a wonderful tent made
of cloth, raised aloft on four piles. At the door of the tent was
a peasant from the level land of Alost, and by his side two monks
begged for alms. For the sum of one patard the peasant offered to
show to the curious or devout a genuine piece of the shoulder-bone of
St. Mary of Egypt. There he was, yelling out in his broken voice the
merits of the saint, and not omitting from his song that tale which
tells how she, being without money, paid the young ferryman in the
beautiful coinage of Nature herself, lest by refusing a workman his
due she might be guilty of sin. And all the while the two monks kept
nodding their heads, as much as to say that it was Gospel truth that
the peasant was speaking. And at their side was a fat, red-faced woman,
as lewd-looking as Astarte, blowing a raucous bagpipe, while at her
side a young girl sang in a voice sweet as a bird's, though no one
heeded her. Now above the door of the tent, and swung between two
poles by a cord fastened to either handle, was a tub of Holy Water
which the fat woman affirmed had been brought from Rome; and the two
monks lolled their heads backwards and forwards in confirmation or what
she said. Ulenspiegel, looking at the tub, grew suddenly thoughtful.

For to one of the posts of the tent was tied a donkey--a donkey that
to all appearance was wont to feed on hay rather than on oats. For
its head was down, and it scanned the earth in futile hopes of seeing
but a thistle growing there.

"Comrades," said Ulenspiegel, pointing to the fat old woman, the two
monks, and the melancholy donkey, "since the masters play so well,
let us also make the donkey dance."

And so saying he went to a stall close by and purchased six liards'
worth of pepper. Then he lifted up the tail of the donkey, and placed
the pepper underneath it.

When the donkey began to feel the sting of the pepper, he cast his eye
backwards under his tail, endeavouring to discover the cause of the
unaccustomed heat. Thinking that it must be at the least some fiery
devil from hell, the donkey conceived the not unnatural desire to run
away and escape him; so he began to bray as loud as he could, and to
kick up his heels, and to shake the post with all his strength. At
the first shock, the tub hanging between the two poles tipped over,
and the holy water ran about over the tent and over those that were
inside. And soon the tent itself collapsed, covering with a dripping
mantle all those who were listening to the wondrous tale of St. Mary
of Egypt. And Ulenspiegel and his comrades could hear a mighty noise
issuing from beneath the tent, a noise of moaning and lamentation. For
the devout folk that were within began to accuse one another of having
overturned the tub, and presently grew red with rage, and fell upon
each other with many furious blows. The tent began to bulge here and
there above the frantic efforts of the combatants. And each time that
Ulenspiegel descried some rounded form outlined through the cloth of
the tent, he went and gave it a prick with a pin. This was the signal
for new and louder cries, and for fiercer and more general fisticuffs.

Ulenspiegel was delighted, and soon he was to become even more so,
when he saw the donkey begin to run away, dragging behind him tent,
tub, tent-posts and all, while the master of the tent, with his wife
and daughter, hung on behind the baggage. At last the donkey, being
able to go no farther, raised his nose in the air, and gave vent to
bray after bray, a music that only ceased at those moments when he
was looking back under his tail to see if the fire that still raged
there would not soon go out.

All this time, the devout assembly in the tent were still
a-fighting. But the two monks, without troubling at all about what
was going on inside, began to gather up the money that had fallen
from the collection-plate, and Ulenspiegel assisted them devotedly,
but not without some profit to himself....






XI


Now all this time that the vagabond son of the charcoal-burner was
growing up in merriment and mischief, the moody scion of His Sacred
Majesty the Emperor was vegetating like a weed in moody melancholy. The
Lords and Ladies of the Court used to watch him as he mouched along
the rooms and passages of the palace at Valladolid, a frail, pitiful
specimen of humanity, with legs that shook and scarce seemed able
to support the weight of the big head that was covered with stiff
blond hair.

He loved to haunt dark corridors, and he would stay sitting there
whole hours together, with his legs stretched out in front of him,
hoping that some valet or other might trip over them by mistake; then
he would have the fellow flogged; for he took pleasure in listening
to his cries under the lash. But he never laughed.

Another day he would select some other corridor in which to lay a
similar trap, and once again he would sit himself down with his legs
stretched out in front of him. Then one of the Ladies of the Court,
mayhap, or one of the Lords or pages, would stumble across him;
and if they fell down and hurt themselves, he took delight in their
discomfiture. But he never laughed. And if by chance any one knocked
against him but did not fall down, he would cry out as if he had been
struck. He liked to see the other's fright. But he never laughed.

His Sacred Majesty was informed of these goings-on, and he commanded
that no notice should be taken of the child, saying that if his son
did not want people to walk over his legs he should not place his
legs in a position where they were liable to be walked over. Philip
was angry at this, but he said nothing and was no more seen, till
one fine summer day when he went out into the courtyard to warm his
shivering body in the sun.

Charles, riding back from the war, saw his son thus brewing his
melancholy.

"How now?" cried the Emperor. "What a difference there is between us
two, my son! At your age I loved nothing better than to go climbing
trees after squirrels. Or, with the aid of a rope, to clamber down some
steep cliff to take young eagles out of their nests. I might easily
have broken my bones at the game; but they only grew the harder. And
when I went out hunting, the deer fled into the thickets at sight of
me, armed with my trusty arquebus."

"Ah, my Lord Father," sighed the child, "but you see, I have the
stomach-ache."

"For that," said Charles, "good wine from Paxarete is a most certain
remedy."

"I don't like wine. I have a headache, my Lord Father."

"Then you should run and jump and play about like other children of
your age."

"I have stiff legs, my Lord Father."

"And how should it be otherwise," said Charles, "seeing that you
make no more use of them than if they were of wood? But you shall
go riding on a high-mettled horse."

The child began to cry.

"Oh no, for mercy's sake! I have a pain in my back!"

"Come, come," said Charles, "are you ill everywhere then?"

"I should not be ill at all," answered the child, "if only they would
let me alone."

"Do you think to pass your royal life away in dreams like a
scholar?" the Emperor asked impatiently. "Such people as that, if
indeed it be necessary for the inking of their parchments, may rightly
seek out silence, solitude, retirement from the world. But for thee,
son of the sword, I would desire warm blood, a lynx's eye, a fox's
craft, and the strength of Hercules. Why do you cross yourself? Blood
of God! What should a lion's cub be doing with this mimicry of women
at their prayers!"

"Hark! It is the Angelus, my Lord Father," answered the child.






XII


May and June that year were in very truth the months of flowers. Never
had Flanders known the hawthorn so fragrant, never the gardens so gay
with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle. And when the wind blew eastwards
from England it carried with it the breath of all this flowery land,
and the people, at Antwerp and elsewhere, sniffed the air joyfully
and cried aloud:

"How good the scent of the wind that blows from Flanders!"

Then it was that the bees were busy sucking honey from the flowers,
making wax, and laying their eggs within the hives that were all too
small to house the swarms. What workman's music they made, under that
canopy of azure sky that was spread so dazzlingly over the rich earth!

The hives were made of rushes, straw, osiers or of wattled hay. And
there the bees, like clever basket-makers, lined and tunnelled
the hives with their beautifully fitting tools. And as for the
bread-makers, this long time past their numbers were scarce sufficient
for the work they had to do. In a single swarm there would be as many
as three thousand bees and two thousand seven hundred drones! The
quality of the comb was so exquisite that the Dean of Damme dispatched
eleven combs to the Emperor Charles out of gratitude for the new
edicts that had revived in Flanders the earlier vigour of the Holy
Inquisition. It was Philip, forsooth, that ate them all; but little
good did they do him!

But in Flanders, the rascals of the roads, the beggars and vagabonds
and all that lazy good-for-nothing crowd who would risk hanging rather
than do a day's work, were soon enticed by the taste of the honey to
come along and steal their share. And by night they prowled around
the hives in gangs. Now Claes had made some hives for the purpose
of attracting the wandering swarms of bees, and some of these hives
were full already, but there were others that stood empty waiting for
the bees. Claes kept watch all night to guard this sugary wealth of
his; and when he was tired he asked Ulenspiegel to take his place,
the which Ulenspiegel did right willingly.

It was a cold night, and Ulenspiegel to avoid the chill took refuge
in one of the hives, curling himself up inside, and looking out from
two openings that had been made in the roof of the hive.

Just as he was going off to sleep, he heard a rustle in the bushy
hedge near by, and then the voices of two men. They were thieves,
no doubt, and peering forth from the openings aforesaid, Ulenspiegel
saw that they both had long hair and long beards, which was strange,
for a long beard is usually the sign of a nobleman. However, the two
men went peering from hive to hive, and coming at last to the one in
which Ulenspiegel was hiding, they tried its weight, and then----

"Let us take this one," they said. "It is the heaviest."

Whereupon they slung it up between them, on a couple of poles, and
carried it off. Ulenspiegel did not at all fancy being thus carted
away in a hive. But the night was clear, and the two thieves marched
along with never a word. When they had gone about fifty paces they
would stop to take breath, and then set off again. The man in front
grumbled angrily all the time at the weight of his burden. And the
man behind whined in a querulous fashion. Even so are there always
to be found two sorts of idle fellows in this world, those who are
angry at having to work, and those who merely whine at having to.

Ulenspiegel, since there seemed nothing else to do, took hold of the
hair of the man in front and gave it a pull. And he did the same to the
beard of the man at the rear; and to such purpose that the two men soon
grew annoyed at what was happening, and Mr. Angry said to Mr. Whining:

"Hi there, stop pulling my hair, you, or else I'll give you such a
whack on the head that it'll squash down into your chest, and then
you'll be looking out of your two sides like a thief through the
prison grille!"

"I should never think of doing such a thing as to pull your hair,"
said the whiner. "But what are you doing there, pulling at my beard?"

To which Mr. Angry made answer:

"It isn't I that would go hunting for fleas in the wool of a leper!"

"O sir," said the whiner, "for goodness' sake don't go shaking the
hive about like this. My poor arms cannot support it any longer."

"I shall shake it out of your arms altogether," said the other. Then
unloading himself, he placed the hive upon the ground and fell upon
his companion. And so they fought together, the one cursing, and the
other crying out for mercy.

Ulenspiegel, hearing the sound of blows, came out from the hive,
dragged it behind him into the wood close by, and having placed it
where he could find it again, returned to Claes.

And thus you may see what sort of a profit it is that thieves derive
from their quarrels.






XIII


As he grew up, Ulenspiegel acquired the habit of wandering about among
the fairs and markets of the country-side, and whenever he hit upon a
man who played the oboe, the rebec, or the bagpipes, he would offer him
a patard for a lesson in the art of making those instruments to sing.

He became especially accomplished in the art of playing the rommelpot,
an instrument which is constructed out of a round pot, a bladder, and
a straight piece of straw. And this is the way he played it. First of
all he moistened the bladder and held it over the pot. Then he drew
the centre of the bladder round the joint of a straw which itself was
attached to the bottom of the pot. Finally he stretched the bladder
as tightly as he dared over the sides of the pot. In the morning,
when the bladder was dry, it sounded like a tambourine when struck,
and if one rubbed the straw it gave forth a humming sound as fine
in tone as that of any violin. And Ulenspiegel, with his musical
pot that played music like the baying of a mastiff, went out with
the other children on the day of Epiphany carrying a star made of
luminous paper, and singing carols.

Sometimes an artist would come to Damme to paint the members of one
of the Guilds, upon their knees. Ulenspiegel was always anxious
to see how the artist worked, and he would beg to be allowed to
grind the colours in return for nothing but a slice of bread, three
liards, and a pint of ale. But while he worked away at the grinding
he would carefully study the method of his master. When the artist
went away Ulenspiegel would endeavour to paint pictures like him;
and his favourite colour was scarlet. In this way he tried to paint
the portraits of Claes, of Soetkin, and of Katheline and Nele, as
well as those of the pots and pans in the kitchen. When Claes beheld
these works of art he predicted that if only he worked hard enough
Ulenspiegel would one day be able to earn florins by the dozen for
painting the inscriptions on the festal cars, or speel-wagen as they
are called in Zeeland and the land of Flanders.

Ulenspiegel also learnt to carve in wood and in stone, for once a
master-mason came to Damme to carve a stall in the choir of Notre
Dame. And this stall was made in such a way that the Dean--who was an
old man--could sit down when he so desired, yet seem to all appearance
as if he were still standing upright.

It was Ulenspiegel too who made the first carved knife-handle ever
used by the people of Zeeland. He fashioned this handle in the form
of a cage. Inside was a death's head that moved; and above it a hound
couchant. And this was the signification: "Soul true till death."

Thus it was that Ulenspiegel began to fulfil the prophecy that
Katheline had made when she said that he would be painter, sculptor,
workman, nobleman, all in one. For you must know that from father to
son the family of Claes bore arms three pint pots argent au naturel
on a ground bruinbier.

But Ulenspiegel would stick to no one profession, and Claes told him
that if he went on in this good-for-nothing way he would chase him
out of the house.






XIV


On his return from the wars, the Emperor wanted to know why his son
Philip was not there to welcome him.

The Archbishop--the royal Governor--said that the child had refused to
leave his solitude and the books which were the only things he loved.

The Emperor asked where he was to be found at the moment. The Governor
did not know exactly, but said they had better go and look for him
somewhere where it was dark. This they did.

When they had looked through a good number of rooms they came at last
to a kind of closet, unpaved and lit only by a skylight. There they
found a stake stuck into the ground, and a dear little monkey bound
to the stake by a cord round the waist. (Now this monkey had been
sent from the Indies as a present to His Highness to amuse him with
its youthful gambols).... Round the bottom of the stake were some
smoking sticks still glowing, and the closet was filled with a foul
smell as of burning hair.

The poor animal had suffered so much pain while being burnt to death
that its little body no longer looked the body of a living animal,
but seemed rather like the fragment of some root, all wrinkled and
distorted. And its mouth, still open with the death-cry, was filled
with froth mixed with blood; and the face was wet with tears.

"Who has done this?" said the Emperor.

The Governor did not dare to answer, and the two men stood there
silent, sad, and angry.

All at once, in the silence, there was heard a sound of feeble coughing
that came from a corner in the shadow behind them. His Majesty turned
and beheld Philip, his son, dressed all in black, sucking an orange.

"Don Philip," he said, "come and greet your father."

The child did not move, but gazed at his father with timid eyes that
showed no spark of love.

"Is it you," asked the Emperor, "who have burnt alive in the fire
this little animal?"

The child bowed his head.

But the Emperor: "If you have been cruel enough to do such a deed,
at least be brave enough to own up to it."

The child made no answer.

His Majesty seized the orange from the child's hands, threw it to the
ground, and was about to beat his son, who was shaking with terror,
when the Archbishop restrained him, whispering in his ear:

"The day will surely come when His Highness shall prove a mighty
burner of heretics." The Emperor smiled, and the two of them went away,
leaving Philip alone with the monkey.

But others there were, not monkeys, that were destined to meet their
death in the flames....






XV


November was come, the month of hail-storms, when sufferers from cold
in the head abandon themselves freely to their concerts of coughing
and spitting. This also is the month when the turnip-fields are
filled with gangs of youths that there disport themselves and steal
whatever they can, to the mighty wrath of the peasants, who try in
vain to catch them, chasing after them with sticks and pitchforks.

Well, on an evening when Ulenspiegel was returning home from one of
these raids, he heard close by, in a corner of the hedgerow, a sound
as of groaning. He leant down, and beheld a dog lying stretched out
on the stones.

"Hallo!" he cried. "Poor little beast! What are you doing out here
so late at night?"

He patted the dog, and found that its back was all wet, as though some
one had been trying to drown it. He took it in his arms to warm it,
and when he had reached home he said:

"I have brought back a wounded animal. What shall we do with it?"

"Dress its wounds," said Claes.

Ulenspiegel laid the dog on the table; whereupon he and Claes and
Soetkin saw that it was a little red-haired Luxemburg terrier, and that
it was wounded in the back. Soetkin sponged the wounds, and anointed
them with ointment, and bound them up with linen bandages. Then
Ulenspiegel took the dog and put it in his bed; but Soetkin desired
to have it in her own, saying she was afraid that Ulenspiegel would
hurt the little red-haired thing. For in those days Ulenspiegel was
wont to toss about in his sleep all night like a young devil in a
stoup of holy water. Ulenspiegel, however, had his way, and he took
such care of the dog that in the space of six days it was walking
about like any other dog, and giving itself great airs.

And the village schoolmaster christened him Titus Bibulus Schnouffius:
Titus after a certain good Emperor of the Romans who was fond of
befriending lost dogs; Bibulus because the dog loved beer with all
the passion of a confirmed drunkard; and Schnouffius because he would
always run about sniffing and putting his nose into every rat-hole
and mole-hole he could find.






XVI


The young prince of Spain was now fifteen years old, and his custom was
to wander about the rooms and passages and stairways of the castle. But
chiefly was he to be found prowling around the women's quarters,
trying to pick a quarrel with one of the pages, who themselves were
wont to lurk on the look out, like cats, in the corridors; while
others, again, out in the courtyard, would stand singing some tender
ballad, nose in air. When the young prince heard one singing thus,
he would show himself at one of the windows, and the heart of that
poor page would be stricken with fear as he saw that white face there,
instead of the gentle eyes of his beloved.

Now among the Ladies of the Court there was a gentle dame from Dudzeel
near by Damme in Flanders. Fair-fleshed she was, like fine ripe fruit,
and marvellously beautiful, for she had green eyes and reddish hair
all wavy and gleaming gold. And of a gay humour was she, and of an
ardent complexion, nor did she make any effort to conceal her taste
for that fortunate lord to whom for the time being she was pleased
to grant the freedom of the fair estate of her love. Such a one there
was even now, handsome and proud, and she loved him well. Every day,
at a certain hour, she went to find him--a thing which Philip was
not long in finding out.

So, one day, sitting himself down on a bench that stood against a
window, he lay in wait for her, and there she saw him as she passed
by, with her bright eyes and her mouth half open, all meet for love
and fresh from her bath, with the gear of her dress of yellow brocade
swinging about her as she stepped along. Without rising from his seat,
Philip accosted her.

"Madame," says he, "could you not spare a moment?"

Restive as some eager mare, stayed in her course towards the gallant
stallion that is neighing for her in the field, the lady made answer:

"All here must needs obey the royal will of your Highness."

"Then sit you down by my side," said the Prince. And gazing at her
lewdly, harshly, cunningly, he spake again:

"I would have you recite to me the Pater Noster in Flemish. They
taught it me once, but I no longer remember it."

The poor lady did as she was bid; and then the Prince commanded her
to say it all over again, but more slowly. And so on, and so on,
until she had recited it ten times over. After that he began to speak
flatteringly to her, praising her beautiful hair, her fresh complexion,
and her bright eyes. But he dared not to say a word concerning her
lovely shoulders or her rounded throat, or of aught else beside.

When at last she was beginning to hope that she might be able to
get away, and was already scanning anxiously the courtyard where her
lord was awaiting her, the Prince demanded of her if she could rightly
tell him what were the several virtues of woman? She answered nothing,
fearing that she might say something to displease him. He then answered
for her, setting the matter forth in this wise:

"The virtues of woman are these: chastity, regard for her own honour,
and a modest manner of life." And he counselled her, therefore,
that she should dress decently and should always be careful to hide
those things which were meet to be hidden. The lady nodded assent,
saying that for His Hyperborean Highness she would certainly take
care to cover herself with ten bear-skins rather than with a single
length of muslin.

Having put him to shame by this answer, she made off gladly.

But in Philip's heart the fire of youth was alight--not the fiery glow
that dares the souls of the brave to lofty deeds, but a dark fire from
hell itself, the fire of Satan. And it flamed in his grey eyes like
the beam of a winter's moon shining down upon a charnel-house. And
it burned within him cruelly....






XVII


Now this beautiful, gay-hearted lady left Valladolid one day for her
Château of Dudzeel in Flanders.

Passing through Damme, with her fat attendant behind her, she noticed
a lad of about fifteen years of age sitting against the wall of a
cottage blowing a pair of bagpipes. In front of him was a dog with
red hair howling dismally, because, as it seemed, he did not at
all appreciate the music which his master was making. The sun shone
brightly, and at the lad's side there stood a pretty young girl in
fits of laughter at the pitiful howling of the dog.

This then was the sight that met the eye of the beautiful lady and
her fat attendant as they passed in front of the cottage: none else
but Ulenspiegel blowing his pipes, and Nele in fits of laughter,
and Titus Bibulus Schnouffius howling with all his might.

"You naughty boy," said the dame to Ulenspiegel, "will you never stop
making this poor red-hair howl like this?"

But Ulenspiegel, staring back at her, blew his pipes more valiantly
than ever, and Bibulus Schnouffius howled the more dismally, and Nele
laughed all the louder.

The lady's attendant grew angry, and pointed at Ulenspiegel, saying:

"If I beat this wretched little imp of a man with the scabbard of my
sword he would give over his insolent row."

Ulenspiegel looked the attendant in the face and called him
"Jan Papzak" because of his fat belly, and went on blowing his
bagpipes. The attendant came up to him, and threatened him with his
fist. But Bibulus Schnouffius went for him straightway and bit him
in the leg, and the man fell down, crying for mercy:

"Help, help!"

The dame only smiled, and said to Ulenspiegel:

"Tell me, my player of bagpipes, is the road still the same that
leads from Damme to Dudzeel?"

But Ulenspiegel went on playing, and only nodded his head and stared.

"Why do you look at me so fixedly?" she asked him.

But he, still continuing to play, opened his eyes all the wider as
though transported by an ecstasy of admiration.

"Are you not ashamed," she said, "young as you are, to stare at
ladies so?"

Ulenspiegel blushed faintly, but went on blowing his pipes, and
staring more than ever.

"I have already asked you once," the lady insisted, "whether the road
is still the same that leads from Damme to Dudzeel."

"It is green no longer since you deprived it of the honour of carrying
you," Ulenspiegel answered.

"Will you show me the way?" said the lady.

But Ulenspiegel still remained sitting where he was, and still went
on staring at her. And she, seeing him so roguish, and knowing it
all for the gamesomeness of youth, forgave him willingly.

He got up at last, and began to walk back into the cottage.

"Whither are you going?" she asked him.

"To put on my best clothes," he replied.

"Very well," she said.

Then the lady sat herself down on the bench, close to the doorstep,
and tried to talk to Nele. But Nele would not answer her, for she
was jealous.

It was not long before Ulenspiegel returned, well washed and clothed
in fustian. He looked fine in his Sunday clothes, the little man.

"Are you really going off with this fine lady?" Nele asked him.

"I shall soon be back," he told her.

"Let me go instead of you," said Nele.

"No," he said, "the roads are muddy."

"Why, little girl," said the lady, who was annoyed and jealous now
in her turn, "why do you try to hinder him from coming with me?"

Nele did not answer, but great tears gushed from her eyes, and she
gazed at the fine lady in sadness and in anger.

Then the four of them started off, the dame seated like a queen
upon her ambling palfrey, the attendant with his belly that shook
with every step, Ulenspiegel holding the lady's horse by the bridle,
and Bibulus Schnouffius walking at his side, tail proudly in air.

Thus went they on horseback and on foot for some long while. But
Ulenspiegel was not at his ease; dumb as a fish he sniffed the fine
scent of benjamin that floated from the lady, and saw out of the
corner of his eye all her beautiful gear, rare jewels and trinkets,
and the sweet expression of her face, her bright eyes, and bare neck,
and her hair that shone in the sunlight like a hood of gold.

"Why are you so quiet, my little man?" she asked him.

He answered nothing.

"Do you keep your tongue so deep in your boots that you could not
take a message for me?"

"What is it?" said Ulenspiegel.

"I would have you leave me here," said the dame, "and go to Koolkercke,
from whence this wind is blowing. There you will find a gentleman
dressed in black and red motley. Tell him that he must not expect
me to-day, but let him come to-morrow evening to my château, by the
postern gate, at ten o' the clock."

"I will not go," said Ulenspiegel.

"Why not?" asked the lady.

"I will not go, not I," Ulenspiegel said again.

"What can it be," the lady asked him, "what can it be that inspires
you with this unyielding will, you angry little cock?"

"I will not go," Ulenspiegel persisted.

"But if I gave you a florin?"

"No," said he.

"A ducat?"

"No."

"A carolus!"

"No," Ulenspiegel repeated, "although"--and this was added with
a sigh--"I should rather see it in my mother's purse than a
mussel-shell!"

The dame laughed, then suddenly cried out in a loud voice:

"My bag! I have lost my little bag! Beautiful it was and rare, made
of silk, and sown with fine pearls! It was hanging from my belt when
we were at Damme!"

Ulenspiegel did not budge, but her attendant came up to his lady.

"Madame," said he, "whatever else you do, be careful not to send
this young robber to look for it, for so you will certainly never
see it again."

"Who will go then?" asked the lady.

"I will," he answered, "old as I am."

And away he went.

Midday had struck. It was very hot. The silence was
profound. Ulenspiegel said not a word, but taking off his new doublet
he laid it on the grass in the shade of a lime-tree, so that the dame
might sit down thereon without fear of the damp. He stood close by,
heaving a sigh.

She looked up at him, and felt compassion on that shy little figure,
and she inquired of him if he was not tired standing there upright
on his young legs. He did not answer, but slid gently down at her
side. She was desirous of resting him, and she drew his head on to her
bare neck, and there it lay so willingly that she would have thought
it the sin of cruelty itself had she bade him find some other pillow.

After a while the attendant came back, saying that he had not been
able to find the bag.

"I have found it myself," replied the lady, "for when I dismounted
from my horse, there it was hanging half open on the stirrup. And
now"--this to Ulenspiegel--"show us the way to Dudzeel, please,
and tell me your name."

"My patron saint," he replied, "is Monsieur Saint Thylbert, a name
which means fleet of foot towards that which is good; my second name
is Claes, and my surname Ulenspiegel. But now, if you would deign to
look at yourself in my mirror, you would see that in all the land of
Flanders there is not one flower so dazzling in its beauty as is the
scented grace of you."

The lady blushed with pleasure, and was not angry with Ulenspiegel.

But Soetkin and Nele sat at home, weeping together, through all this
long absence.






XVIII


When Ulenspiegel returned from Dudzeel and came to the entrance of
the town, he saw Nele standing there leaning with her back against the
toll-gate. She was picking the stones out of a bunch of black grapes,
which she munched one by one, and found therefrom, doubtless, much
delight and refreshment; nevertheless, she did not allow anything
of her enjoyment to appear on her countenance. On the contrary, she
seemed annoyed at something, tearing at the grapes angrily. She looked,
indeed, so sad and sorrowful, so sweetly unhappy, that Ulenspiegel
felt overcome with that pity which is almost love, and coming up to
her from behind, he printed a kiss on the nape of the girl's neck. But
all the return she gave him was a great box on the ear.

"Now I shall not be able to see properly any more," he said.

She burst into tears.

"O Nele," says he, "are you going to set up fountains at the entrance
of all the villages?"

"Be off with you," says she.

"But I can't go away and leave you crying like this, my little pet."

"I am not your little pet," says Nele; "neither am I crying."

"No, you are not crying, but there is certainly some water coming
out of your eyes."

"Will you go away?" She turned on him.

"No," he answered.

All the time she was holding her pinafore in her small trembling hand,
tearing at the stuff in little spasms of rage, and wetting it with
her tears.

"Nele," said Ulenspiegel, "when is it going to be fine again?"

And he smiled at her very lovingly.

"Why do you ask me that?" she said.

"Because when it is fine there is an end of weeping," answered
Ulenspiegel.

"Go back to your beautiful lady of the brocaded gown," she said. "Your
jokes are good enough for her...."

Then Ulenspiegel sang:


        When I see my love crying
        My heart is torn.
        When she smiles 'tis honey,
        Pearls when she weeps.
        Either way I love her.
        And I'll draw a draught of wine,
        Good wine from Louvain,
        And I'll draw a draught of wine,
        When Nele smiles again.


"You villainous man!" she cried, "making fun of me again!"

"Nele," said Ulenspiegel, "it is true that I am a man. But I am not
a villain. For our family is of noble origin, a family of aldermen,
and it carries on its shield three pint pots argent on a ground
bruinbier. But, Nele, tell me now, is it a fact that in Flanders when
a man sows a kiss he always reaps a box on the ear?"

"I refuse to speak to you," said Nele.

"Then why open your mouth to tell me so?"

"I am angry," she said.

Ulenspiegel slapped her on the back very lightly with his hand, saying:

"Kiss a naughty girl and she will cuff you; cuff her, she will
cry. Come then, sweet, cry upon my shoulder since I have cuffed you!"

Nele turned round. He opened his arms, and she threw herself into them.

"You won't go away any more down there, will you Tyl?" she asked him.

But he did not answer, busy as he was in pressing with his the hand
that trembled so pitifully, and in drying with his lips the hot tears
that fell from the eyes of Nele, like heavy drops of rain in a storm.






XIX


These were the days when the noble city of Ghent refused to pay the
tax which her son, the Emperor Charles, was demanding of her. The
fact was it was impossible to pay, for already the city was drained
of money by the act of Charles himself. But it seemed that the city
was guilty of a great crime, and Charles resolved to go himself and
exact punishment. For to be whipped by her own son is above all things
painful to a mother.

Now, although he was his enemy, Francis Long-Nose was pleased to offer
the Emperor a free passage through the land of France. Charles accepted
the offer, and instead of being held as a prisoner, he was fêted and
feasted in right royal fashion. For this is ever a sovereign bond of
union between kings: each to aid the other against their own peoples.

Charles stayed a long time at Valenciennes, and still gave no sign
of his wrath, so that Mother Ghent began to lay aside her fears,
believing that the Emperor her son was going to forgive her, seeing
that she had acted within her rights.

But at length Charles arrived under the walls of the city with 4000
horse, together with the Duke of Alba and the Prince of Orange. The
poorer townsfolk and the small business men wished to prevent
this filial entry into their city, and would have called to arms
80,000 men of the city and of the country round. But the merchants,
the hoogh-poorters, opposed this suggestion, being afraid of the
predominance of the people. Thus Ghent could easily have cut her son
to pieces, him and his 4000 horse. But it seemed she loved him too
dearly, and even the small tradesmen themselves were fast regaining
their trust in him.

Charles also loved the city, but only for the sake of his coffers that
were stored with her money, and which he hoped to store up fuller yet.

Having made himself master of the place, he established military
posts everywhere, and ordered that they should patrol the city night
and day. Then, in great state, he pronounced his sentence.

The chief merchants of the city with cords round their necks
were to appear before him as he sat on his throne, and to make
a formal apology. Ghent itself was declared guilty of the most
costly crimes--of disloyalty, disregard of treaties, disobedience,
sedition, conspiracy, and high treason. The Emperor declared that
all and every privilege--rights, customs, freedoms, and usages--all
were to be abolished and annulled; and he stipulated for the future
too, as though he were God himself, that none of his successors on
coming to the throne should ever observe any one of these usages
again, except only that which was called the Caroline Concession,
as granted by him to the city.

The Abbey of St. Bavon he razed to the ground, and in place he erected
a fortress whence he could pierce with bullets and at his ease his
mother's very heart. Like a good son that is in a hurry for his
inheritance, he confiscated all the riches of Ghent, its revenues,
its houses, its artillery and munitions of war. Finding it still
too well guarded, he destroyed also the Red Tower, the Tower of the
Trou de Crapaud, the Braampoort, the Steenpoort, the Waalpoort, the
Ketelpoort, and many another of its gates, all carved as they were
and sculptured like jewels in stone.

And afterwards, when strangers came to Ghent, they would ask of
one another:

"Can this indeed be Ghent whose marvels were on the lips of all--this
city so desolated and brought low?"

And the people of Ghent would make answer:

"Charles the Emperor has been to the city. He has ravished her
sacred zone."

And so saying they would be filled with anger and with shame. And
from the ruins of the city gates did the Emperor take away the bricks
wherewith to build his castle.

For it was his will that Ghent should be utterly impoverished, that
thereby he might make it impossible for her ever to oppose his proud
designs, either by her labour or her industry or wealth; therefore he
condemned her to pay that share of the tax of 400,000 caroluses which
she had previously refused him, and in addition 150,000 caroluses down,
and 6000 more every year in perpetuity. Moreover, in earlier days
the city had lent him money upon which he should have paid interest
at the rate of 150 pounds gross annually. But he made himself remit
by force the notes of credit, and by paying off his debt in this way
he actually enriched himself.

Many and many a time had Ghent cherished him and succoured him, but
now he struck her on the breast as it were with a dagger, looking
for blood, since it seemed he had not there found milk enough.

Last shame of all, he cast his eye upon the bell that is called
Roelandt; and the man who had sounded the alarm thereon, bidding all
the citizens to defend the rights of their city, him he had bound and
hung to the clapper of the bell. And he had no pity upon Roelandt, the
very tongue of his mother, the tongue whereby she spake to all the land
of Flanders, Roelandt the proud bell that sings of herself this song:


        When I ring there is a fire
        When I peal there is a storm
            In the land of Flanders.


And thinking that his mother had too loud a voice he carried away her
bell. And the people of the country round would say that Ghent was
dead, now that her son had wrenched away her tongue with his pincers
of iron.






XX


In those days, which were days of spring, fresh and clear, when
all the earth is in love, Soetkin was chatting by the open window,
and Claes humming a tune, while Ulenspiegel was dressing up the dog
Bibulus Schnouffius in a judge's bonnet. The dog plied his paws as
though desirous of passing judgment upon some one, though in reality
it was simply his way of trying to get rid of his ungainly head-gear.

All at once, Ulenspiegel shut the window and ran back into the
room. Then he jumped upon the chairs and the table, reaching up towards
the ceiling with his hands. Soetkin and Claes soon discovered the cause
of this mad behaviour, for there was a tiny little bird, chirruping
with fear, and cowering against a beam in the recess of the ceiling,
and Ulenspiegel was trying to catch it. He had almost succeeded when
Claes spoke out briskly and asked him:

"Why are you jumping about like this?"

"To catch the bird," answered Ulenspiegel, "and put him in a cage,
and feed him with seeds, and make him sing for me."

Meantime the bird, crying in an agony of terror, flew back into the
room, striking its head against the window-pane. Still Ulenspiegel
went on trying to catch it, but suddenly the hand of Claes came down
heavily upon his shoulder.

"Catch the bird if you can," said he, "put it in a cage, make it sing
for your pleasure; but I also will put you in a cage that is fastened
with strong bars of iron, and I will make you sing too. Then you,
who like nothing better than to run about, will be able to do so no
more; and you will be kept standing in the shade when you are chilly,
and in the sun when you are hot. And, one Sunday, we shall all go out
and forget to give you your food, and we shall not return again till
Thursday, and then maybe we shall find our Tyl all stiff and starved
to death."

Soetkin was crying at this picture, but Ulenspiegel started forward.

"What are you going to do?" asked Claes.

"Open the window for the bird to fly out," he answered.

And in fact the bird, which was a goldfinch, flew straight out through
the window, and with a cry of joy mounted up into the air like an
arrow, and then alighted upon a neighbouring apple-tree, smoothing
its wings with its beak, ruffling its plumage. And all kinds of abuse
did it sing in its bird language, all directed against Ulenspiegel.

Then Claes said:

"O son of mine, take care that you never take away its liberty
from either man or beast, for liberty is the greatest good in the
world. Let every one be free, free to go out into the sun when it is
cold, and into the shade when it is hot. And let God give judgment
on His Sacred Majesty, he who, not content with denying freedom of
belief to the people of Flanders, has now put all the noble city of
Ghent into a cage of slavery."






XXI


Now Philip was married to Marie of Portugal, and with her he acquired
her lands for the crown of Spain; and together they had a son, Don
Carlos, he who was afterwards called "the mad" and "the cruel." And
Philip had no love for his wife.

The Queen was lying-in. She kept her bed, and by her side were the
maids of honour, the Duchess of Alba among them.

Oftentimes did Philip leave his wife to go and see the burning
of heretics. And all the gentlemen and ladies of the Court did
likewise. And thus also did the Duchess of Alba and the other noble
ladies whose duty it was to watch by the Queen in her childbed.

Now at that time the ecclesiastical judges had seized a certain
sculptor of Flanders, a good Roman Catholic, on the following charge:
He had been commissioned, it seems, by a certain monk to carve a wooden
statue of Our Lady for a certain sum, and on the monk refusing to pay
the price which had been agreed between them, the sculptor had slashed
at the face of the image with his chisel, saying that he would rather
destroy his work than let it go at the price of a piece of dirt.

He was straightway denounced by the monk as an iconoclast, tortured
most piteously and condemned to be burnt alive. During the torture
they had scalded the soles of his feet, so that he cried out as he
passed along from the prison to the stake: "Cut my feet off! For
God's sake cut my feet off!"

And Philip, hearing these cries from afar, was glad, though smiled
he never a smile.

Queen Marie's dames of honour all left her, wishing to be present at
the burning, and the last of all to desert her was the said Duchess
of Alba, who, hearing the cries of the sculptor, could not forbear
to witness the spectacle.

So, in the presence of King Philip and of his lords, princes, counts,
equerries, and ladies, the sculptor was bound to the stake by a
long chain. And all round the stake was a circle of flaming bundles
of straw and fiery torches, the idea being that if he wished, the
sculptor could be roasted very gently by keeping close to the stake
in the centre of the circle, thus avoiding the full rigour of the fire.

And right curiously did they watch him, naked or almost naked as he
was, and trying to stiffen his resolution against the heat of the fire.

Meanwhile Queen Marie was stricken with a great thirst, lying there
alone on her bed of childbirth. And seeing the half of a melon on
a plate, she dragged herself out of bed, and took hold of the melon
and ate it all. But thereafter the cold substance of the melon made
her to sweat and to shiver, and she lay upon the floor unable to move.

"Alas!" she cried, "would that there were some one to carry me back
into bed that I might get warm again!"

Then it was that she heard the cry of the poor sculptor:

"Cut off my feet! Cut off my feet!"

"Ah!" said the Queen, "is that some dog or other baying at my death?"

It was at this very moment that the sculptor, seeing around him none
but the faces of Spaniards, his enemies, bethought him of Flanders,
the land of valorous men, and he crossed his arms on his breast,
and dragging the long chain behind him, walked straight towards
the outer circle of the straw and the flaming torches. And standing
upright there, still with his arms crossed:

"This," cried he, "this is how the men of Flanders can die in the
face of the tyrants of Spain. Cut off their feet--not mine--that
they may be able no more to run into the way of crime. Flanders for
ever! Flanders for ever!"

And the ladies clapped their hands, crying him mercy for the sake of
his proud look.

And he died.

And Queen Marie shook all over her body, and she cried out, her teeth
chattering together with the chill of approaching death. And her arms
and legs grew stiff, and she said:

"Put me back into my bed that I may be warmed."

So she died.

And thus it was, according to the prophecy of Katheline the good
sorceress, that Philip the King sowed everywhere he went the seeds
of death, and blood, and tears.






XXII


But Ulenspiegel and Nele loved each other, and their love was true.

It was now the end of April. All the trees were in bloom, and every
plant was swollen with sap, for May was near, the month of the peacock,
flowered like a bouquet, the month that sends the nightingales singing
aloud in the trees of all the earth.

Oftentimes would Nele and Ulenspiegel wander together along the
roads. Nele would lean on the arm of Ulenspiegel, and hang round him
with her two hands. Ulenspiegel loved this little game, and often
did he pass his arm about Nele's waist, to hold her the better,
as he said. And she was happy, but spake not a word.

Softly along the roads blew the wind, wafting the scent from the
fields; the sea boomed in the distance, rocking lazily in the sun;
Ulenspiegel seemed like some youthful devil, all pride; and Nele like
a little saint from Paradise, half shy of her happiness.

She leant her head against Ulenspiegel's shoulder, and her hand was in
his, and as they passed along he kissed her forehead, and her cheek,
and her sweet lips. But still she spake no word.

After some hours they grew hot and thirsty, and they drank milk at
the house of a peasant; and yet they were not refreshed. Then they
sat them down on the grass by the side of the ditch, and Nele seemed
pale and pensive, and Ulenspiegel looked at her, afraid that something
was amiss.

"You are unhappy?" said she.

"Yes," he admitted.

"But why?" she asked him.

"I know not," said he. "But these apple-trees and cherry-trees
all in flower, this air so warm that one would say it was charged
with lightning, these daisies that open their blushing petals to
the fields, and oh, the hawthorn, there, close by us in the hedge,
all white.... Will no one tell me why it is that I feel troubled,
and always ready to die or to go to sleep? And my heart beats so
strangely when I hear the birds awaken in the trees, and when I see
the swallows coming home! Then I am fain to go away beyond the sun and
beyond the moon. And sometimes I am cold, and then again I am hot. Ah,
Nele! would that I were no longer a creature of this low world! Verily
I would give my life a thousand times to her that would love me!"

Yet Nele spake not at all, but smiling at her ease sat looking at
Ulenspiegel.






XXIII


One Day of All Souls, Ulenspiegel went forth from Notre Dame with
certain other vagabonds of his own age. Among them was Lamme Goedzak,
who seemed strayed among them like a lamb in the midst of a herd of
wolves. Lamme treated them with drinks all round, for his mother, as
her custom was on Sundays and feast days, had given him three patards.

So he went with his companions to the tavern In dem Rooden Schildt--at
the sign of the Red Shield. Jan van Liebeke kept the house, and he
served them with dobbel knollaert from Courtrai.

They began to be warmed with the drink, and the talk turned on the
subject of prayer, and Ulenspiegel declared quite openly that, for
his part, he thought that Masses for the dead did nobody any good,
except the priests who said them.

Now in that company there was a Judas, who went and denounced
Ulenspiegel for a heretic. And in spite of the tears of Soetkin, and
the entreaties of Claes, Ulenspiegel was seized and taken prisoner. He
remained shut up in a cellar for the space of a month and three days
without seeing a soul. The jailor himself consumed three-quarters of
the ration that was given him for food.

During all this time the authorities were informing themselves as
to Ulenspiegel's reputation--whether it was good or whether it was
bad. They found that there was not much to be said against him except
that he was a lively sort of customer, always railing against his
neighbours. But they could not find that he had ever spoken evil of
Our Lord God, or of Madame the Virgin, nor yet of the Saints. On this
account the sentence passed on him was a light one, for he might easily
have been condemned to have his face branded with a hot iron and to
be flogged till the blood flowed. But in consideration of his youth,
the judges merely sentenced him to walk in his shirt behind the priests
barefoot and hatless, and holding a candle in his hand. And this he
was to do on the Feast of the Ascension, in the first procession that
left the church.

So it was done, and when the procession was on the point of turning
back, Ulenspiegel was made to stop beneath the porch of Notre Dame,
and there cry out aloud:

"Thanks be to our Lord Jesus! Thanks be to the reverend priests! Sweet
are their prayers unto the souls in purgatory; nay, they are filled
with every virtue of refreshment! For each Ave is even as a bucket
of water poured upon the backs of those who are being punished,
and every Pater is a tubful!"

And the people heard him with great devotion, and not without a smile.

On Whit-Sunday the same proceeding had to be gone through, and
Ulenspiegel followed again in the procession with nothing on but his
shirt, and with his head bare, and no shoes on his feet, and holding
a candle in his hand. On returning to the church he stood up in the
porch, holding the candle most reverently in his hand, and then in
a high, clear voice (yet not without sundry waggish grimaces) spake
as follows:

"If the prayers of all good Christians are very comforting to the souls
in purgatory, how much more so must be those of the Dean of Notre Dame,
a holy man and perfect in the performance of every virtue. Verily,
his prayers assuage the flames of fire in such wise that they are
transformed all of a sudden into ice. But yet be sure that not an
atom of it goes to refresh the devils that are in hell."

And again the people hearkened to what he said with great
devotion. But some of them smiled, and the Dean smiled too, in his
grim ecclesiastical way.

After that, Ulenspiegel was condemned to banishment from the land of
Flanders for the space of three years, on condition that he went to
Rome on pilgrimage and brought back with him the papal absolution. For
this sentence Claes had to pay three florins: but he gave an extra
florin to his son, and bought him a pilgrim's habit.

Ulenspiegel was heart-broken when he came to say good-bye to Claes
and Soetkin on the day of his departure. He embraced them both, and
his mother was all in tears; but she accompanied him far on his way,
and Claes went too, and many of the townsmen and townswomen.

When they were home again Claes said to his wife:

"Good wife, it is very hard that such a boy should be condemned to
this cruel punishment and all for a few silly words."

"Why, you are crying, my man!" said Soetkin. "Truly, you love him more
than you like to show. Yes, you are sobbing now with a man's sobs,
sobs that are like unto the tears of a lion."

But he answered her not.

As for Nele, she had gone to hide herself in the barn, so that none
might see that she also wept for Ulenspiegel. But she followed afar
after Soetkin and Claes and the other townsfolk: and when she saw
her lover disappearing in the distance, she ran after him and threw
herself on his neck.

"In Italy you will meet many beautiful ladies," she said.

"I do not know about their being beautiful," he replied, "but fresh
like thee--no. For they are all parched with the sun."

They walked a long way side by side, and Ulenspiegel seemed thoughtful,
muttering from time to time:

"I'll make 'em pay--I'll make 'em pay for their Masses for the dead!"

"What Masses are those you speak of?" Nele inquired. "And who is to
pay for them?"

Ulenspiegel answered:

"All the deans, curés, clerks, beadles and the rest, both superior
and inferior, who feed us with their trash. See now, if I had happened
to be a strong working man they would have robbed me of the value of
three years' labour by making me thus to go on this pilgrimage. But as
things are, it is the poor Claes who pays. Ah, but they shall give me
back my three years a hundredfold, and with their own money I myself
will sing for them their Masses for the dead!"

"Alas, Tyl!" said Nele, "be prudent, or they will have you burnt
alive."

"I am fireproof," answered Ulenspiegel.

And they parted from one another, she all in tears, he heart-broken
and angry.






XXIV


Once in the open country, Ulenspiegel shook himself like a dog, or
like a bird that has regained its liberty, and his heart was cheered
by the trees and fields and the bright sunshine.

When he had walked on thus for three days he came to the outskirts of
Brussels, and to the wealthy township of Uccle. And there, passing in
front of the inn with the sign of the Trumpet, his attention was drawn
to a most heavenly odour of fricassee. A little urchin who stood by
was also sniffing the delightful perfume of the sauce, and Ulenspiegel
asked him in whose honour it was that there rose to heaven such odour
of festal incense. The boy made answer that the Guild of the Jolly
Face was to meet at the inn that evening after vespers, to celebrate
the deliverance of the town by the women and girls of olden time.

Now in the distance Ulenspiegel saw a high pole with a popinjay on
the top of it, and the pole was set in the ground, and round it were
a company of women armed with bows and arrows. He asked the boy if
women were become archers nowadays?

The boy, still sniffing greedily the savour of the sauces, replied that
in the days of the Good Duke the very bows that were now being used
by those women had been the means of killing over a hundred brigands.

Ulenspiegel desired to know further concerning this matter, but the
boy said that he could tell no more, so hungry was he, unless forsooth
Ulenspiegel would give him a patard with which he might buy food and
drink. This Ulenspiegel did, for he felt sorry for him.

No sooner had the boy received the patard than he rushed into the
tavern like a fox to the hen-house, and presently reappeared in
triumph with half a sausage and a large loaf of bread.

And now Ulenspiegel was suddenly aware of a sweet sound of viols
and tabors, and soon he saw a number of women dancing together, and
among them a woman of great beauty with a chain of gold hanging round
her neck.

The boy, who had by this time assuaged his hunger and was grinning
with delight, informed Ulenspiegel that the beautiful woman was the
Queen of Archery, that her name was Mietje, and that she was wife to
Messire Renonckel, alderman of the parish. Then he asked Ulenspiegel
to give him six liards for a drink. Ulenspiegel gave him the money,
and when he had thus eaten and drunk his fill the urchin sat himself
down in the sun and fell to picking his teeth with his nails.

When the women archers noticed Ulenspiegel standing there in his
pilgrim's habit, they came and began to dance round him in a ring,
crying:

"Hail pilgrim, hail! Do you come from far away, you handsome pilgrim
boy?"

Ulenspiegel, thinking sadly of Nele, thus made answer:

"I come from Flanders, a lovely land and filled with lovesome girls."

"What crime have you committed?" asked the women, stopping in their
dance.

"I dare not confess it, so great it was," said he.

They asked him the reason why it was needful for him to journey thus
with a pilgrim's staff and wallet, and those scalloped oysters that
are the sign of the pilgrim.

"The reason is," he replied, not quite truthfully, "that I said that
Masses for the dead are advantageous to the priests."

"True, they bring many a sounding denier to the priests," they
answered; "but are they not also of advantage to the souls in
purgatory!"

"I have never been there," answered Ulenspiegel.

"Will you come dine with us?" said the prettiest of the archers.

"Willingly would I dine with you," said he, "and dine off you into
the bargain! You and all your companions in turn, for you are morsels
fit for a king, more delicate to swallow than any ortolan or thrush
or snipe!"

"Nay," they answered, "but we are not for sale."

"Then perhaps you will give?" he asked them.

"Yea, verily," they laughed, "a good box on the ear to such as are too
bold. And if needs were we would beat you now like a bundle of corn!"

"Thank you," he said, "I will go without the beating."

"Well then," they said, "come in to dinner."

So he followed them into the inn yard, glad for their fresh young
faces. And thereafter he saw the Brethren of the Jolly Face themselves,
who were now entering the yard with great ceremony, and by their
own jolly appearance living up most conspicuously to the name of
their Guild.

They scrutinized Ulenspiegel with some curiosity, till one of the women
informed them who he was--a pilgrim they had picked up on the road,
and whom, being a good red-face like unto their husbands and their
sweethearts, they had invited to share in the entertainment. The men
were agreeable to this proposal, and one of them addressed himself
to Ulenspiegel:

"Pilgrim on pilgrimage, what say you now to continuing your pilgrimage
across some sauce and fricassee?"

"I shall have need of my seven-league boots," answered Ulenspiegel.

Now as he was following them into the festal hall, he noticed twelve
blind men coming along the Paris road. And as they passed they were
lamenting most piteously their hunger and thirst. But Ulenspiegel
said to himself that they should dine that night like kings, and all
at the expense of the Dean of Uccle himself, and in memory of the
Masses for the dead.

He accosted them, saying:

"Here are nine florins for you. Come in to dinner. Do you not smell
the good smell of fricassee?"

"Ah!" they cried, "for the last half-league, and without hope!"

"Now you can eat your fill," said Ulenspiegel, "for you have nine
florins."

But he had not really given them anything.

"The Lord bless you," they said. For being blind, each man believed his
neighbour had been given the money. And shown the way by Ulenspiegel,
they all sat down at a small table while the Brethren of the Jolly
Face took their seats at a long one, together with their wives and
their daughters.

Then, with the complete assurance that comes from the possession of
nine florins:

"Mine host," cried the blind men insolently, "give us now to eat and
to drink of your best."

The landlord, who had heard tell of the nine florins and thought that
they were safe in the blind men's purse, asked them what they would
like for their dinner.

Then they all began to talk at once at the top of their voices:

"Bacon and peas, hotchpotch of beef and veal, chicken and lamb! And
where are the sausages--were they made for the dogs, pray? And who
is he that has smelt out the black and white puddings in the passage
without collaring them for us? I used to be able to see them, alas,
in the days when my poor eyes were bright as candles! And where is the
buttered koekebakken of Anderlecht? Sizzling in the frying-pan, juicy
and crackling, enough to make a fish thirsty for drink! Ho there! But
who will bring me eggs and ham, or ham and eggs, twin friends of my
palate? And where are you, you choesels, that float in a heavenly mess
of meats and kidneys, coxcombs, sweetbreads, ox-tails, lamb's feet,
with many onions, pepper, cloves, nutmegs, all in a stew, and three
pints at least of best white wine for sauce? And who will bring you
to me divine, chitterlings, you that are so good that one does not
utter a word while you are being swallowed! And they come straight
from Luyleckerland, a land bursting with fatness and filled with happy
lazy folk, whose passion for good things to eat is never assuaged! And
where are you, dried leaves of autumns past? Now quick there! Bring
me a leg of mutton with broad beans. And for me, some pig's ears
grilled with bread-crumbs. And for me, a chaplet of ortolans. Verily
the snipe shall figure the Paters, and a fat capon the Credo."

Mine host answered quietly:

"I will bring you an omelette made with sixty eggs. And as sign-posts
to guide your spoons, I will plant fifty black puddings in the midst,
all smoking on a veritable mountain of good cheer; and from the top of
all some dobbel peterman shall flow down like a river on every side."

At this the mouths of the poor blind men began to water indeed,
and they said:

"Then serve us, pray, and that right quickly with the mountain,
the sign-posts, and the river!"

And the Brethren of the Jolly Face, who were now all seated at table
with their wives, remarked to Ulenspiegel that this should be called
the Day of the Invisible Feast; for that the blind men could not see
what they were eating, and thus, poor things, were deprived of half
their pleasure.

At last it came--the omelette all garnished with cress and parsley,
carried by mine host himself and four of his cooks--and the blind men
desired to fall to incontinently, and at once began to set their paws
upon it. But mine host was determined to serve each of them fairly,
and, however difficult it might be, to make sure that each trencher
had its just portion.

The women archers were filled with pity to see the blind men gobbling
and sighing with joy at what was set before them. For in truth they
were half starved, and they swallowed down the puddings as though they
had been oysters. And the dobbel peterman flowed into their stomachs
as if it had been a cataract falling down from some lofty mountain.

When at length they had cleared their trenchers, they demanded yet
further supplies of koekebakken, ortolans, and fricassees. Mine host,
however, only provided a great platter of beef and veal and mutton
bones, all swimming in a most goodly sauce. But he did not divide it
properly. So that when they had well dipped their bread in the sauce,
and eke their hands right up to the elbows, yet drew not out anything
but bones of cutlet of veal or mutton, each man fell straightway
to imagining that his neighbour had got hold of all the meat, and
they began to fight among themselves, hitting out most furiously one
against another with the bones.

The Brethren of the Jolly Face laughed heartily at this, but being
charitably disposed, each put a portion of his own dinner into the
blind men's platter. So now if one of the blind went searching for a
new bone with which to carry on the fight, he would put his hand belike
upon a thrush or chicken or a lark or two; and all the time the women,
holding their heads well backwards, kept pouring into the mouths
of the blind long draughts of Brussels wine, and when they reached
out with their hands to feel, as blind men will, whence came these
rivulets of ambrosia, they would catch oftentimes at a woman's skirt,
and try to hold it fast. But quickly the skirt would make its escape.

Thus they laughed and drank, ate and sang, enjoying themselves
hugely. Some of them, when they found that women were present, ran
through the hall all maddened with amorous desire. But the malicious
girls kept out of their way, hiding behind the Brethren of the Jolly
Face. And one of them would say: "Come, kiss me!" And when the blind
victim tried to do so he would find himself kissing not a girl at
all but the bearded face of a man, who would reward him with a cuff
on the cheek as like as not.

And the Brethren of the Jolly Face began to sing, and the blind men
sang also, and the merry women smiled with fond delight to see their
pleasure. But when the juicy hours were past, it was the turn of the
innkeeper, who came forward, saying:

"Now you have eaten your fill, my friends, and drunk your fill. You
owe me seven florins."

But each of the blind men swore that he had no purse, and asserted
that it was one of the others who carried it. Thereat arose a further
dispute, and they began to hit out at one another with feet and hands
and heads; but they mostly missed their mark, striking out at random,
while the Brethren of the Jolly Face, entering into the fun, took
care to keep them apart, so that their blows rained down upon the
empty air--all save one, which happened unfortunately to strike the
face of the innkeeper, who straightway fell into a rage and ransacked
all their pockets. But he found there nothing but an old scapular,
seven liards, three breeches-buttons, and a few rosaries.

At last he threatened to throw the whole lot of them into the
pig-trough, and leave them there with nothing but bread and water to
eat till they paid what they owed.

"Let me go surety for them," said Ulenspiegel.

"Certainly," answered the innkeeper, "if some one will also go surety
for you."

This the Brethren of the Jolly Face at once offered to do, but
Ulenspiegel refused them.

"No," he said, "the Dean of Uccle shall be my surety. I will go and
find him."

To be sure it was those Masses for the dead that he was thinking
of. And when he had found the Dean he told him a story of how the
innkeeper of the Trumpet Inn was possessed by the Devil, and how he
could talk of nothing but "pigs" and "blind men"--something or other
about pigs eating the blind, and the blind eating the pigs under
various infamous forms of roast meats and fricassees. While these
attacks were on, the innkeeper, so Ulenspiegel affirmed, would break
up all the furniture in the inn; and he begged the Dean to come and
deliver the poor man from the wicked devil that possessed him.

The Dean promised to do so, but he said he could not come at the moment
(for he was busy with the accounts of the Chapter, trying to make
something out of them for himself). Seeing that the Dean was growing
impatient, Ulenspiegel said that he would return and bring with him
the innkeeper's wife in order that the Dean might speak to her himself.

"Very well," said the Dean.

So Ulenspiegel came again to the innkeeper and said to him:

"I have just seen the Dean, and he is willing to go surety for the
blind men. Do you keep watch over them, and let your wife come with
me, and the Dean will repeat to her what I have just told you."

"Go, wife," said the innkeeper.

So the innkeeper's wife went with Ulenspiegel to the Dean, who was
still at his accounts and busy with the same problem. When, therefore,
he saw Ulenspiegel and the woman, he made an impatient gesture that
they should withdraw, saying at the same time:

"It is all right. I will come to the help of your husband in a day
or two."

And Ulenspiegel went back to the inn and said to himself:

"Seven florins shall he pay; seven florins. And that shall be the
first of my Masses for the dead!"

And Ulenspiegel departed from that place, and the blind men likewise.






XXV


Now in those days Katheline had effected a cure, by means of herbs,
on three sheep, an ox, and a pig, all belonging to a certain man
named Speelman. She also attempted to cure a cow, the property of one
Jan Beloen, but in this she was not successful. Jan Beloen promptly
accused her of being a witch, asserting that she had laid a charm
on the animal, inasmuch as all the time she was giving the herbs
she had caressed it and talked to it, in the Devil's own language,
as was evident--for what business has an honest Christian woman to
go talking with an animal...?

Jan Beloen added that he was a neighbour of Speelman's, the man whose
ox had been cured, together with three sheep and a pig as aforesaid,
and if Katheline had now killed his cow, it was doubtless at the
instigation of Speelman, who was jealous at seeing his, Beloen's,
land better and more profitably cultivated than his own. Pieter
Meulmeester, a man of good life and reputation, and Jan Beloen himself
both testified that Katheline was commonly reputed to be a witch by
the people of Damme, and that she had certainly killed the cow; and
on this testimony Katheline was arrested and condemned to be tortured
until she had confessed her crimes and malpractices.

She was cross-examined by a certain alderman who was notorious for
his ill-temper, for he was accustomed to drink brandy all the day
long. And he ordered her to be placed on the seat of torture in the
presence of himself and the members of the Town Council.

The torturer put her on the seat stark naked, and then shaved off her
hair, looking carefully to see that no charm was concealed anywhere
about her person. Finding none, he bound her with cords to the seat
of torture. And she said:

"It shames me to be naked before these men. O Mother Mary, let me die!"

The torturer then wrapped some damp cloths round her breast and body
and legs, and raising the bench upright he proceeded to pour great
quantities of hot water down her throat so that her stomach became
all swollen. Then he let the bench down again.

The alderman asked Katheline if she would now acknowledge her
crime. She made a sign in the negative. And the torturer poured more
hot water into her; but this Katheline brought all up again.

Then by the advice of the doctor she was released. But she did not
speak a word, only beat her breast as much as to say that the hot
water had burned her. When the torturer saw that she was recovered
from this first ordeal, he said to her:

"Confess that you are a witch, and that you laid a charm on the cow."

"I will confess no such thing," replied Katheline. "I am here in your
power. Nevertheless, I tell you that an animal can die of an illness,
just as a man can, and in spite of all the help of surgeons and of
doctors. And I swear by Our Lord Christ who was pleased to die upon
the Cross for our sins, that I wished to do no harm to this cow,
but simply to cure her by well-known remedies."

Thereat the alderman was angry and cried out:

"This devil's drab, she cannot go on lying for ever! Put her to the
second torture."

Then he drank a large glass of brandy.

The torturer meanwhile sat Katheline down on the lid of an oak coffin
which was placed on trestles. Now the coffin-lid was pointed like a
roof, and the edge of it was as sharp as a sword. A great fire was
burning in the fireplace, for it was the month of November. Katheline,
seated on the edge of the coffin-lid, had her feet shod in shoes of
new leather several sizes too small for her, and then she was placed
in front of the fire. When she began to feel the sharp wood of the
coffin-lid cutting into her flesh, and when her shoes began to shrink
under the heat of the fire, Katheline cried aloud:

"Oh, agony! Will no one give me a draught of black poison?"

"Put her nearer the fire," said the alderman.

Then he inquired of her:

"How often, pray, have you ridden on a broom to the Witches'
Sabbath? And how many times have you caused the corn to wither in
the ear, and the fruit on the tree, and the babe in the womb of
its mother? And turned most loving brothers into sworn enemies,
and sisters into rivals full of hatred?"

Katheline would have answered if she had been able. But she could
only move her arms, as if to say "No." But the alderman said:

"I see she will not speak till she has felt her witch's fat all
melting in the fire. Put her nearer."

Katheline cried out. But the alderman said:

"You had better ask Satan, your friend, to refresh you."

And now her shoes were beginning to smoke in the heat of the fire,
so that she made a gesture as if to try and take them off.

"Ask Satan to help you," said the alderman.

Ten o'clock struck. It was the madman's dinner hour. And he retired
with the torturer and the clerk of the court, leaving Katheline alone
in front of the fire in the place of torture.

An hour later they returned. Katheline was still sitting there stiff
and motionless. The clerk said:

"I think she is dead."

The alderman commanded the torturer to remove Katheline from the
coffin-lid, and to take off the shoes from her feet. This he could
not do, so that he was forced to cut them, and Katheline's feet were
exposed to view, all red and bleeding. The alderman, whose thoughts
were still with his dinner, gazed at her without a word. But after
a while she came to her senses, and fell upon the ground, nor was
she able to get up again in spite of many attempts. Then she said to
the alderman:

"Once you desired me for your wife. But now you shall have none of
me! Four times three is the sacred number, and my husband is the
thirteenth."

The alderman was going to answer her, but she forestalled him:

"Be silent. His hearing is more delicate than that of the archangel
in heaven who counts the heart-beats of the just. Why are you so
late? Four times three is the sacred number. He killeth those who
hold me in desire."

The alderman said:

"It seems she welcomes the devil to her bed!"

"The pains of the torture have turned her brain," said the clerk.

So Katheline was taken back into prison. And three days later there
was a meeting of the aldermen in the Council Hall; and after some
deliberation Katheline was condemned to suffer the ordeal by fire.

She was taken to the grand market of Damme by the torturer and his
assistants. There she was made to mount the scaffold. In the square
were assembled the provost, the herald, and the judges. The herald
sounded his trumpet thrice, then turned towards the crowd and made
the following announcement:

"The Council of Damme," he cried, "having taken pity upon the woman
Katheline, have decreed that punishment shall not be exacted to the
full extremity of the rigour of our laws. Nevertheless, in witness
that she is a sorceress, her hair shall be burned, she shall pay
a fine of twenty carolus d'or, and she shall be banished from the
territory of Damme for the space of three years, under penalty of
losing one of her limbs."

And at this rough gentleness the people broke into applause.

Then the torturer tied Katheline to the stake, placed on her shorn
scalp a wig of tow, and held it in the fire. And the tow burned for
a long time, and Katheline cried aloud and wept.

Then they released her, and she was put in a cart and taken away
outside the territory of Damme. She could not walk at all, because
of her feet that were burned.






XXVI


Ulenspiegel, meanwhile, had arrived in his wanderings at the
fish-market at Liége. There he descried a tall young fellow carrying
under his arm a net filled with all sorts of poultry, and another net
also which he was rapidly filling with haddock, trout, eels, and pike.

Ulenspiegel recognized him as none other than his old friend Lamme
Goedzak.

"What are you doing here, Lamme?" he said.

"You must know," Lamme answered, "that many people have lately
emigrated from Flanders to this gentle land of Liége. As for me,
I follow my loves. And you?"

"I am on the look-out for a master to serve for my daily bread,"
said Ulenspiegel.

"Bread is a dry sort of nourishment," said Lamme. "You would do better
to try a chaplet of ortolans with a thrush for the Credo."

"You have plenty of money?" Ulenspiegel inquired.

Lamme Goedzak made answer:

"I have lost my father and mother, and that young sister of mine that
used to beat me so. I shall inherit all their property, and now I am
living with a one-eyed servant who is very learned in the noble art
of making fricassees."

"Would you like me to carry your fish and your poultry for
you?" suggested Ulenspiegel.

"Yes," said Lamme.

And together they began to wander through the market. All at once
Lamme said to his companion:

"You are mad. Do you know why?"

"No," said Ulenspiegel.

"Because you go carrying fish and poultry in your hand instead of in
your stomach."

"You are right, Lamme," said Ulenspiegel; "but since I have lacked
bread, ortolans will not even look at me."

"You shall eat your fill of them," said Lamme, "and serve me too,
if my cook takes a fancy to you."

While they were walking along, Lamme pointed out to Ulenspiegel a
beautiful young girl, who was walking through the market. She wore a
silk dress and gazed at Lamme with sweet and gentle eyes. An old man,
her father, walked just behind, carrying two nets, one filled with
fish, the other with game.

"See that girl?" said Lamme, pointing at her. "I am going to marry
her."

"Oh!" said Ulenspiegel, "I know her. She is a Flemish maid from
Zotteghem. She lives in the rue Vinave-d'Isle, and the neighbours say
that she lets her mother sweep the road in front of the house in her
stead, while her own father irons her underclothing."

To this Lamme made no answer, but exclaimed delightedly:

"She looked at me just now!"

By this time they were come to Lamme's lodging, near the
Pont-des-Arches. They knocked at the door, and a one-eyed servant
opened to them. Ulenspiegel saw that she was old, scraggy, lank,
and fierce of aspect.

Lamme addressed her as La Sanginne, and inquired if she would take
Ulenspiegel to help in the kitchen.

"I will give him a trial," she said.

"Then take him," said Lamme, "and let him also make trial of the
delights of your kitchen."

La Sanginne put three black puddings on the table, a pint of ale,
and a large loaf of bread. Ulenspiegel set to with a will, and Lamme
began to nibble at one of the puddings.

"Know you," Lamme asked presently, "where it is that our souls abide?"

"No, Lamme," said Ulenspiegel.

"In our stomachs," Lamme told him, "so they can keep them excavated
continually, and for ever renew in our bodies the impulse for
life. And who are the best companions for a man? I'll tell you. The
best companions for a man are all good and jolly things to eat,
and wine from the Meuse to crown all!"

"True," said Ulenspiegel. "A pudding is good company to a solitary
soul."

"He's still hungry," said Lamme to La Sanginne. "Give him some
more." And the woman served him with a second portion of pudding--white
this time.

While Ulenspiegel went on eating, Lamme grew thoughtful.

"When I die," said he, "my stomach will die with me, and down there
in purgatory they will leave me to fast, and I shall have to carry
my poor belly about with me, all empty and limp."

"I like the black ones best," said Ulenspiegel.

"You have eaten six already," said La Sanginne, "and you won't have
any more."

"You may be sure," said Lamme, "that you will be well treated here,
and you will have just the same to eat as I do."

"I shall remember this promise of yours," said Ulenspiegel. But
seeing that what his friend had told him was the truth, Ulenspiegel
was well content, and the puddings that he had swallowed gave him
such courage that on that very day he polished the kettles and the
pots and the pans till they shone like the sun. And he lived happily
in that house, frequenting willingly the kitchen and the wine-cellar,
and leaving the loft to the cats.

One day La Sanginne had two poulets to roast, and she asked Ulenspiegel
to turn the spit while she went to market for some herbs for a
seasoning. The two poulets being well roasted, Ulenspiegel took
one of them and ate it. When La Sanginne returned from the market
she remarked:

"There were two poulets, but now I can only see one."

"Just open your other eye," answered Ulenspiegel, "and you will see
the two of them all right!"

But she was angry, and went to Lamme Goedzak to tell him what had
happened. Lamme came down into the kitchen and said to Ulenspiegel:

"Why do you make fun of my serving-maid? There were certainly two
poulets."

"There were," said Ulenspiegel, "but when I came you told me that I
was to eat and drink just as much as you. There were two poulets. Very
well. I have eaten one, and you will eat the other. My pleasure is
over. Yours is still to come. Are you not happier than I?"

"Yes," said Lamme smiling, "but just you do what La Sanginne tells you,
and you'll find your work halved."

"I will be careful to do as you say," said Ulenspiegel.

So every time that La Sanginne told him to do anything he did but
the half of it. If she asked him to go and draw two pails of water
he would only bring back one; and if she told him to go and fill a
pot of ale at the cask, he would pour the half of it down his throat
on the way--and so on and so on.

At last La Sanginne grew tired of these goings on, and she told Lamme
that either this good-for-nothing fellow must leave the house or she
must leave herself.

Lamme descended on Ulenspiegel and told him:

"You'll have to go, my son, notwithstanding that you have looked so
much better in health since you have been here. Listen to that cock
crowing. And it's two o'clock of the afternoon! That means rain. I am
sorry to have to put you out of doors in bad weather. But there, my
son, you know that La Sanginne is the guardian angel of my life, with
her lovely fricassees. If she were to leave me I might die a speedy
death. I cannot risk it. Go then, my boy, and God be with you, and here
are three florins and this string of saveloys to liven your journey."

And Ulenspiegel departed, crestfallen and with many regrets for Lamme
and his kitchen.






XXVII


There was a rumour abroad that the Emperor Charles was going to annul
the right of the monks to inherit the estates of those who happened to
die in their convents, a thing which was very displeasing to the Pope.

One day when Ulenspiegel was come to fish from the banks of the
river Meuse, he was thinking to himself that by the above action the
Emperor would stand to profit both ways, since he would inherit the
said estates, while the family of the deceased would inherit nothing
at all. Pondering these thoughts, he carefully baited his hook, and
then sat down by the river-side. And he began to nibble at a piece of
stale brown bread, regretting the while that he had no good Romagna
wine wherewith to wash it down. Still, he thought, one cannot always
have everything just as one would like. And all the time he kept on
throwing little pieces of his bread into the water, saying to himself
that no man deserves a meal who will not share it with his neighbours.

Now it was that a gudgeon came upon the scene, attracted in the first
place by the odour of bread-crumbs; and he licked up the bread with his
lips and opened his mouth for more, thinking no doubt in his innocence
that the bread would fall into his gullet of itself. But while gazing
thus in the air the gudgeon was suddenly swallowed up by a treacherous
pike who had hurled himself upon him like a flash of lightning.

Now the pike played a similar trick upon a carp who was catching flies
on the top of the water without any fear of danger. And after this
good meal the pike stayed motionless below the surface of the water,
disdainful of the smaller fry, who, indeed, were only too glad to swim
away from him of their own accord and as fast as ever they could. But
while the pike was taking his ease in this manner, a second pike came
up; and he was a hungry pike, and his mouth was open wide, for as yet
he had not breakfasted. With a bound the new arrival threw himself
upon his brother, and a furious combat ensued. They lashed at one
another with their fins, the water was red with their blood. The pike
that had eaten defended himself but feebly against the assaults of the
hungry one; nevertheless, backing a little, he took courage again and
threw himself like a bullet against his adversary. The latter awaited
this new attack with open jaws, which did not close until more than
half of his assailant's head had disappeared between them. Now they
tried to free themselves, but could not because of the hooked teeth
of the one that had become embedded in the flesh of the other. And
so they battled against each other in despair. Nor did they notice,
interlocked as they were, the strong fish-hook at the end of a silken
cord, which rose towards them from the depths of the water. In another
moment it had embedded itself in the body of the pike that had dined,
and the two struggling fish found themselves drawn out of the water
and laid together on the grass without the least deference.

As he killed them Ulenspiegel said:

"Ha ha, my little pikes, I will call you the Pope and the Emperor,
that prey ever one upon the other; but I, forsooth, am the Common
Man that shall catch you on his hook, in God's good time, and make
an end of your battles!"






XXVIII


In the meantime Nele was taking care of Katheline, who was still
out of her mind and who called continually upon Hanske, her ice-cold
lover. But sometimes Nele would leave her mother safely guarded in the
house of some kindly neighbour, and herself would wander far and wide
and all alone, even unto Antwerp, searching ever, among the ships on
the river, or along the dusty roads, for Ulenspiegel.

And at home, also, in the house of Claes, it was evil days. Claes
worked sadly on his land alone, for there was not enough work for
two. And Soetkin stayed in the cottage by herself, cooking the beans
which formed their daily fare in a hundred different ways, so that
she might have something to enliven her husband's appetite. And she
sang and laughed all the time, so that he might not be grieved by
seeing her unhappy.

One day a man on horseback drew up in front of the cottage. He was
dressed all in black, he was very thin, and very sad of countenance.

"Is any one within?" he asked.

"God bless your sadness," answered Soetkin, "but am I a phantom,
that seeing me here you must yet inquire if there is any one within?"

"Where is your father?" asked the horseman.

"If my father's name is Claes, he is over there," Soetkin told
him. "You will find him sowing corn."

The horseman departed in the direction in which she had pointed,
and Soetkin also went her way ruefully, for this was the sixth time
that she had had to go to the baker's to buy bread with no money to
pay for it.

On returning empty-handed to the cottage, Soetkin was amazed to see
Claes coming down the road triumphantly seated on the horse of the man
in black. He looked very proud of himself, and the man in black walked
by his side holding the horse's bridle. Hanging at his side, Claes
held a leathern bag which appeared to be full of things. Dismounting
from the horse, Claes embraced his companion, gave him a playful pat
upon the back, and then, shaking the bag, cried out in a loud voice:

"Long life to Josse, my brother, the good hermit of Meyborg! May
God keep him in joy and fatness, in happiness and health! Our Josse,
patron of plenty, and of all abundance, and rich soups!"

And so saying he took up the sack and deposited it upon the table. But
Soetkin said sadly:

"My good man, we shall not eat this day. The baker has refused to
give me any bread."

"Bread?" cried Claes, opening the sack and letting a river of golden
coins roll out on the table. "Bread? Here is bread and butter, meat,
wine, beer! Here are hams, marrow-bones, pasties, ortolans, fatted
poulets, castrelins, all just as you might find them in the houses of
the rich! Bread indeed! Here are casks of beer and kegs of wine! Mad
must be the baker who will refuse to give us bread. Verily we will
deal at his shop no more!"

"But, my good man!" said Soetkin amazed.

"Nay, listen," said Claes, "and make the most of your good fortune. For
these are the facts. Katheline, it seems, has lately been to Meyborg
in Germany, and Nele with her, on a visit to my eldest brother Josse,
who dwells there as a hermit. Nele told my brother how that we were
living in poverty, notwithstanding that we work so hard. And now,
if we are to believe this good messenger"--and here Claes pointed
to the black horseman--"Josse has left the holy Roman religion and
abandoned himself to the heresy of Luther."

The man in black made answer:

"It is they that are heretics, they who follow the cult of the Scarlet
Woman. For the Pope is a cheat and a trader in holy things."

"Oh!" cried Soetkin, "speak not so loud, sir. You will have us burned
alive, all three."

"Well," continued Claes, "it appears that Josse has made known to this
good messenger that inasmuch as he is going to fight in the army of
Frederic of Saxony, and is bringing him fifty armed men fully equipped,
he has no need of much money to leave it to the hands of some wretch
of a landsknecht, now that he himself is going to the war. Therefore,
says he, take it to my brother Claes, and render to him, with my
blessing, these seven hundred florins. Tell him to live virtuously,
and to ponder the salvation of his soul."

"Yea, verily," said the horseman, "now is the time. For God will
reward every man according to his works, and every man according to
his merit."

"Good sir," said Claes, "it is not forbidden, I trust, to rejoice
in the meantime at this good news? Deign, then, to stay with us,
and we will celebrate our fortune with a nice dinner of tripe,
well boiled, and a knuckle of that ham which I saw just now at the
pork-butcher's. Of a truth, it looked so plump and tasty that my
teeth almost shot out of my mouth to close thereon."

"Alas!" said the stranger, "the foolish make merry while the eye of
the Lord is yet upon them."

"Come now, messenger," said Claes, "will you eat and drink with us
or will you not?"

The man answered: "It will be time enough for the faithful to think
about such earthly joys when mighty Babylon has fallen."

Seeing Claes and Soetkin cross themselves, he made as though to leave
them. But Claes said to him:

"Since you persist in leaving us without accepting of our hospitality,
will you at least give to my brother the kiss of peace on my behalf,
and look after him well at the wars."

"That will I," said the man.

And he departed from them, while Soetkin went to make her preparations
for celebrating their good fortune.

Now it was quickly noised abroad through the town that Claes that was
once so poor had now become rich through the generosity of his brother
Josse. And the Dean of Damme was heard to say that it was Katheline no
doubt who had laid a charm on Josse, and he said this because Claes,
although he had received a large sum of money from his brother,
had given not so much as a single vestment to Notre Dame. But Claes
and Soetkin were happy again, Claes working in the fields or looking
after his business of charcoal-burning, while Soetkin attended to her
home right valiantly. Yet still was she sorrowful at heart, scanning
ever with her eyes the open road if perchance she might see her son
Ulenspiegel returning back to her. And thus it was these three lived
on and experienced the happiness which comes from God while waiting
for that which was going to come to them from men.






XXIX


The Emperor Charles had received a letter from England, from Philip,
who was now married to the Queen of that country.


    "Sir and Father," the letter ran,--"It is matter of sore
    displeasure to me that I should have to live in a country like
    this where the accursed heretics swarm like fleas and worms and
    locusts. Fire and sword are needed to remove them from the trunk
    of that tree of life which is our Holy Mother the Church. And,
    as if this were not trouble enough, I have also to put up with
    being regarded not as a King but merely as the husband of the
    Queen; for in very truth apart from her I am destitute of all
    authority. And the English make mock of me, spreading broadcast
    the most shameful pamphlets which assert that I am being bribed
    by the Pope to afflict their country with every kind of impious
    burning and persecution. Nor can I discover who it is that writes
    these pamphlets, nor yet who prints them. And when I try to raise
    from the people some necessary contribution (for in their malice
    and wickedness they often leave me without any money at all),
    they answer by advising me, in coarse lampoons, to ask of Satan
    in whose pay I am. Parliament makes excuses for fear of my sting,
    but I can get nothing out of them. And meanwhile the walls of
    London are covered with the grossest pictures representing me
    as a parricide who is ready to strike down your Majesty for the
    sake of my inheritance. But well you know, my Lord and Father,
    that notwithstanding all the hopes of a legitimate ambition,
    I most certainly desire that your Majesty may enjoy yet long and
    glorious years of rule. Furthermore, there are circulating through
    the city certain engravings on copper which show me torturing
    animals and laughing the while. But well you know, Sire, that if
    ever it has happened to me to taste this profane pleasure, I have
    surely never laughed thereat. But they try to make out that this
    innocent sport is a sort of crime, despite the fact that animals
    have no souls, and although it is assuredly permitted to all men,
    especially if they be of Royal birth, to make use of brute beasts
    even unto death for purposes of honest recreation. But in this
    land of England the people are so fond of animals that they treat
    their animals better than their own servants. The stables and
    dog-kennels are kept like palaces, and I have known great lords
    who pass the night on the same litter with their horse. To crown
    all, my noble Wife and Queen is barren, and these people have the
    outrageous effrontery to declare that I am to blame and not she,
    who is in other respects a most jealous and intractable woman,
    and amorous to excess. Sir and Father, I pray daily that the Lord
    God may have me in his grace, and I live in hopes that another
    throne may be given me, even though it be with the Turk, what
    time I still await that other glorious throne to which I shall
    be one day called by the honour of being the son of your very
    Glorious and Victorious Majesty.


    (Signed) Phle."


To this letter the Emperor made reply in the following terms:


    "Sir and Son,--You have bitter enemies, I do not dispute it; but
    you must try to endure them without vexation in anticipation of
    the yet more brilliant crown that shall be yours hereafter. I have
    already made it widely known that I am determined to retire from
    my lordship over the Low Countries and other of my dominions,
    for I am growing old and gouty, and I know that I shall not
    long be able to withstand King Henry the Second of France, for
    Fortune ever favours the young. You should remember also that
    so long as you are master of England, you will be as a thorn in
    the side of our enemy France. Truly I suffered a nasty defeat at
    Metz, and lost there near forty thousand men. I was compelled
    to retreat before the King of Saxony. If God does not soon see
    fit by a stroke of His good and divine will to re-establish me
    in the force and vigour of my prime, I am inclined, Sir and Son,
    to quit my kingdoms altogether and to leave them to you.

    "Have patience therefore, and do your duty meanwhile against the
    heretics, sparing none of them, man, woman, girl, or child, for
    I am credibly informed that Madame your Queen has been minded to
    treat them mercifully, and this is a great grief to me.


    "Your affectionate father,

    "(Signed) Charles."






XXX


Ulenspiegel had been long upon the road. His feet were bleeding,
but in the district of the bishopric of Mayence he met a wagon full
of pilgrims who invited him to join them, and they carried him with
them to Rome.

When they arrived at the city Ulenspiegel got down from the wagon,
and straightway noticed a charming-looking woman standing at the door
of an inn. She smiled when she saw him looking at her.

Taking this kindly humour of hers for a good omen:

"Hostess," says he, "will you give asile, pray, to a poor pilgrim on
pilgrimage who has carried his full time and is about to be delivered
of his sins?"

"We give asile to all such as pay us for it," said the woman.

I have a hundred ducats in my purse," said Ulenspiegel (who, in fact,
had no more than one), "and I would dearly like to spend the first
of them in your pleasant company and over a bottle of old Roman wine."

"Wine is not dear in these holy parts," she answered. "Come in and
drink your fill. It will only cost you a soldo."

And they twain drank together for so long, and emptied so many bottles
of wine and all to the tune of such pleasant conversation, that the
hostess was constrained to order her servant to serve the customers in
her place, while she and Ulenspiegel retired into a room at the back of
the inn, a marble chamber, cool as a winter's day, where, leaning her
head on her new friend's shoulder, she demanded of him who he might be.

And Ulenspiegel answered her:

"I am Lord of Geeland, Count of Gavergeëten, Baron of Tuchtendeel. I
was born at Damme, in Flanders, and I hold there for my estate five
and twenty acres of moonlight."

"What land is that whence you come?" the hostess asked him, drinking
from Ulenspiegel's tankard.

"It is a misty land," he told her, "a land of illusion, where are sown
the seeds of false hopes and of castles in the air. But you, sweet
hostess mine, were born in no such land of moonlight, you with your
amber skin and your eyes that shine like pearls. For bright is the
sunshine that has coloured that browned gold of your hair, and it is
Lady Venus herself who, without a single pang of jealousy, has formed
your soft shoulders, and your prancing breasts, your rounded arms,
your delicate sweet hands. Say, shall we sup together this night?"

"Fine pilgrim that you are from Flanders," says she, "say, why are
you come hither?"

"To have a talk with the Pope," said Ulenspiegel.

"Heavens!" she cried, clasping her hands together, "and that is
something that even myself, a native of the country, have never been
able to do!"

"Yet shall I," said Ulenspiegel.

"But know you where the Pope lives, what he is like, what are his
habits and his ways of life?"

"I heard all about him on the way," answered Ulenspiegel. "His name
is Julius III. Wanton he is, and gay and dissolute, a good talker,
that never falters for a clever repartee. I have also heard that
he has taken an extraordinary fancy to a little dirty beggar of a
man--a dark fellow and a rude who used to wander about with a monkey
asking for alms. He came to the Pope, and the Pope, it seems, has
made a Cardinal of him, and now gets quite ill if a single day passes
without their meeting."

"Have some more to drink," said the landlady, "and do not speak
so loud."

"I have also heard," continued Ulenspiegel, "that one day he swore
like a soldier, Al dispetto di Dio, potta di Dio, and all because they
did not bring him the cold peacock that he had ordered to be kept for
his supper. And he excused himself, saying, 'If my Master was angered
over an apple, I, who am the vicar of God, can certainly swear an
oath about a pheasant!' You see, my pet, I know the Pope very well,
and understand just what sort of a man he is!"

"Oh dear," she said, "pray be careful and do not tell this to any
one else. But still, and in spite of all you tell me, I maintain that
you will not get to see him."

"I shall," said Ulenspiegel.

"I will wager you a hundred florins."

"They are mine!" said Ulenspiegel.

The very next day, tired as he was, he ran through all the city and
found out that the Pope was to say Mass that morning at the Church of
St. John Lateran. Thither Ulenspiegel repaired, and took up a position
as prominently in the Pope's view as he could. And every time that
the Pope elevated chalice or Host, Ulenspiegel turned his back to the
altar. Now one of the cardinals was officiating with the Pope, swarthy
of countenance he was, malicious and corpulent; and on his shoulder
he carried a monkey. He reported Ulenspiegel's behaviour to the Pope,
who straightway after Mass sent four terrible-looking soldiers (such
as one finds in those warlike lands) to seize the pilgrim.

"What religion do you profess?" the Pope asked him.

"Most Holy Father," answered Ulenspiegel, "my religion is the same
as my landlady's."

The Pope had the woman fetched.

"What is your religion?" he asked her.

"The same as your Holiness's," she told him.

"That also is mine," said Ulenspiegel.

The Pope asked him why he turned his back upon the Holy Sacrament.

"I felt myself unworthy to look upon it face to face," he answered.

"You are a pilgrim?" said the Pope.

"Yes," answered Ulenspiegel, "and I am come from Flanders to beg
remission of my sins."

The Pope absolved and blessed him, and Ulenspiegel departed in the
company of his landlady, who paid over to him his hundred florins. And
with this good store of money he departed from Rome and set out to
return again to the land of Flanders.

But he had to pay seven ducats for the certificate of his pardon,
all scribed upon parchment.






XXXI


In those days there came to Damme two brothers of the Premonstratensian
Order, sellers of indulgences. And over their monastic robes they
wore beautiful jackets bordered with lace.

When it was fine they stood outside the porch of the church, and under
the porch when it was wet, and there they stuck up their tariff;
and this was the scale of charges: for six liards a hundred years'
indulgence, for one patard two hundred years, three hundred years
for half a sovereign, four hundred years for seven florins, and
so on according to the price--indulgences plenary or semi-plenary,
and pardons for all the most terrible crimes.

And they gave to their patrons, in exchange for payment, little
parchment certificates on which were written out the number of years
of indulgence, and below was the following inscription:


        Who wants not to be
        Stewed, roasted, fricasseed,
        Burning in hell for evermore,
        Indulgences let him buy.
        Pardon and forgiveness,
        For a little money,
        God will return to him.


And the eager purchasers came thronging round the monks. One of whom
never left off addressing his audience. This brother had a blooming
countenance, and displayed three chins at least, and a portentous
belly, all without the least embarrassment.

"Unhappy ones!" he cried, fixing with his eye now one, now another
of the crowd. "Unhappy ones! Let me show you a picture. Behold! You
are in hell! The fire burns you most cruelly. You are boiling in
that cauldron full of oil wherein are prepared the olie-koekjes of
Astarte. You are nothing better than a sausage on the frying-pan
of Lucifer, or a leg of mutton on the spit of Guilguiroth, biggest
of all the devils. And first they cut you up in little pieces. Ah,
woe is me! Behold this sinner who despised indulgences! Behold this
plate of daintiness! 'Tis he! 'Tis he! His wicked body thus reduced
by damnation. And for sauce, brimstone and pitch and tar! Thus are
those poor sinners eaten alive to be born again continually to their
pain! And here in all reality is the place of tears and of grinding
of teeth. Have mercy, God of mercy! For now, poor damned one, you are
in hell, and you suffer unspeakable woes. And yet if any there were
to subscribe a denier for you, straightway one of your hands would
find relief; and let but some other give a half a denier and your two
hands would be freed entirely from the pain of the fire. But as for
the remainder of your body, let some one only give a florin, and there
falls the dew of indulgence over all! O freshness of delight! And now
for ten days, a hundred days, a thousand years maybe, according as one
pays, no more roast meat, no more olie-koekjes, no more fricassees
for you! And even if it is not for yourself, is there no one else,
there in the secret depths of the fire, no one else for whom you
would wish to gain relief--one of your parents perhaps, a dear wife,
or some lovely girl with whom you have committed wilful sin?"

And as he spoke these words, the monk jogged the elbow of his brother
that stood by holding in his hands a silver bowl. And that brother,
lowering his eyes at this signal, shook the bowl unctuously, as if
inviting contributions.

Whereat the preacher continued in this wise: "Or perhaps you have
a son or a daughter, maybe, in the midst of this terrible fire,
or some beloved little child? Hark, how they cry aloud, and weep,
and call to you by name. Can you remain deaf to their pitiful
voices? You cannot. Even a heart of ice must melt, though it cost
you a carolus! And behold, at the very sound of the carolus as it
strikes this vile metal" (and here his comrade shook the plate again),
"a space opens out in the midst of the fire, and the tormented soul
ascends to some volcano mouth where it meets the air, the fresh,
free air! Where are the pains of the fire now? For the sea is close
at hand, and straight into the sea the soul plunges. She swims on her
back, on her stomach, floats upon the waves, dives beneath them. Oh,
listen how she sings aloud in her joy! See how she rolls about in
the water! The very angels gaze down upon her from heaven and are
glad. Eagerly they await her coming; but not yet, not yet has she
had her fill of the sea. If she might only turn into a fish! She
knoweth not how there are prepared for her up aloft sweet baths,
perfumed and scented, with fine bits of sugar-candy floating therein,
all white and fresh like bits of ice. Now a shark appears. She
fears it not at all, but clambers upon its back, and sits there all
unnoticed, hoping he will take her with him down into the depths of
the sea. And now she goes to greet the little water-angels that feed
on waterzoey from coral cauldrons, and on freshest oysters from plates
of mother-of-pearl. And she is welcomed and fêted and made much of,
but still the angels in heaven beckon her on high, till at last,
refreshed and happy, you may see her rise aloft, singing like a lark,
up to the highest heaven where God sits in glory on his throne. There
she finds again all her earthly friends and loved ones (save only
those, forsooth, that in this life have spoken ill of indulgences
and of our Holy Mother Church and who burn now for their sin upon the
floor of hell. And so for ever and for ever and for ever to all ages,
in an all-consuming eternity). But that other soul, now dear to God,
refreshes herself in soft baths and crunches sugar-candy. Buy then, my
brothers, buy your indulgences. We sell them for crusats, for florins,
or for English sovereigns. Even copper coin is not refused. Buy then,
buy! This is the Holy Mart! And we have indulgences adapted to the
poor man's purse as well as to the rich man's. Only, I am sorry to
say, my brothers, no credit is allowed. For to buy without paying
cash is a crime most grievous in the eyes of Our Lord."

Hereupon the monk who had kept silent shook his platter, and the
florins, crusats, patards, sols, and deniers fell into it as thick
as hail.

Claes, feeling himself rich, paid a florin for an indulgence of ten
thousand years; and the monks delivered to him a piece of parchment
in exchange.

At last, seeing that there was no one left in Damme but the miserly
folk who would not buy indulgences at any price, the two monks left
the village and proceeded on their way to Heyst.






XXXII


In those days the country round Liége was in a disturbed and dangerous
state by reason of the heresy hunts, and Lamme Goedzak came again
to live in Damme. He was married now, and his wife followed him
willingly because the people of Liége, who had a mocking nature,
used to make fun of her husband's meekness.

Lamme often visited Claes, who, since coming into his fortune,
was always to be found at the tavern of the Blauwe Torre, and
had even appropriated one of the tables for himself and his boon
companions. This table was next to the one where sat the Dean of the
Fishmongers, Josse Grypstuiver by name, drinking sparingly from his
half-pint tankard. For he was a miser, a stingy fellow who thought the
world of himself, and lived for the most part on smoked herrings, and
thought more of money than of the safety of his own soul. Now Claes
carried in his pocket that piece of parchment whereon was inscribed
the tale of his ten-thousand-year indulgence.

One evening Claes was drinking at the Blauwe Torre in the company
of Lamme Goedzak, Jan van Roosebeke, and Matthys van Assche, Josse
Grypstuiver also being present. Claes had been imbibing freely, and
Jan Roosebeke was remonstrating with him, saying that it was sin to
drink so much. But Claes replied that a pint too much meant nothing
more serious than an extra half-day in purgatory.

"Besides," said he, "I have a ten-thousand-year indulgence in my
pocket! Is there any one here that would like a hundred years of
them, I wonder, so that he may indulge his stomach without fear of
the consequences?"

Every one shouted at once:

"How much are you selling them at?"

"For a pint of beer," Claes answered, "I will give you one hundred
days, but for a muske conyn you shall have a hundred and fifty!"

Some of the revellers gave Claes a pint of beer, others a piece of ham,
and for each and all Claes cut off a little strip of his parchment. It
was not Claes, forsooth, who consumed the price of his indulgences,
but Lamme Goedzak; and he gorged himself so that he began to swell
visibly; and all the time Claes went on distributing his merchandise
up and down the tavern.

The man Grypstuiver turned a sour face towards him, and asked if he
had an indulgence for ten days.

"No," said Claes, "that's too small a piece to cut."

Every one laughed, and Grypstuiver ate his anger as best he could. Then
Claes went home, followed by Lamme, walking as if his legs were made
of wool.






XXXIII


Towards the end of the third year of her banishment, Katheline returned
to her home in Damme. And continually she cried aloud in her madness:
"Fire, fire! My head is on fire! My soul is knocking, make a hole,
she wants to get out!" And if ever she saw an ox or a sheep she would
run from it as if in terror. And she would sit on the bench at the back
of her cottage, under the lime-trees, wagging her head and staring at
the people of Damme as they passed by. But she did not recognize them,
and they called her "The mad-woman."

Meanwhile Ulenspiegel went wandering along the roads and pathways of
the world, and one day he met a donkey on the highway, harnessed with
leather and studs of brass, and its head ornamented with tassels and
plumes of scarlet wool....

Some old women were standing round the donkey in a circle, all talking
at once and telling each other how that no one could tame the donkey
for that he was a terrible animal and had belonged to the Baron
of Raix, who was a magician and had been burned alive for having
sacrificed eight children to the devil. "And he ran away so fast,"
said the old women, "that none could catch him. And without a doubt
he is under the protection of Satan. For a while ago he seemed tired,
resting by the wayside, and the village constables came to seize
him. But he suddenly kicked out with his hind legs and brayed in such
fearful fashion that they durst not to go near him. And that was no
bray of an ass, but the bray of the devil himself. So the constables
left him to browse among the thistles, and passed no sentence upon
him, nor did they burn him alive for a sorcerer as they should have
done. Verily these men have no courage."

Notwithstanding this brave talk, the donkey had only to prick up his
ears or flick his sides with his tail, to send the women running away
from him with cries of terror. Then back they would come, chattering
and jabbering, but ever ready to be off again if the donkey showed
the least sign of movement. Ulenspiegel could not help laughing at
the sight,

"Ah!" said he, "talk and curiosity! They flow like an everlasting river
from the mouths of women--and especially old women, for with the young
the flow is less continuous by reason of their amorous occupations."

Then, considering the donkey:

"This sorcerer-beast," said he to himself, "is a sprightly ass without
a doubt, and a good goer. What if I were to take him for my own,
to ride, or maybe sell him?"

Without another word Ulenspiegel went and got a feed of oats, and
returning, offered them to the donkey. But while he was eating of those
viands Ulenspiegel jumped nimbly upon his back, and taking the reins,
turned him first to the north, then to the east, and lastly to the
west. Then, when he had gone from them a little way, he raised his
hand as if in blessing on those aged dames. But they, almost fainting
with fear, fell upon their knees before him. And that evening when
they met together again, the tale was told of how an angel with a
felt hat trimmed with a pheasant's feather had come and blessed them,
and had taken off the magician's donkey by special favour of God.

And Ulenspiegel, astride of his ass, went his way through the green
fields, where the horse pranced about at liberty, where the cows and
heifers grazed at their ease or lay resting in the sunshine. And he
called the ass Jef.

At last Jef came to a stop, and began, as happy as could be, to
make his dinner off the thistles which grew in that place in great
abundance. But anon he shivered all over, and flicked his sides with
his tail in the hope of ridding himself of the greedy horse-flies who,
like himself, were trying to get their dinner, not off the thistles,
but off his own flesh.

Ulenspiegel, who himself began to feel the pangs of hunger, grew
very melancholy.

"Happy indeed would you be, friend donkey, with your good dinner of
fine thistles if there was no one to disturb you in your pleasures,
and to remind you that you also are mortal, born, that is to say,
to the endurance of all kinds of villainies."

Thus did Ulenspiegel address his steed, and thus continued:

"For even as you have this gadfly of yours to worry you, so also
hath His Holiness the Pope a gadfly of his own, even master Martin
Luther; and His Sacred Majesty the Emperor, hath he not my Lord of
France for his tormentor--Francis, first of that name, the King with
the very long nose and a sword that is longer still? And forsooth,
donkey mine, it is certainly permitted that I also, poor little man
wandering all alone, may have my gadfly too.

"Alas! Woe is me! All my pockets have holes in them, and by the said
apertures do all my fine ducats and florins and daelders ramble away,
flying like a crowd of mice before the mouth of the cat that would
devour them. I wonder why it is that money will have nothing to do
with me--me that am so fond of money? Verily Fortune is no woman,
whatever they may say, for she loves none but greedy misers that shut
her up in their coffers, tie her up in sacks, close her down under
twenty keys and never let her show herself at the window by so much
as the little tip of her gilded nose! This, then, is the gadfly that
preys upon me and makes me itch, and tickles me without ever so much
as raising a laugh. But there, you are not listening to me at all,
friend donkey! And you think of nothing but your food. You gobbling
gobbler, your long ears are deaf to the cry of an empty stomach! But
you shall listen to me. I insist!"

And he belaboured the ass as hard as he could, till the brute began
to bray.

"Come, come, now that you have given us a song!" cried Ulenspiegel. But
the donkey would not advance by more than a single step, and seemed
determined to go on eating thistles until he had consumed all that
grew by the roadside. And of these there was an abundance.

When Ulenspiegel saw what was happening he dismounted and cut off a
bunch of thistles; then, mounting the ass again, he placed the bunch
of thistles just in front of the animal's nose. And in this way,
leading the donkey by the nose, he arrived before long in the land
of the Landgrave of Hesse.

"Friend donkey," he said as they went along, "you, verily, go running
after a bunch of thistles, the meagre fare with which I have provided
you; but you leave behind the lovely road that is filled with all
kinds of most delicate herbs. And thus do all men, scenting out,
some of them, the bouquet called Fame which Fortune puts under their
nose, others the bouquet of Gain, and yet others the bouquet that is
called Love. But at the end of the journey they discover, like you,
that they have been pursuing things that are of little account,
and that they have left behind all that is worth anything--health,
and work, repose, happiness, and home."

In such discourse with his donkey Ulenspiegel came at last to the
palace of the Landgrave.

There two Captains of Artillery were playing dice upon the steps of
the palace, and one of them, a red-haired man of gigantic stature,
soon noticed Ulenspiegel as he approached modestly upon his ass,
gazing down upon them and their game.

"What do you want," said the Captain, "you, fellow, with your starved
pilgrim's face?"

"I am extremely hungry," answered Ulenspiegel, "and if I am a pilgrim,
it is against my will."

"And you are hungry," replied the Captain, "go, eat the next gallows
cord you come to, for such cords are prepared for vagabonds like you."

"Sir Captain," answered Ulenspiegel, "only give me the fine golden
cord you wear on your hat, and I will go straightway and hang myself
by the teeth from that fat ham which I see hanging over there at
the cook-shop."

The Captain asked him where he came from. Ulenspiegel told him,
"From Flanders."

"What do you want?"

"To show His Highness the Landgrave one of my pictures. For I am
a painter."

"If it is a painter that you are," said the Captain, "and from
Flanders, come in, and I will lead you to my master."

When he had been brought before the Landgrave, Ulenspiegel saluted
thrice and again.

"May your Highness deign," said he, "to excuse my presumption in
daring to come and lay before these noble feet a picture I have made
for your Highness, wherein I have had the honour to portray Our Lady
the Virgin in her royal attire."

And then after a moment's pause:

"It may be that my picture may please your Highness," he continued,
"and in that case I am sufficiently presumptuous to hope that I
might aspire even unto this fine chair of velvet, where sat in his
lifetime the painter that is lately deceased and ever to be regretted
by your Magnanimity."

Now the picture which Ulenspiegel showed him was very beautiful,
and when the Landgrave had inspected it, he told Ulenspiegel to sit
down upon the chair, for that he would certainly make him his Court
Painter. And the Landgrave kissed him on both cheeks, most joyously,
and Ulenspiegel sat down on the chair.

"Of a truth you are a very talkative fellow," said the Landgrave,
looking him up and down.

"May it please your Lordship," answered Ulenspiegel, "Jef--my
donkey--has dined most excellently well on thistles, but as for me
I have seen nothing but misery these three days past, and have had
nothing to nourish me but the mists of expectation."

"You shall soon have some better fare than that," answered the
Landgrave. "But where is this donkey of yours?"

"I left him on the Grande Place," Ulenspiegel said, "opposite the
palace; and I should be most obliged if he could be given lodging
for the night--some straw and a little fodder."

The Landgrave immediately gave instructions to one of his pages that
Ulenspiegel's donkey should be treated even as his own.

The hour for supper soon arrived, and the meal was like a wedding
festival. Hot meats smoked in the dishes, wine flowed like water,
while Ulenspiegel and the Landgrave grew both as red as burning
coals. Ulenspiegel also became very merry, but His Highness was
somewhat pensive even in his cups.

"Our painter," said he suddenly, "will have to paint our portrait. For
it is a great satisfaction to a mortal prince to bequeath to his
descendants the memory of his countenance."

"Sir Landgrave," answered Ulenspiegel, "your will is my
pleasure. Nevertheless, I cannot help feeling sorry at the thought
that if your Lordship is painted by himself he will feel lonely,
perhaps, all there in solitary state through the ages to come. Surely
he should be accompanied by his noble wife, Madame the Landgravine,
by her lords and ladies, and by his captains and most warlike officers
of State. In the midst of these, my Lord and his Lady will shine like
twin suns surrounded by lanterns."

"Well, painter mine, and how much shall I have to pay you for this
mighty work?"

"One hundred florins, either now or later, just as you will."

"Here they are, in advance," said the Landgrave.

"Most compassionate master," said Ulenspiegel as he took the money,
"you have filled my lamp with oil, and now it shall burn bright in
your honour."

On the next day Ulenspiegel asked the Landgrave to let him see those
persons who were to have the honour of being painted. And first there
came before him the Duke of Lüneburg, commander of the infantry of the
Landgrave. He was a stout man who carried with difficulty his great
paunch swollen with food. He went up to Ulenspiegel and whispered in
his ear:

"When you paint my portrait see that you take off half my fat at
least. Else will I order my soldiers to have you hung."

The Duke passed on. And next there came a noble lady with a hump on
her back and a bosom as flat as a sword-blade.

"Sir painter," said she, "unless you remove the hump on my back and
give me a couple of others in the place where they should be, verily
I will have you drawn and quartered as if you were a prisoner."

The lady went away, and now there appeared a young maid of honour,
fair, fresh, and comely, only that she lacked three teeth under her
upper lip.

"Sir painter," said she, "if you do not paint me smiling and showing
through my parted lips a perfect set of teeth, I'll have you chopped
up into small pieces at the hands of my gallant. There he is, look
at him."

And she pointed to that Captain of Artillery who a while ago had been
playing dice on the palace steps. And she went her way.

The procession continued, until at last Ulenspiegel was left alone
with the Landgrave.

The Landgrave said to him:

"My friend, let me warn you that if your painting has the misfortune
to be inaccurate or false to all these various physiognomies by so
much as a single feature, I will have your throat cut as if you were
a chicken."

"If I am to have my head cut off," thought Ulenspiegel, "if I am to be
drawn and quartered, chopped up into small pieces, and finally hung,
I should do better to paint no portrait at all. I must consider what
is best to be done."

"And where is the hall," he asked the Landgrave, "which I am to adorn
with all these likenesses!"

"Follow me," said the Landgrave. And he brought him to a large room
with great bare walls.

"This is the hall," he said.

"I should be very grateful," said Ulenspiegel, "if some curtains could
be hung right along the walls, so that my paintings may be protected
from the flies and the dust."

"Certainly," said the Landgrave.

When the curtains had been hung as directed, Ulenspiegel asked if
he might have three apprentices to help him with the mixing of his
colours.

This was done, and for thirty days Ulenspiegel and the apprentices
spent the whole of their time feasting and carousing together, with
every extravagance of meat and drink. And the Landgrave looked on at
it all. But at last on the thirty-first day he came and thrust his
nose in at the door of the chamber where Ulenspiegel had begged him
not to enter.

"Well, Tyl," he said, "and where are the portraits?"

"They are not finished," answered Ulenspiegel.

"When shall I be able to see them?"

"Not just yet," said Ulenspiegel.

On the six-and-thirtieth day the Landgrave again thrust his nose
inside the door.

"Well, Tyl," he inquired, "how now?"

"Ah, Sir Landgrave," said Ulenspiegel, "the portraits are getting on."

On the sixtieth day the Landgrave grew very angry, and coming right
into the room:

"Show me the pictures at once!" he cried.

"I will do so," answered Ulenspiegel, "but pray have the kindness
not to draw the curtain until you have summoned hither the lords and
captains and ladies of your court."

"Very well," said the Landgrave, and at his command the aforesaid
notabilities appeared. Ulenspiegel took up his stand in front of the
curtain, which was still carefully drawn.

"My Lord Landgrave," he said, "and you, Madame the Landgravine,
and you my Lord of Lüneburg, and you others, fine ladies and valiant
captains, know that behind this curtain have I portrayed to the best
of my abilities your faces, every one warlike or gentle as the case may
be. It will be quite easy for each one of you to recognize himself. And
that you are anxious to see yourselves is only natural. But I pray
you have patience and suffer me to speak a word or two before the
curtain is drawn. Know this, fair ladies and valiant captains; all you
that are of noble blood shall behold my paintings and rejoice. But
if there be among you any that is of low or humble birth, such an
one will see nothing but a blank wall. So there! And now, have the
goodness to open wide your noble eyes."

And so saying, Ulenspiegel drew the curtain.

"Remember," said he again, "only they of noble birth can see my
pictures, whether they be lords or ladies." And again, presently:
"He of low birth is blind to my pictures But he who clearly sees,
that man is a nobleman without a doubt."

At that every one present opened wide his eyes, pretending--you may
be sure--to see, and feigning to recognize the various faces and
pointing themselves out to one another, though in reality they beheld
nothing at all but a bare wall. And for this they were each and all
secretly ashamed.

Suddenly the court jester, who was standing by, jumped three feet in
the air and jaggled his bells.

"Take me for a villain," he cried, "a most villainous villain, but
I verily will affirm and assert and say with trumpets and fanfares
that there I see a wall, a blank, white wall, and nothing but a wall,
so help me God and his saints!"

Ulenspiegel said:

"When fools 'gin talking, time for wise men to be walking."

And he was about to leave the palace when the Landgrave stopped him.

"Fool in your folly," said he, "you make boast that you go through the
world praising what is good and fair and making mock of foolery, and
you have dared to make open game of so many and so high-born ladies,
and of their yet more noble lords, bringing ridicule on the pride
of their nobility! Of a truth I tell you that the day will come when
you will hang for your free speech."

"If the cord is of gold," said Ulenspiegel, "it will break with dread
at my approach."

"Stay," said the Landgrave. "Here is the first bit of your rope,"
and he gave him fifteen florins.

"All thanks to you," said Ulenspiegel, "and I promise you that every
tavern on the road shall have a thread of it, a thread of that gold
which makes Croesuses of all those rascally tavern-keepers."

And off he went on his donkey, holding his head up high in air,
with the plume in his cap wagging joyously in the breeze.






XXXIV


Now was the season of yellowing leaves, and the winds of autumn
were beginning to blow. Sometimes for an hour or two it seemed that
Katheline was come into her right mind again, and at such times
Claes would say that the merciful spirit of God had come to visit
her. Then it was that she had power to throw a charm upon Nele, by
signs and incantations, so that the girl was able to see whatever was
happening all over the world, in the public squares of the cities,
or on the highways, or in the houses themselves.

To-day Katheline was in one of these moods of right-mindedness, and
she was eating olie-koekje with Claes, Soetkin, and Nele. Claes said:

"This is the day of His Majesty the Emperor's abdication. Nele,
my dear, do you think you could see as far as Brussels in Brabant?"

"If Katheline wishes me to," said Nele.

Thereupon Katheline caused her to sit down on a bench, and making
sundry passes with her hands, she muttered her incantations, which
soon sent the girl off into a trance.

Then Katheline said to her:

"Make your way into the little house which is called the Park House,
and is the favourite residence of the Emperor Charles the Fifth."

Whereupon Nele began to speak, in a low voice, as though she were
half suffocated.

"I am standing in a small room painted green. There is a man in the
room. He is about fifty-four years of age, and he has a bald head and
a protruding chin with a white beard growing upon it. His grey eyes
have a wicked, crafty look, filled with cruelty and false kindness. And
this is the man they call 'His Most Sacred Majesty.' He suffers from
a catarrh and always keeps coughing. Beside him is another, a young
man with an ugly face like that of a hydrocephalous monkey. I saw him
once at Antwerp. He is King Philip. At the present moment he is being
rebuked by His Sacred Majesty for having slept out last night away from
home. Doubtless, says His Majesty, he was at some brothel in company
of a trollop of the town. His hair, it seems, smells of the tavern,
no place, that, for a King to seek his pleasures in, he who may have
his choice of all the sweetest bodies in the world, of skin like
satin fresh from perfumed baths, and of hands of high-born ladies,
very amorous. Such as these, says His Majesty, are more fit for him,
surely, than some half-mad wench that is come, scarcely washed, from
the arms of a drunken soldier. For there is not one among all the
ladies, the most noble, the most beautiful, whether virgin, wife,
or widow, that would resist King Philip! And they would be proud to
give him of their love--not by a greasy glimmer of stinking tallow,
but by the light of scented tapers made of finest wax.

"The King replies that he will obey His Sacred Majesty in all
things. Whereupon His Sacred Majesty has a fit of coughing and
drinks some draughts of hippocras. After which he addresses his son,
sorrowfully, in these words:

"'You must know, my son, that very soon I am to give to the world the
mighty spectacle of the abdication of my throne in the favour of you,
my son. And I shall speak before a great crowd of people, coughing
and hiccuping as I am--for all my life I have eaten too heartily. And
very hard-hearted must you be if you shed no tears when you hear what
I shall have to say.

"'I shall shed many tears,' answers King Philip.

"And now His Sacred Majesty is speaking to his valet, a man named
Dubois.

"'Bring me some sugar dipped in Madeira,' he cries. 'I have the
hiccups. Pray heaven they do not attack me when I am making my
speech before all those people. Oh, that goose I had last night
for dinner! Will it never pass? I think I had better take a glass
of Orleans wine? No, it is too harsh. Or perhaps if I ate some
anchovies? No, they are oily. Dubois, there, give me some Roman wine!'

"Dubois does as he is told, then dresses his master in a robe of
crimson velvet, wraps a golden cloak about him, girds on his sword,
places the globe and sceptre in his hands, and on his head the
crown. Thus arrayed, His Sacred Majesty goes forth from the Park
House, riding on a little mule and followed by King Philip and many
notables. Presently they arrive at a large building called the Palace,
and they come to a room wherein is a tall thin man, most richly
dressed. He is the Prince of Orange, William, surnamed the Silent.

"'Do I look well, Cousin William?' His Sacred Majesty inquires.

"But the man makes no answer, till at length His Sacred Majesty speaks
again, half mused, half angry.

"'Still silent, cousin? Still without a word?--even when you have
the chance of telling the truth to a grey-beard! Come now, shall I
abdicate or stay upon my throne, O silent one?'

"'Most Sacred Majesty,' replies the thin man, 'at the approach of
winter even the strongest oaks let fall their leaves.'

"Three o'clock strikes.

"'Lend me your shoulder, silent one, that I may lean upon it.'

"And, so saying, His Most Sacred Majesty leads the way into a great
room wherein is a canopy, and under the canopy a dais covered with
a carpet of crimson silk. On the dais are three chairs. His Sacred
Majesty seats himself on the mid-most one, which is more ornamented
than the others and surmounted by the imperial crown. King Philip takes
the second chair, and the third is occupied by a woman, who is no doubt
the Queen. On either side are long benches covered with tapestry, and
sitting upon them are men dressed in red robes and wearing round their
necks the image of a golden sheep. Behind stand various personages who
would seem to be princes and lords. Opposite these, and at the bottom
of the dais, there is a row of bare benches which are occupied by men
dressed in plain cloth. I hear it said that these men are clothed and
seated so modestly because it is themselves that have to pay all the
costs. At the entrance of His Sacred Majesty these people all stand
up, but when he has sat down he makes a sign and they sit also.

"Now a very aged man is talking of his gout interminably. After which
the woman, who seems to be a Queen, presents a roll of parchment to
His Majesty. His Sacred Majesty reads what is written thereon in a low
voice, coughing all the time, and then he begins to speak for himself.

"'Many and long are the journeys that I have made through Spain and
Italy and the Netherlands, through England and through Africa, all for
God's glory, for the renown of my arms, and the good of my peoples.'

"And so on, and so on, till at last he comes to tell of his growing
weakness and fatigue, and of his determination to relinquish the
crown of Spain, together with the counties, duchies, and marquisates
of all those countries, and of his desire to hand them over to his
son. Thereafter he begins to weep, and every one weeps with him, and
King Philip gets up from his chair and falls upon his knees before
his father.

"'Most Sacred Majesty,' he cries, 'am I indeed to receive this crown
from your hands while yet you are so strong to wear it?'

"Then His Majesty whispers into his son's ear that he should speak
some kindly words to those men who are seated upon the tapestried
chairs. Whereupon King Philip turns towards them, and without rising
addresses them in a sharp tone of voice.

"'I understand French fairly well,' he says, 'but not well enough to
be able to talk to any one in that language. But the Bishop of Arras,
Monsieur Grandvelle, he will say something to you on my behalf.'

"'That is not the way to speak to them, my son,' says His Sacred
Majesty.

"And in truth the whole assembly begins to murmur, seeing the
young King so proud and unbending. The woman, she who is the Queen,
then makes an oration, and is followed by an aged professor, who,
on sitting down, receives a wave of the hand from His Sacred Majesty
by way of thanks. These ceremonies and harangues being finished, His
Sacred Majesty makes a declaration to the effect that his subjects
are released from their oath of fidelity, signs the deeds drawn up
to ratify his abdication, and then, rising from his throne, places
his son upon it in his stead. Every one in the hall weeps. Then they
return again to the Park House.

"Once more His Sacred Majesty and his son Philip are alone together in
the green chamber. As soon as the doors are shut His Sacred Majesty
goes off into a peal of laughter, and begins talking to King Philip,
who keeps quite solemn all the time.

"'Did you notice,' says the Emperor, laughing and hiccuping at the
same time, 'how little was needed to move these good people to tears?
Heavens, how they wept! You would have thought it was the deluge!
That fat Maes who made the long speech, why, he cried like a calf!
Even you appeared to be affected--but not quite sufficiently,
perhaps. Really there is no doubt that these are the best of all the
entertainments which one can provide for the populace. For just as we
nobles are wont to cherish most those mistresses who cost us most,
so also it is with the people. The more we make them pay the more
they love us. That is why I have tolerated the reformed religion
in Germany while punishing it severely in the Low Countries. If,
however, the German princes had been Catholics I would have made
myself a Lutheran so that I might confiscate their property. Verily
they all believe in the integrity of my zeal for the Roman faith,
and when I leave them they are full of regrets. Yet for heresy there
have perished at my hands fifty thousand of their bravest men and of
their tenderest maidens, in the Netherlands alone. But still they
grieve at my departure. And without making any count of what has
been got from confiscations, I have raised in taxes more than the
wealth of all the Indies or Peru; yet they are sorry to lose me.
And I have torn up the Peace of Cadzant, brought the city of Ghent
under subjection, suppressed every one who might be dangerous to
me, put down all liberties, freedoms, and privileges, and placed
them under the authority of the royal officers; but yet do these
good people think they are still free inasmuch as I allow them to
shoot with the crossbow, and to carry in procession the banners of
their guilds. Willingly do they submit themselves to the hand of
their master, finding happiness in a cage, and singing his praises
while he is with them, and weeping when he departs. My son, be you
to them even as I have been, kindly in words but harsh in deed. Lick
that which you have no need to bite, and never leave off swearing
to maintain liberties, freedoms, and privileges, however little you
may scruple to destroy those liberties if they show signs of becoming
dangerous. For such things as these are like iron if handled timidly,
but brittle as glass if grappled with a strong hand. Therefore you
should root out all heresy, not because it differs from the Roman
religion, but because, if allowed to flourish, it would mean the end
of our rule in all the Netherlands. For they that attack the Pope
with his three crowns would finish by denying the authority of the
temporal princes who wear but one. So, then, you should follow my
example, and regard all claims to freedom of conscience as crimes
of high treason to be punished by immediate confiscation. Hereby
you will inherit great riches, as I also have done all my life long;
and when you come to die or to abdicate, everybody will say, 'Ah me,
the good and noble prince!' and many are the tears that will be shed!'

"And now I hear no more," said Nele, "for His Sacred Majesty has laid
him down to sleep. And King Philip, that proud and haughty prince,
stands gazing at him with loveless eyes."

And when she had thus spoken, Nele was awakened from her trance by
Katheline. And Claes gazed thoughtfully into the fire as it flamed
and lit up all the chimney.






XXXV


It was the month of April. The weather had been mild, but now there
was come a sharp frost and a sky grey and overcast as it were the
sky of All Souls' Day. The third year of Ulenspiegel's banishment had
long since passed, and Nele was waiting day after day for the return
of her lover.

"Alas!" she cried, "there will be snow on the pear-trees, and snow
upon the flowering jasmines, and on all the poor plants that have
bloomed in confidence of the mildness and the warmth of an early
spring. Already from the sky little snowflakes are falling on the
roads. And on my poor heart as well the snow is falling.

"Where, oh where are the bright rays of sunshine that should be playing
now on our happy spring-time faces--and upon red roofs that were used
to grow the redder for that warmth, and on window-panes that flashed
as they caught that sunny brightness? Where indeed are those flaming
beams that kindled earth to life again, and the sky, and the birds,
and the insects? Alas! For day and night am I chilled by sorrow and
long waiting. Oh where, where are you, my lover Ulenspiegel?"






XXXVI


That Sunday there was held at Bruges the Procession of the Holy
Blood. Claes told his wife that she and Nele ought to go and see the
procession, and that if they did so, it was not impossible they might
find Ulenspiegel in the city. As for himself, he would stay behind
and look after the cottage and be ready to welcome their pilgrim if
he should return.

So the two women went off together. Claes remained at home and sat
himself down on the doorstep and gazed into the deserted village
street. All was quiet as the grave, except now and again for the
crystal sound of the bell of some village church, or, rising and
falling with every little gust of wind from Bruges, the far-off music
of the carillon and the sound of the guns and fireworks that were
being let off in honour of the Holy Blood. But in spite of all these
sounds of joy, Claes was filled with sadness, scanning the grey mist
that hung over the fields for a sight of his son, and trying to hear
his footfall in the jolly rustling of leaves and gay concert of birds
as they sang among the trees. Suddenly he noticed a man coming down
towards him on the road from Maldeghem. It was a man tall of stature,
but it was not Ulenspiegel. And presently Claes saw him come to a stand
beside a field of carrots, and bend down to eat of the vegetables as
if he were starving for food.

"There's a hungry man sure," said Claes to himself.

But after a while the man continued his walk, and passed out of view;
to reappear a little later at the corner of the rue Héron. Claes
recognized him at once as the messenger who had brought the seven
hundred ducats from his brother Josse. He went to meet him, and
asked him in.

"Blessed are they that are kind to the wandering traveller," said
the man, and readily accepted the proffered invitation.

Now on the window-ledge of the cottage window lay some bread-crumbs
which Soetkin kept ready for the birds of the neighbourhood, who had
learnt to come there during the winter for their food. The man took
these crumbs and ate them.

"You must be hungry and thirsty," said Claes.

"Eight days ago was I robbed by thieves," the man replied, "and since
then I have had nothing to eat but the carrots I have found in the
fields and roots in the forest."

"Well then," said Claes, "I am thinking it is time you had a good round
meal." And so saying he opened the bread-pan. "Look," he continued,
"here is a dishful of peas, and here are eggs, puddings, hams,
sausages from Ghent, waterzoey, a hotchpotch of fish. And down below
in the cellar there slumbers our good wine from Louvain, made after
the manner of Burgundy wine, all clear and red as rubies. Only the
glasses are wanting now to rouse it from its sleep. And to crown all,
let us put a faggot to the fire. Already I can hear the pudding singing
in the grill! And that's a song of right good cheer, my friend!"

Claes kept turning the puddings, and as he did so he inquired of the
stranger whether he had seen his son, Ulenspiegel.

"No," was the answer.

"Then perhaps you bring me news of my brother?" Claes said, as he
placed the puddings, now well grilled, upon the table, together with
a ham omelette, some cheese, and two big tankards of gleaming Louvain
wine, both red and white.

The man said:

"Your brother Josse has been done to death upon the rack at Sippenaken
near to Aix. And all because he was a heretic, and bore arms against
the Emperor."

Claes was like one mad, and he shook all over, for his wrath was great.

"Wicked brutes!" he cried. "O Josse! My poor Josse!"

Then the stranger spoke again, but in a voice that held no sweetness.

"Not in this world, my friend, is to be found just cause either for
joy or for sorrow." And he fell to his food. But after a while he
spoke again.

"You must know that I was able to be of some assistance to your brother
while he was in prison, by pretending that I was one of his relatives,
a peasant from Nieswieler. I am now come hither in obedience to his
command that if I was not killed for the Faith like him, I should go
to you, and charge you in his name to live in the faith and peace of
our Saviour, practising all works of mercy, and educating your son in
secret in the law of Christ. 'That money,' he said, 'which I gave to
my brother was money taken from the poor and ignorant. Let Claes make
use of it in rearing Tyl in the knowledge of God and of His word.'"

And when he had thus spoken, the messenger gave Claes the kiss of
peace. And Claes made moan and lamentation, saying:

"Dead upon the rack! Alas! My poor Josse!" And his grief was so
great that he could not put it from him. Nevertheless, when he saw
that the messenger was consumed with thirst and held out his glass
for more wine, Claes poured out again. But he himself ate and drank
without pleasure.

Now Soetkin and Nele remained away for seven days; and all this time
the messenger stayed beneath the roof of Claes, and every night they
heard Katheline howling in her cottage over the way:

"Fire! Fire! Make a hole! My soul wants to get out!"

And Claes went to her, comforting her with gentle words, and afterwards
returned to his own house.

At the end of the seven days the messenger departed. Claes offered
him money, but he would only accept two caroluses with which to feed
himself and find lodging on his way back home.






XXXVII


When Nele and Soetkin returned from Bruges, they found Claes in the
kitchen, sitting on the floor like a tailor, sewing buttons on an
old pair of breeches. Titus Bibulus Schnouffius barked his welcome;
Claes smiled, and Nele smiled in answer. But Soetkin did not take her
eyes from the road, gazing continually in hopes to see her beloved
Ulenspiegel.

All of a sudden she broke silence. "Look," she cried, "here is the
Provost-Marshal. He is coming along the road with four sergeants of
the peace. They cannot be wanting any one from here, surely! And yet
there are two of them turning off by the cottage!"

Claes looked up from his work.

"And the other two have stopped at the front," Soetkin said.

Then Claes got up.

"Who can they want to arrest in this road?" his wife continued,
and then: "O Christ! They are coming in here."

"Look to the money!" cried Claes. "The caroluses are hidden away behind
the fireplace." And with these words he ran out of the kitchen into
the garden. Nele understood what he meant, and saw that he was going
to try and make his escape over the hedge. But the sergeants seized
him by the collar, and now he was hitting out at them in a hopeless
endeavour to break free.

"He is innocent!" Nele cried aloud amid her tears. "He is innocent! Do
not hurt him. It is Claes, my father! O Ulenspiegel, where are
you? Where are you? If you were only here you would kill them both!"

And she threw herself on one of the sergeants and tore at his face with
her nails. Then she cried out again: "They will kill him!" and fell
down upon the grass in the garden, and rolled there in her despair.

Katheline, hearing the noise, had come out from her cottage, and stood
up straight and immovable, gazing at the piteous scene. Then she spoke,
wagging her head:

"Fire! Fire! Make a hole! My soul wants to get out!"

Soetkin meanwhile, who had seen nothing of all this, was talking to
the sergeants who had entered the cottage.

"Kind sirs," she began, "what is it that you are looking for in our
poor dwelling? If it is my son you want, he is far away. Do you feel
equal to a long journey?"

And she felt quite pleased at the way she was handling the matter. But
it was at this very moment that Nele began to cry aloud for help,
and when Soetkin had made her way into the garden, it was to see
her husband seized by the collar and fighting on the pathway near
the hedge.

"Hit hard and kill them!" she cried, and then: "O Ulenspiegel, where
are you?"

And she was about to go to the assistance of her man when one of
the sergeants caught hold of her, not indeed without some danger
to himself. And Claes was fighting and hitting out so forcibly that
he would certainly have escaped had not the two sergeants with whom
Soetkin had been talking come out to aid their fellows in the nick of
time. So at last they were able to tie the hands of Claes together,
and to carry him back to the kitchen, whither Nele and Soetkin had
already come, crying and sobbing.

"Sir Provost," Soetkin said, "what crime has he committed that you
are binding my poor husband thus with cords?"

"He is a heretic," said one of the sergeants.

"Heretic!" cried Soetkin, looking towards her husband. "You a
heretic! These devils are lying!"

Claes answered:

"I resign myself into God's keeping."

And they took him away. Nele and Soetkin followed behind, in tears,
believing that they also would be summoned before the judge. They
were joined by many of their friends and neighbours, but when these
heard that it was on a charge of heresy that Claes was walking thus in
chains, fear came upon them and they returned incontinently to their
houses, closing their doors behind them. Only a few young girls had
the courage to approach Claes and say to him:

"Whither are you going to, Charcoal-burner, in these bonds!"

"I go unto the grace of God, my girls," he answered them.

So they took him away to the town gaol, and Nele and Soetkin sat
themselves down upon the threshold. And towards evening Soetkin
besought Nele to leave her and to go and see if Ulenspiegel had
perchance returned.






XXXVIII


The news spread quickly through the neighbourhood that a man had
been taken prisoner on a charge of heresy, and that the inquisitor
Titelman, Dean of Renaix, surnamed the Inquisitor without Pity,
had been appointed judge. Now at this time Ulenspiegel was living
at Koolkerke, in the intimate favour of a farmer's widow, a sweet
and gentle person who refused him nothing of what was hers to give.
He was very happy there, petted and made much of, until one day a
treacherous rival, an alderman of the village, lay in wait for him
early in the morning when he was coming out of the tavern, and would
have beaten him with a wooden club. But Ulenspiegel, thinking to cool
his rival's anger, threw him into a duck-pond that was full of water,
and the alderman scrambled out as best he could, green as a toad and
dripping like a sponge.

As a result of this mighty deed Ulenspiegel found it convenient to
depart from Koolkerke, and off he went to Damme as fast as his legs
would carry him, fearing the vengeance of the alderman.

The night fell cold, and Ulenspiegel ran quickly. For he was longing
to be home again, and already he saw in imagination Nele sewing by the
fire, Soetkin getting ready the supper, Claes binding up his sticks,
and Schnouffius gnawing at a bone.

A tramping pedlar met him on the road and asked him whither he was
off to so fast and at that time of night.

"To my home in Damme," Ulenspiegel told him.

The tramp said:

"That town is no longer safe. They are arresting the Reformers there."
And he passed on.

Presently Ulenspiegel arrived at the inn of the Roode Schildt and
went in for a glass of dobbel kuyt. The innkeeper said to him:

"Are you not the son of Claes?"

"I am," said Ulenspiegel.

"Make haste then," said the innkeeper, "for the hour of evil fortune
has sounded for your father."

Ulenspiegel asked him what he meant by these words, and the innkeeper
told him that he would know soon enough. So Ulenspiegel left the inn
and continued on his way, running apace.

When he arrived at the outskirts of Damme, the dogs that stood by the
doorways came running round his legs, jumping up at him, yelping and
barking. Hearing this noise, the women also came out of their houses,
and when they saw who it was they all began talking at once.

"Whence come you?" they cried. "And have you any news of your
father? And do you know where your mother is? Is she in prison
too? Alas! Heaven send they do not bring him to the stake!"

Ulenspiegel ran on faster than ever. He met Nele.

"Tyl," she said, "you must not go home. They have set guards in our
house in the name of His Majesty."

Ulenspiegel stopped running.

"Nele," he said, "is it true that Claes, my father, is in prison?"

"It is true," Nele said, "and Soetkin sits weeping at the gaol door."

Then the heart of the prodigal son swelled with grief, and he said:
"I must go to them."

"No," said Nele. "First you must do what Claes told me, just before
he was taken away. 'Look to the money,' he said, 'it is hidden at the
back of the grate. You must make sure of that first of everything,
for it is the inheritance of poor Soetkin.'"

But Ulenspiegel would not hear aught and ran on quickly to the
gaol. There he found Soetkin sitting at the gate. She embraced him
with many tears, and they cried on one another's neck.

Knowing that they were there, the populace began to crowd in front of
the prison. Then the sergeants arrived and told Soetkin and Ulenspiegel
that they were to go away at once. So mother and son returned to Nele's
cottage, which was next door to their own, and was being guarded by
one of the foot-soldiers who had been sent for from Bruges in case
there might be trouble during the trial and execution of Claes. For
it was well known that the people of Damme loved him exceedingly.

The soldier was sitting on the pavement in front of the door,
draining the last drops of brandy from a flask. Finding it was all
gone he threw the flask away and was amusing himself by dislodging
the stones on the path with the point of his dagger.

Soetkin went in to Katheline, crying most bitterly.

But Katheline said: "Fire! Fire! Make a hole! My soul wants to
get out!" And she kept wagging her head.






XXXIX


Borgstorm, the great bell of Damme, had summoned the judges to
judgment. It was four o'clock, and now they were collected together
at the Vierschare, around the Tree of Justice.

Claes was brought before them. Seated upon the dais was the high
bailiff of Damme, and by his side, opposite Claes, the mayor, the
alderman, and the clerk of the court.

The populace ran together at the sound of the bell. A great crowd
they were, and many of them were saying that the judges were there
to do--not justice--but merely the will of His Imperial Majesty....

After certain preliminaries, the high bailiff began to make
proclamation of the acts and deeds for which Claes had been summoned
before that tribunal.

"The informer," he said, "had been staying by chance at Damme, not
wishing to spend all his money at Bruges in feasting and festivity as
is too often the case during these sacred occasions. On a time, then,
when he was taking the air soberly on his own doorstep, he saw a man
walking towards him along the rue Héron. This man Claes also saw,
and went up to him and greeted him. The stranger, who was dressed
all in black, entered the house of Claes, leaving the door into the
street half open. Curious to find out who the man was, the informer
went into the vestibule, and heard Claes talking to the stranger in the
kitchen. The talk was all about a certain Josse, the brother of Claes,
who it seems had been made prisoner among the army of the Reformers,
and had suffered the punishment of being broken alive on the wheel
of torture, not far from Aix. The stranger said that he had brought
Claes a sum of money which his brother had desired to leave him, which
money having been gained from the ignorant and poverty-stricken, it
behoved Claes to spend it in bringing up his own son in the Reformed
Faith. He also urged Claes to quit the bosom of our Holy Mother
Church, and spake also many other impious words to which the only
reply vouchsafed by Claes was this: 'The cruel brutes! Alas, my poor
Josse!' So did the prisoner blaspheme against our Holy Father the Pope
and against His Royal Majesty, accusing them of cruelty in that they
rightly had punished heresy as a crime of treason against God and
man. When the stranger had finished the meal that Claes put before
him, our agent heard Claes cry out again: 'Alas, poor Josse! May God
keep thee in his glory! How cruel they were to thee!' And thus did he
accuse God himself of impiety by this suggestion that He could receive
a heretic into His heaven. Nor did Claes ever cease to cry aloud:
'Alas! Alas! My poor Josse!' The stranger then, launching out into
a frenzy, like a preacher beginning his sermon, fell to revile most
shamefully our Holy Mother the Church. 'She will fall,' he shouted,
'she will fall, the mighty Babylon, the whore of Rome, and she will
become the abode of demons, and the haunt of every bird accursed.' And
Claes meanwhile continued the same old cry: 'Cruel brutes! Alas, poor
Josse!' And the stranger went on in the same way as he had begun,
saying: 'Verily an angel shall appear that shall take a stone that
is great as a millstone, and shall cast it into the sea, crying:
"Thus shall it be done to Babylon the mighty, and she shall be no
more seen."' Whereupon, 'Sir,' says Claes, 'your mouth is full of
bitterness; but tell me, when cometh that kingdom in which they
that are gentle of heart shall be able to dwell in peace upon the
earth?' 'Never,' answered the stranger, 'while yet my Lord Antichrist
rules, that is the Pope, who is to-day the enemy to all truth.' 'Ah,'
said Claes, 'you speak with little respect of the Holy Father. But
he, surely, is ignorant of the cruel punishments which are meted out
to poor Reformers.' 'Not at all,' answered the stranger, 'and far
from it, for it is he who initiates the decrees and causes them to
be put into force by the Emperor, now by the King. The latter enjoys
all the benefits of confiscation, inherits the property of the dead,
and finds it easy to bring charges of heresy against those who have
any wealth.' Claes said: 'Indeed I know that such things are freely
spoken of in the land of Flanders, and one may well believe them, for
the flesh of man is weak, even though the flesh be royal flesh. O my
poor Josse!' And by this did Claes give to understand that heretics
are punished because of a vile desire on the part of His Majesty for
filthy lucre. The stranger wished to argue the matter further, but
Claes said: 'Please, sir, do not let us continue this conversation,
for if it were overheard I might easily find myself involved in some
awkward inquiry.' Then Claes got up to go to the cellar, whence he
presently returned with a pot of beer. 'I am going to shut the door,'
said he, and after that the informer heard nothing more, for he had
to make his way out of the house as quickly as he could. Not till
it was night was the door again opened, and then the stranger came
forth. But he soon returned, knocking at the door and calling to Claes:
'It is very cold, and I know not where I am to lodge this night. Give
me shelter, pray. No one has seen me. The town is deserted.' Claes
welcomed him in, lit a lantern, and last of all he was seen to be
leading the heretic up the staircase into a little attic room with
a window that looked out on to the country."

At this Claes cried out: "And who could have reported all this but
you, you wicked fishmonger! I saw you on Sunday, standing at your
door, as straight as a post, gazing up, like the hypocrite you are,
at the swallows in their flight!"

And as he spoke, he pointed with his finger at Josse Grypstuiver,
the Dean of the Fishmongers, who showed his ugly phiz in the crowd
of people. And the fishmonger gave an evil smile when he saw Claes
betraying himself in this way. And the people in the crowd, men,
women, and maids, looked one at the other and said: "Poor good man,
his words will be the death of him without a doubt."

But the clerk continued his depositions.

"Claes and the heretic stayed talking together for a long time that
night, and so for six other nights, during which time the stranger was
seen to make many gestures of menace or of benediction, and to lift up
his hands to heaven as do his fellow-heretics. And Claes appeared to
approve of what he said. And there is no doubt that throughout these
days and nights they were speaking together opprobriously of the Mass,
of the confessional, of indulgences, and of the Royal Majesty...."

"No one heard it," said Claes, "and I cannot be accused in this way
without any evidence."

The clerk answered:

"There is something else that was overheard. The evening that the
stranger left your roof, seven days after he had first come to you,
you went with him as far as the end of Katheline's field. There he
asked you what you had done with the wicked idols"--here the bailiff
crossed himself--"of Madame the Virgin, and of St. Nicholas and
St. Martin. You replied that you had broken them all up and thrown
them into the well. They were, in fact, found in the well last night,
and the pieces are now in the torture-chamber."

At these words Claes appeared to be quite overcome. The bailiff
asked if he had nothing to answer. Claes made a sign with his head
in the negative.

The bailiff asked him if he would not recant the accursed thoughts
which had led him to break the images, and the impious delusion
whereby he had spoken such evil words against Pope and Emperor,
who were both divine personages.

Claes replied that his body was the Emperor's, but that his soul was
Christ's, whose law he desired to obey. The bailiff asked him if this
law were the same as that of Holy Mother Church. Claes answered:

"The law of Christ is written in the Holy Gospel."

When ordered to answer the question as to whether the Pope is the
representative of God on earth, he answered, "No."

When asked if he believed that it was forbidden to adore images of Our
Lady and of the saints, he replied that such was idolatry. Questioned
as to whether the practice of auricular confession was a good and
salutary thing, he answered: "Christ said, confess your sins one
to another."

He spoke out bravely, though at the same time it was evident that he
was ill at ease and in his heart afraid.

At length, eight o'clock having sounded and evening coming on,
the members of the tribunal retired, deferring their judgment until
the morrow.






XL


The next day the great bell, Borgstorm, clanged out its summons
to the judges of the tribunal. When they were all assembled at the
Vierschare, seated upon the four benches that were set around the
lime-tree, Claes was cross-examined afresh, and asked if he was
willing to recant his errors.

But Claes lifted his hand towards heaven:

"The Lord Christ beholdeth me from on high," he said, "and when my son
Ulenspiegel was born I also gazed upon His Sun. Where is Ulenspiegel
now? Where is he now, the vagabond? O Soetkin, sweet wife, will you
be brave in the day of trouble?"

Then looking at the lime-tree he cursed it, saying: "South wind and
drouth, I adjure you to make the trees of our fathers perish one and
all where they stand, rather than that beneath their shade freedom
of conscience shall be judged to death! O Ulenspiegel, my son, where
are you? Harsh was I unto you in days gone by. But now, good sirs,
take pity on me, and be merciful to me in your judgment, even as Our
Lord would be merciful."

And all that heard him wept, save only the judges.

Then Claes asked them a second time if they would not pardon him,
saying:

"Truly I was always a hard-working man, and one that gained little for
all his toil. I was good to the poor and kind to every one. And if I
have left the Roman Church it is only in obedience to the spirit of
God that spake to me. I ask for no grace except that the pain of fire
may be commuted to a sentence of perpetual banishment from the land of
Flanders. Banishment for life! A sufficient punishment that, surely!"

And all they that were present cried aloud:

"Have pity upon him! Have mercy!"

But Josse Grypstuiver held his peace.

Now the bailiff made a sign to the company that they should keep
silence, adding that the placards contained a clause which expressly
forbade the petitioning of mercy for heretics. But he said that if
Claes would abjure his heresy he should be executed by hanging instead
of by burning. And the people murmured:

"What matters burning or hanging, they both mean death!"

And the women wept and the men murmured under their breath.

Claes said:

"I will abjure nothing. Do to my body whatsoever is pleasing to
your mercy."

Then spoke the Dean of Renaix, Titelman by name:

"It is intolerable that these vermin of heretics should raise up their
heads in this way before their judges. After all, the burning of the
body is but a passing pain, and torture is necessary for the saving of
souls, and for the recantation of error, lest the people be given the
dangerous spectacle of heretics dying in a state of final impenitence."

At these words the women wept still more, and the men said: "In those
cases where the crime is confessed punishment may be rightly inflicted,
but torture is illegal!"

The tribunal decided that since indeed it was a fact that the
ordinances did not order torture to be applied in such cases, there
was no occasion to insist that Claes should suffer it. He was asked
once more if he would not recant.

"I cannot," he answered.

Then, in accordance with the ordinances, sentence was passed upon
him. He was declared guilty of simony in that he had taken part in
the sale of indulgences, and he was also declared to be a heretic and
a harbourer of heretics, and as such he was condemned to be burned
alive before the hoardings of the Town Hall. His body was to be left
hanging on the stake for the space of two days as a warning to others,
and afterwards it was to be interred in the place set apart for the
bodies of executed criminals. To the informer, Josse Grypstuiver
(whose name had never been mentioned throughout the whole trial),
the tribunal ordered to be paid the sum of fifty florins calculated
on the first hundred florins of the inheritance of the deceased,
and a tenth part of the remainder.

When he heard the sentence that had been passed upon him, Claes turned
to the Dean of the Fishmongers.

"You will come to a bad end," he said, "you wicked man that for a
paltry sum of money have turned a happy wife into a widow, and a
joyous son into a grieving orphan."

The judges suffered Claes to speak in this way for they also,
all except Titelman, could not help despising from the bottom of
their hearts the Dean of the Fishmongers for the information he had
given. Grypstuiver himself went pale with shame and anger.

And Claes was led back to his prison.






XLI


On the morrow (which was the day before the execution of Claes) the
decision of the court was made known to Nele, to Ulenspiegel, and
Soetkin. They asked the judges for leave to visit Claes in prison,
which permission was granted in the case of the wife and the son only.

On entering the prison cell they found Claes tied to the wall by
a long chain. A small fire was burning in the grate because of the
damp. For it is custom and law in Flanders that they who are condemned
to death shall be gently treated and be given bread and meat to eat,
or cheese and wine. Still gaolers are a greedy race, and oftentimes
the law is broken, there being many prison guards who themselves eat
up the greater part of the nourishment provided for the poor prisoners,
or keep the best morsels for themselves.

Claes embraced Ulenspiegel and Soetkin, crying the while. But he was
the first to dry his eyes, for he put control upon himself, being
a man and the head of the family. Soetkin, however, went on crying,
and Ulenspiegel kept muttering under his breath:

"I must break these wicked chains!"

And Soetkin said through her tears:

"I shall go to King Philip. He surely will have mercy!"

But Claes answered that this would be no use since the King was wont
to possess himself of the property of those who died as martyrs.... He
said also:

"My wife and child, my best beloved, it is with sadness and sorrow that
I am about to leave this world. If I have some natural apprehension
for my own bodily sufferings, I am no less concerned when I think of
you and of how poor and wretched you will be when I am gone, for the
King will certainly seize for himself all your goods."

Ulenspiegel made answer, speaking in a low voice for fear of being
overheard:

"Yesterday Nele and I hid all the money."

"I am glad," Claes answered; "the informer will not laugh when he
comes to count his plunder."

"I had rather he died than had a penny of it," said Soetkin with a
look of hate in her eyes now dry of tears. But Claes, who was still
thinking about the caroluses, said to Ulenspiegel:

"That was clever of you, Tyl, my lad; now Soetkin need not be afraid
of going hungry in the old age of her widowhood."

And Claes embraced her, pressing her close to his breast, and she
wept all the more bitterly as she thought how soon she was to lose
his tender protection.

Claes looked at Ulenspiegel and said:

"My son, it was wrong of you to go running off along the high roads of
the world like any ruffian. You must not do that any more, my boy. You
must not leave her alone at home, my widow in her sorrow. For now it
is your duty to protect her and take care of her--you, a man."

"I will, father," said Ulenspiegel.

"O my poor husband!" cried Soetkin embracing him again. "What crime
can we have committed? Nay, we lived our life peaceably together,
lowly and humbly, loving each other well--how well Thou, Lord,
knowest! Early in the morning we rose for work, and at eventide,
rendering our thanks to Thee, we ate our daily bread. Oh, would that
I could come at this King, and tear him with my nails! For in nothing,
O Lord God, have we offended!"

But here the gaoler entered and said that it was time for them
to depart.

Soetkin begged to be allowed to stay, and Claes felt her poor face
burning hot as it touched his, and her tears falling in floods and
wetting all his cheek, and her poor body shaking and trembling in
his arms. He, too, entreated the gaoler that she might be suffered
to remain with him. But the gaoler was obdurate, and removed Soetkin
by force from the arms of Claes.

"Take care of her," Claes said to Ulenspiegel.

He promised, and son and mother left the room together, she supported
in his arms.






XLII


The next day, which was the day of the execution, the neighbours,
out of pity for their suffering, came and shut up Soetkin and Nele
and Ulenspiegel in Katheline's cottage. For they could not bear that
they should see the terrible sight of the burning. Yet it had been
forgotten that the far-off cries of the tormented one would reach
the cottage, and that those within would be able to see through the
windows the flames of the fire.

Katheline, meanwhile, went wandering through the town, wagging her
head and crying out continually:

"Make a hole! Make a hole! My soul wants to get out!"

At nine of the clock Claes was led out of his prison. He was dressed in
a shirt only, and his hands were tied behind his back. In accordance
with the sentence that had been passed upon him, the pile was set up
in the rue Notre Dame, with a stake in the midst, just in front of the
hoarding of the Town Hall. When they arrived there the executioner
and his assistants had not yet completed the work of stacking the
wood. Claes stood patiently in the midst of his tormentors watching
while the work was finished, and all the time the provost on his horse,
with the officers of the tribunal and the nine foot-soldiers that had
been summoned from Bruges, had the greatest difficulty in keeping
order among the people. For they murmured one to another, saying
that it was cruelty thus to do to death unjustly a man like Claes,
a poor man and already old in years, and one that was so gentle,
so forgiving, and such a good and steady workman.

Suddenly they all fell upon their knees and began to pray, for the
bells of Notre Dame were heard tolling for the dead.

Katheline also was among the crowd, right in the front, mad as she
was. Fixing her eye on Claes and the pile of wood, she wagged her
head and cried continually:

"Fire! Fire! Dig a hole! My soul wants to get out!"

When Nele and Soetkin heard the sound of the tolling they crossed
themselves. But Ulenspiegel did not cross himself, saying that he
would never pray to God after the same fashion as those hangmen. But
he ran about the cottage, trying to force open the doors or jump from
the windows. But they were shut and fastened well.

Suddenly Soetkin hid her face in her apron.

"The smoke!" she cried.

And in very fact, the three mourners could see, mounting high to
heaven, a great eddy of smoke; all black it was, the smoke of the
funeral pile whereon was Claes, tied to a stake, the smoke of that
fire which the executioner had just set burning in the name of the
Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.

Claes looked around for Soetkin or Ulenspiegel. But not seeing them
anywhere in the crowd he felt happier and more at ease, thinking that
they would not know how he suffered. And all the time there was a
silence like death, except for the sound of Claes' voice praying, and
the crackling of the wood, the murmuring of men, the weeping of the
women, the voice of Katheline as she cried: "Put out the fire! Make
a hole! My soul wants to get out!" and over all, the bells of Notre
Dame tolling for the dead.

Suddenly Soetkin's face went as white as snow, and her body trembled
all over. She did not utter a sound, but pointed to the sky with her
finger. For there a long, straight flame of fire had risen above the
pyre, and now was leaping high above the roofs of the lower houses. It
was a flame of pain and cruelty to Claes, for following the caprice
of the breeze, it preyed upon his legs, or touched his head so that
it smoked, licking and singeing his hair.

Ulenspiegel took Soetkin in his arms and tried to tear her away from
the window. Then they heard a sharp cry, the cry which came from Claes
when one side of his body was burnt by the dancing flames. But then
he was silent again, weeping to himself. And his breast was all wet
with his tears.

Thereafter Soetkin and Ulenspiegel heard a great noise as of many
voices. This was the townsfolk, their wives and their children,
who now began to cry and shout out all together:

"He was not sentenced to be burnt by a slow fire, but by a quick
fire! Executioner, stir up the faggots!"

The executioner did so. But the fire did not flame up quick enough
to please the mob.

"Kill him!" they shouted. "Put him out of his misery!" And they began
to throw missiles at the provost.

Soetkin cried aloud: "The flame! The great flame!"

And in very truth they saw now a great red flame, mounting heavenwards,
in the midst of the smoke.

"He is about to die," said the widow. "O Lord, of your mercy receive
the soul of this innocent. Where is the King, that I may go and tear
out his heart with my nails?"

And all the while the bells of Notre Dame kept tolling for the
dead. Yet again did Soetkin hear a great cry from her husband; but
mercifully she was spared the sight of his body writhing in the agony
of the fire, and his twisted face, and his head that he turned from
side to side and beat upon the wood of the stake. Meanwhile the crowd
continued to shout and to hiss, and the boys threw stones, until all
of a sudden the whole pile of wood caught alight, and the voice of
Claes was heard crying out from the midst of the flame and smoke:

"Soetkin! Tyl!"

And then his head fell down upon his breast as though it were made
of lead.

And there came a cry, most piteous and piercing, from the cottage of
Katheline; and after that there was silence, except for the poor mad
woman wagging her head and saying:

"My soul wants to get out!"

Claes was dead. The fire burned itself away, smouldering at the foot
of the stake whereon the poor body still hung by its neck.

And the bells of Notre Dame tolled for the dead.






XLIII


In Katheline's cottage Soetkin stood leaning against the wall,
with her head hanging down and her hands clasped together. She held
Ulenspiegel in her arms, speechless and without a tear. Neither did
Ulenspiegel say anything. It made him afraid to feel the burning
fever that raged in the body of his mother.

The neighbours, returning from the place of execution, came to the
cottage and told how Claes had made an end of his sufferings.

"He is in glory," said the widow.

"Pray for him," said Nele, putting her rosary into the hands of
Ulenspiegel. But he would make no use of it, giving as his reason
that the beads had been blessed by the Pope.

At last night came, and Ulenspiegel urged his mother to go to bed,
telling her that he himself would sit up and keep watch in the
room. But Soetkin said that there was no need for him to do that. Let
him sleep also, for the young have need of a good night's rest. So
Nele prepared two beds for them in the kitchen, and after that she
left them.

Mother and son stayed up together while what remained of the wood
fire burned itself out in the grate. Then Soetkin retired to her bed,
and Ulenspiegel did likewise, listening to his mother sobbing to
herself under the bedclothes.

Outside in the silence of the night the wind made a murmuring sound
in the trees by the canal. It was like the far-off sound of waves,
and it meant that autumn was coming soon. Also, there were great
eddies of dust that beat against the cottage windows.

Now it seemed to Ulenspiegel that he saw the figure of a man going to
and fro in the room, and he thought he heard the sound of footsteps
coming and going in the kitchen. But when he looked he no longer
saw the man, and listening he no longer heard those footsteps, but
only the sound of the wind as it whistled in the chimney and Soetkin
crying under the bedclothes.

Then once again he heard those footsteps, and just behind him, near
his head, a soft sigh.

"Who is it?" he said.

No one answered, but quite distinctly came the sound of three taps
on the table. Ulenspiegel was afraid, and began to tremble. "Who is
it?" he said again. No one answered, but once more there came the
three taps upon the table, and after that he felt two arms hugging him
round, and over him there leant a man's body with skin all wrinkled
and a great hole in its breast that gave forth a smell of burning.

"Father," said Ulenspiegel, "is it you, and is this your poor body
that weighs thus upon me?"

He received no answer to his question, and although the shadow seemed
still quite close, it was from outside the cottage that he heard a
voice crying out to him by name, "Tyl! Tyl!"

Suddenly Soetkin got out of bed and came over to where Ulenspiegel
was lying.

"Do you hear something?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, "it is father calling to me."

"I too," said Soetkin, "I have felt a cold body beside me in my bed,
and the mattress has moved, and the curtains. And I heard a voice that
spoke my name: 'Soetkin!' it said, a voice soft as a whisper. And I
heard a step near by, light as the sound of a gnat's wings." Then
she addressed herself to the spirit of Claes: "If there is aught
that you desire in that heaven where God guards you in his glory,
you must tell me, my man, that we may know what you would have us do."

All of a sudden a mighty gust of wind came blowing upon the door,
and it burst wide open and straightway the room was filled with dust;
and from afar, Soetkin and Ulenspiegel could hear the sound of the
cawing of many ravens.

They went out of the cottage, and came together to the place of
torture....

It was a black night, save where the clouds--coursing in the sky like
stags before the keen north wind--were parted here and there so as
to disclose the glittering face of some star.

By the remnants of the pile strode a sergeant of the commune, up and
down, keeping guard. Soetkin and Ulenspiegel heard his steps as they
resounded on the hardened ground, and together with that sound there
came the cry of a raven, calling his fellows, doubtless; for from
far away there came the sound of other caws in answer.

As Soetkin and Ulenspiegel approached the pile the raven swooped down
upon the shoulder of Claes, and they could hear its beak pecking upon
the body. And soon the other ravens followed. Ulenspiegel would have
thrown himself upon the pile and beaten them off had not the sergeant
come up and prevented him.

"Are you a sorcerer," cried the man, "that comes hither for the hands
of the dead as a talisman, and yet do you not know that the hands of
a man that has been burnt to death possess no power of invisibility,
but only hands of one who has been hanged--such as you yourself will
be one of these days?"

"Sir," Ulenspiegel replied, "I am no sorcerer, but the orphaned son
of the man tied to this stake here. And this woman is the dead man's
widow. We only wish to kiss him once again, and to take away a few
of his ashes in his memory. Give us leave, sir, pray, for you are
certainly no foreign soldier, but a son of this land."

"Very well," said the sergeant.

So the orphan and the widow made their way over the charred wood and
approached the body. Weeping, they both kissed the face of Claes.

Then Ulenspiegel found the place where the heart had been, a great hole
hollowed out by the flames, and therefrom he took a few ashes. Then
Soetkin and he knelt down and said a prayer, and when the sky began to
turn pale in the dawn they were still kneeling there together. But the
sergeant drove them off, for he was afraid that he would be punished
for his kindness.

When they were home again Soetkin took a piece of red silk, and a piece
of black silk, and she made a little bag to contain the ashes. And
on the little bag she sewed two ribbons so that Ulenspiegel could
always carry it suspended round his neck. And she gave it to him with
these words:

"These ashes are the heart of my husband. This red ribbon is his
blood. This black one is our sorrow. Always upon your breast let them
lie, and call down thereby the fire of vengeance upon his torturers."

"Amen," said Ulenspiegel.

And the widow embraced her orphan, and the sun rose.






XLIV


In that year, being the fifty-eighth year of the century, Katheline
came into Soetkin's house and spake as follows:

"Last night, being anointed with balm, I was transported to the
tower of Notre Dame, and I beheld the elemental spirits that carry the
prayers of men to the angels, and they in their turn, flying up towards
the highest heaven, bring them to the Throne of God. And everywhere
the sky was strewn with glittering stars. Suddenly I saw the figure
of a man that seemed all blackened and charred, rising from a funeral
pile. Mounting up towards me, this figure took its place beside me on
the tower. I saw that it was Claes, just as he was in life, dressed in
his charcoal-burner's clothes. He asked me what I was doing there on
the tower of Notre Dame. 'And you,' I asked in my turn, 'whither are
you off to, flying in the air like a bird?' 'I am going,' he answered,
'to judgment. Hear you not the angel's trump that summons me?' I was
quite close to him, and could feel the very substance of his spiritual
body--not hard and resisting to the touch like the bodies of those
that are alive, but so rarefied that to come up against it was like
advancing into a kind of warm mist. And at my feet stretched out on
every side the land of Flanders, with a few lights shining here and
there, and I said to myself: 'They that rise early and work late,
surely they are the blessed of God!' And all the time I could hear
the angel's trumpet calling through the night. And presently I saw
another shade mounting up towards me from the land of Spain. This
was an old man and decrepit, with a protruding chin, and quince jam
all oozing from the corners of his lips.

"On its back it wore a cloak of crimson velvet lined with ermine,
and on its head an imperial crown, and it kept nibbling a piece of
anchovy which it carried in one hand, while in the other hand it
clutched a tankard of beer. I could see that this spirit was tired
out and had come to the tower of Notre Dame to rest itself. Kneeling
down, I addressed it in these words: 'Most Imperial Majesty, of a
truth I revere you, yet I know not who you are. Whence come you? And
what was your position in the world?' 'I come,' answered the shade,
'from Saint Juste in the country of Estramadoure. I was the Emperor
Charles the Fifth.' 'But,' said I, 'whither, pray, are you going on
such a cold night as this, and over these clouds that are all heavy
and charged with hail?' 'I go,' answered the shade, 'to judgment.'

"Just as the Emperor was about to finish his anchovy and drink up
his tankard of beer, the angel's trumpet sounded, and straightway
he had to betake himself to the air again, grumbling at this sudden
interruption of his repast. High aloft he mounted through space,
I following close behind; and as he went he hiccuped with fatigue,
and coughed asthmatically, even vomited now and again; for death
had come upon him at a time when he was suffering from a fit of
indigestion. Thus ceaselessly we soared aloft like arrows shot from a
bow of cornel-wood. The stars glimmered all around us, and time and
again we saw them detach themselves and fall headlong, tracing long
strokes of fire upon the sky. Once more the angel's trump resounded,
very shrill and powerful. Each fanfare seemed to cleave for itself a
pathway through the cloudy air, scattering the mists asunder like a
hurricane that has begun to blow from near at hand. And by this means
our track was marked out clearly for us, till at length, when we had
been carried up and up a thousand leagues and more, we beheld Christ
Himself in His glory, seated upon a throne of stars. And at His right
hand was the angel who records the deeds of men upon a register of
brass, and at His left hand stood Mary His Mother, she that for ever
implores mercy for poor sinners.

"Claes and the Emperor knelt down together before the throne. And
the angel took off the crown from the head of the Emperor, and cast
it away.

"'There is only one Emperor here,' he said. It is 'Christ!'

"His Sacred Majesty could not conceal his annoyance; yet managed to
assume a humble tone of voice as he begged to be allowed to keep his
anchovy and his tankard of beer, for that he had come a long way and
was very hungry.

"'Hungry you have been all your life,' said the angel, 'nevertheless,
you may go on with your eating and drinking if you want to.'

"The Emperor emptied the tankard of beer and took a nibble at the
anchovy. Then Christ addressed him with these words:

"'Do you present yourself to judgment with a clean soul?'

"'I trust so, dear Lord,' answered Charles the Emperor, 'for I have
confessed my sins and am well shriven.'

"'And you, Claes? You do not seem to be trembling like the Emperor.'

"'My Lord Jesus,' answered Claes, 'there is no soul that is clean,
and how should I be afraid of you, you that are sovereign good and
sovereign justice. Nevertheless, I am afraid of my sins, for they
are many.'

"'Speak, carrion!' said the angel, addressing himself to the Emperor.

"'I, Lord,' said Charles, in an embarrassed tone of voice, 'I am
he that was anointed with oil by your priests, and crowned King of
Castile, Emperor of Germany, and King of the Romans. It has ever been
my first care to maintain that power which was given me by you, and
to that end I have done my best by hanging and by sword, by burning
and by burying alive, by pit and by fire to keep down all Reformers
and Protestants.'

"But the angel said:

"'O you false and dyspeptic man, you are trying to deceive us. In
Germany, forsooth, you were tolerant enough of the Protestants,
seeing that there you had good cause to be afraid of them. But in
the Netherlands you beheaded, burned, hanged, and buried them alive,
for there your only fear was lest you might fail to inherit sufficient
of their property--so rich and plenteous, like the honey made by busy
bees. And there perished at your hands one hundred thousand souls,
not at all because you loved the Lord Christ, but because you were a
despot, a tyrant, a waster of your country, and one that loved himself
first of all, and after that, nothing but meat, fish, wine, and beer,
for you were always as greedy as a dog and as thirsty as a sponge.'

"When the angel had made an end, Christ commanded that Claes should
speak, but now the angel rose from his place, saying: 'This man has
nothing to answer. He was a good, hard-working man, as are all the
poor people of Flanders, willing either for work or play; one that
kept faith with his masters and trusted his masters to keep faith
with him. But he possessed a certain amount of money, and it was for
this reason that an accusation was brought against him, and inasmuch
as he had harboured in his house a heretic, he was condemned to be
burnt alive.'

"'Alas!' cried Mary, 'the poor martyr! But here in heaven there
are springs of fresh water, fountains of milk, and exquisite wine
which will refresh you, and I myself will lead you there, good
charcoal-burner!'

"And now the angel's trumpet sounded yet again, and I saw a man,
naked and very beautiful, rising from the abyss. On his head was
an iron crown, and on the rim of the crown these words inscribed:
'Sorrowful till the day of judgment.'

"He approached the throne and said to Christ:

"'Thy slave I am until that day when I shall be Thy master!'

"'O Satan,' said Mary, 'the day will come when there shall be neither
slave nor master any more, and when Christ who is Love, and Satan who
is Pride, shall stand forth together as the One Lord both of Power
and of Knowledge.'

"'Woman,' said Satan, 'thou art all goodness and all beauty.'

"Then addressing himself to Christ, and pointing at the same
time towards the Emperor, Satan demanded what was to be done with
him. Christ answered:

"'Take this crowned wormling and put him in a room wherein you have
collected together all instruments of torture which were in use under
his rule. And each time that some innocent wretch is made to suffer the
torture of water, whereby the bodies of men swell up like bladders; or
the torture of the candles, whereby the soles of their feet or their
armpits are burned and scorched; or the torture of the strappado,
whereby their limbs are broken; or the torture of the four wagons
that drags them asunder--and every time that a free soul breathes out
its last upon the funeral pile let this man also endure in his turn
these same deaths and tortures, to the end that he may learn in his
own person what evil may be wrought in the world by an unjust man who
has power over his fellows. Let him languish in prison, let him meet
death upon the scaffold, let him mourn in exile, far from his native
land, let him be scorned, abused, and flogged with many whips. Let
him know what it is to be rich and see all his property eaten up
by the tax-gatherer, let him be accused by informers and ruined by
confiscations. Turn him into an ass that he may know what it is to be
gentle by nature and at the same time ill-treated and badly fed; let
him be a poor man that asks for alms and is answered only with abuse;
let him be a workman that labours too long and eats too little; and
then, when he has thus well suffered both in his body and his soul,
turn him into a dog that he may be beaten, an Indian slave that he
may be sold to the highest bidder, a soldier that he may fight for
another and be killed without knowing why. And then, at the end of
three hundred years, when he has exhausted all sufferings and all
miseries, make a free man of him, and if in that state of life he is
good like Claes here, you may lay at last his body to rest in some
quiet corner of earth that is shady in the noonday heat and open to
the morning sun, and there beneath a beautiful tree and covered with
fresh sward, he shall find eternal repose. And his friends shall come
to his grave to moisten it with their tears, and to sow violets there,
which are called the flowers of remembrance.'

"But Mary said: 'Have mercy upon him, O my Son; he knew not what he
did, and we know how power hardens the heart.'

"'There is no mercy for him,' said Christ.

"'Alas!' cried His Sacred Majesty, 'woe is me! Would that I had but
a single glass of Andalusian wine!'

"'Come,' said Satan, 'it is past the time for wine or meat or poultry!'

"And away he carried off the soul of the poor Emperor, down to the
nethermost hell, still nibbling as he went his piece of anchovy. For
this Satan suffered him to do out of pity.

"Thereafter I saw that Our Lady conducted Claes away and up into the
highest heaven, where is nothing but stars hanging from the roof like
clusters of grapes. And there the angels washed him clean, and he
became all beautiful and young, and they gave him rystpap to drink
in silver ladles. And then the heavens closed."

"Claes is in glory," said the widow.

"His ashes beat against my heart," said Ulenspiegel.






XLV


During all the three and twenty days that followed, Katheline grew
paler and paler, and thin and all dried up as though devoured not
only by the madness that consumed her but by some interior fire
that was even deadlier still. No more did she cry out as of old:
"Fire! Fire! Dig a hole! My soul wants to get out!" But she was
continually transported into a kind of ecstasy, in which she spake
to Nele many strange words.

"A wife I am," she said, "and a wife you also ought to be. My husband
is a handsome man. A hairy man is he, hot with love. But his knees and
his arms, they are cold!" And Soetkin looked at her sadly, wondering
what new kind of madness this might be. But Katheline continued:

"Three times three are nine, the sacred number. He whose eyes glitter
in the night like the eyes of a cat--he only it is that sees the
mystery."

One evening when Katheline was talking in this way, Soetkin made a
gesture of misgiving. But Katheline said:

"Under Saturn, four and three mean misfortune. But under Venus,
it is the marriage number. Cold arms! Cold knees! Heart of fire!"

Soetkin answered:

"It is wrong to talk in this way of these wicked pagan idols."

But Katheline only crossed herself and said:

"Blessed be the grey horseman. Nele must have a husband--a handsome
husband that carries a sword, a dusky husband with a shining face!"

"Yes," cried Ulenspiegel, "a very fricassee of a husband, for whom
I will make a sauce with my knife!"

Nele looked at her lover with eyes that were moist with pleasure to
see him so jealous.

"None of your husbands for me!" she said.

But Katheline made answer:

"When cometh he? He that is clad in grey, and booted and spurred?"

Soetkin bade them say a prayer to God for the poor afflicted one,
whereupon Katheline in her madness ordered Ulenspiegel go and fetch
four quarts of dobbel kuyt what time she made ready some heete-koeken,
as pancakes are called in Flanders.

Soetkin asked her why she wished to make festival on a Saturday like
the Jews.

"Because the butter is ready," said Katheline.

So Ulenspiegel stood up and took in his hand the big pot of English
pewter that held just four quarts.

"Mother," he asked, "what shall I do?"

"Go," said Katheline.

Soetkin did not like to say anything more, for she was not mistress of
the house. So she told her son to go and do as Katheline had bidden
him. Ulenspiegel ran to the tavern and brought back with him the
four quarts of dobbel kuyt. And soon the kitchen reeked with the
good smell of pancakes, and every one felt hungry, even the poor
afflicted Katheline.

Ulenspiegel ate heartily, and drank heartily also, for Katheline
had given him a full tankard, saying, with a malicious look, that it
behoved him to drink more than the others seeing that he was the only
male and the head of the house. Afterwards she asked him to give them
a song.

But Ulenspiegel did not sing, and Nele was all tearful, seeing Soetkin
so pale, and as it were all sunken into herself. Katheline alone of
them all appeared to be happy.

When the meal was over Soetkin and Ulenspiegel went up into the loft
to bed. Katheline and Nele stayed behind, for they slept together in
the kitchen.

All was quiet until the second hour after midnight. Ulenspiegel had
already been asleep for a long time because of all the beer he had
been drinking. But Soetkin, as her custom was, lay on with eyes wide
open, praying Our Lady to send her sleep, but with no avail.

All of a sudden she heard the cry of a sea-eagle, and from the
kitchen came a like cry, in answer. Then, from far off in the country
somewhere, other cries resounded, always as it seemed in answer to
that cry in the kitchen just below.

Soetkin tried to think it was only the night-birds calling to
one another, and endeavoured to distract her attention from those
sounds. But presently she heard a neighing of horses and a noise as of
iron sabots beating along the high road. Then it was that she opened
the window of the loft and saw that in very fact there were a couple of
horses saddled just outside the cottage, pawing the ground and nibbling
the grass that grew by the side of the road. Thereafter she heard the
voice of a woman crying out in fear, and a man's voice threatening,
followed by the sound of blows, more cries, a door shutting with a
bang, and then steps running up the ladder in mortal fear:

All this time Ulenspiegel was snoring away in his bed, hearing nothing,
till the door of the loft opened and Nele came in, out of breath,
sobbing, and with scarcely anything on. As hastily as she could the
girl dragged against the door a table, some chairs, an old heating
stove, any bit of furniture that was to hand. With these she made a
rough-and-ready barricade. Meanwhile, outside, the last stars were
paling in the heavens and the cocks beginning to crow.

Ulenspiegel had turned over in his bed at the noise Nele was making,
but now he had gone to sleep again. Nele, meanwhile, had thrown
herself on to Soetkin's neck.

"Soetkin," she said, "I am afraid. Light the candle, do!"

Soetkin did so, and all the time Nele never left off moaning. By the
light of the candle Soetkin looked the girl up and down. Her shift
was torn at the shoulder and in front, and there were traces of
blood upon her neck and cheek, such as might be left by the scratch
of a finger-nail.

"Whence have you come? And what are these wounds?" Soetkin asked her.

Trembling and groaning all the time, the girl made answer:

"For mercy's sake, Soetkin, do not bring us to the stake!"

Ulenspiegel meanwhile had awakened from his sleep, and was blinking
his eyes in the sudden light of the candle. Soetkin said:

"Who is it down there?"

"Not so loud!" Nele whispered. "It is the husband Katheline desired
for me."

All at once Soetkin and Nele heard Katheline cry out in a loud voice,
and their legs gave way beneath them in their terror.

"He is beating her," said Nele, "he is beating her because of me!"

"Who is it in the house?" cried Ulenspiegel, jumping out of bed. And
then, rubbing his eyes, he went stalking up and down the room till
at last he found a heavy poker that stood in the corner. He took
hold of it, but Nele tried to dissuade him, telling him that there
was no one there. But he paid no attention, running to the door and
throwing to one side the chairs and tables and the stove that Nele
had piled up in front of it. All this time Katheline was crying out
from the kitchen, and Nele and Soetkin held Ulenspiegel--the one
by the waist, the other by the legs--and tried to prevent him from
descending the stairs. "Don't go down," they told him. "Don't go down,
Ulenspiegel. There are devils down there."

"Forsooth," says he, "Nele's devil-husband! Him verily will I join in
marriage to this long poker of mine! A marriage of iron and flesh! Let
me go!"

But they did not loose their hold, hanging on as they were to the
landing rail.

And all the time Ulenspiegel was trying to drag them down the
staircase, and they the more frightened as they came nearer to the
devils below. And they could avail naught against him, so that at last,
descending now by leaps and bounds like a snowball that falls from the
top of a mountain, he came into the kitchen. And there was Katheline,
all exhausted and pale in the light of dawn.

"Hanske," she was saying, "O Hanske, why must you leave me? Is it my
fault if Nele is naughty?"

Ulenspiegel did not take any notice of her, but straightway opened
the door of the shed, and finding no one there, rushed out into the
yard, and thence into the high road. Far away he descried two horses
galloping off and disappearing in the mist. He ran after them hoping
to overtake them, but he could not, for they went like a south wind
that scours the dry autumn leaves.

Ulenspiegel was angry with disappointment, and he came back into the
cottage grieving sore in his heart and muttering between his teeth:

"They have done their worst on her! They have done their worst!..."

And he looked on Nele with eyes that burned with an evil flame. But
Nele, all trembling, stood up before Katheline and the widow.

"No!" she cried. "No, Tyl, my lover! No!"

And as she spoke she looked him straight in the face, so sadly and so
frankly that Ulenspiegel saw clearly that what she said was true. Then
he spake again, and questioned her:

"But whence came those cries, and whither went those men? Why is your
shift all torn on the shoulder and the back? And why do you bear on
forehead and cheek these marks of a man's nails?"

"I will tell you," she said, "but be careful that you do not have
us burned at the stake for what I shall tell you. You must know that
Katheline--whom God save from Hell--hath had these three-and-twenty
days a devil for her lover. He is dressed all in black, he is booted
and spurred. His face gleams with a flame of fire like what one sees
in summer-time when it is hot, on the waves of the sea."

And Katheline whimpered: "Why, oh why, have you left me, Hanske,
my pet? Nele is naughty!"

But Nele went on with her story:

"The devil announces his approach in a voice that is like the crying of
a sea-eagle. Every Saturday my mother receives him in the kitchen. And
she says that his kisses are cold and that his body is like snow. One
time he brought her some florins, but he took from her all the other
money that she had."

All this time Soetkin kept on praying for Katheline, with clasped
hands. But Katheline spake joyfully:

"My body is mine no more. My mind is mine no more. O Hanske, my
pet, take me with you yet once again, I beg you, to the Witches'
Sabbath. Only Nele will never come. Nele is naughty, I tell you."

But Nele went on with her story:

"At dawn," she said, "the devil would go away, and the next day my
mother would relate to me a hundred strange things. But, Tyl dear, you
must not look at me with those cruel eyes.... Yesterday, for instance,
she told me that a splendid prince, clad in grey, Hilbert by name,
was anxious to take me in marriage, and that he was coming here
himself that I might see him. I told her that I wanted no husband,
handsome or plain. Nevertheless, by weight of her maternal authority
she persuaded me to stay up for him, for she certainly keeps all her
wits about her in whatever pertains to her amours. Well, we were half
undressed, ready to go to bed; and I had gone off to sleep sitting
on that chair. It seems that I did not wake up when they came in,
and the first thing I knew was that some one was embracing me and
kissing me on the neck. And then, by the bright light of the moon,
I beheld a face that shone like the crests of the waves of a July sea
when there is thunder in the air, and I heard a low voice speaking to
me and saying: 'I am your husband, Hilbert. Be mine! I will make thee
rich.' And from the face of him that spake these words there came an
odour like the odour of fish. Quickly I pushed that face away from
me, but the man tried to take me by force, and although I had the
strength of ten against him, he managed to tear my shift and scratch
my face, crying out the while that if only I would give myself to
him he would make me rich. 'Yes,' I answered, 'as rich as my mother,
whom you have deprived of her last liard!' At that he redoubled
his violence, but he could not do anything against me. And at last,
since he was more disgusting than a corpse, I scratched him in the
eye with my nails so sharply that he cried out with pain, and I was
able to make my escape and run up here to Soetkin."

And all this while Katheline kept on with her "Nele is naughty. And
why did you go away so soon, O Hanske, my pet?"

But Soetkin asked her where she had been while wicked men were
attempting the honour of her child.

"It is Nele that is naughty," Katheline replied. "As for me, I was
in company of my black master, when the devil in grey comes to us,
with his face all bloody. 'Come away,' he cries, 'come away, my boy,
this is an evil house; for the men, it seems, are of a mind to fight
with one to the death, and the women carry knives at the tips of
their fingers.' And there and then they ran off to their horses,
and disappeared in the mist. Ah, Nele, Nele! She is a naughty lass,
I tell you!"






XLVI


On the following day, while they were making a meal of hot milk,
Soetkin said to Katheline:

"You see how misfortune is already driving me from this world; and
yet you, it seems, would like to drive me away all the faster by your
accursed sorceries!"

But Katheline only went on repeating:

"Nele is naughty. Come back, Hanske, my pet!"

It was the following Wednesday when the two devils came again. Ever
since the preceding Saturday Nele had slept out at the house of a widow
woman named Van den Houte, saying, by way of excusing herself, that she
could not stay with Katheline because of that young rogue Ulenspiegel.

Now Katheline welcomed her black master and her master's friend
out in the keet, which is to say the laundry or bakehouse adjoining
the cottage. And there did they feast and regale themselves with old
wine and with smoked ox tongue, which viands were always prepared and
ready in that place for them. And the black devil said to Katheline:

"You must know, Katheline, that we are engaged in a mighty work,
and to accomplish it we have need of a large sum of money. Give us,
I pray you, what you can."

When she only offered them a florin they threatened to kill her. But
when she had raised the amount to a couple of golden caroluses and
seven deniers they let her off.

"Come not again on Saturdays," she told them, "for Ulenspiegel has
discovered that your custom it is to come on that day, and he will
certainly be waiting for you and will beat you to death, and that
would be the death of me as well."

"We will come next Tuesday," they told her.

Now on that day Nele and Ulenspiegel went to sleep without any anxiety,
thinking that the devils only came to the cottage on Saturdays. But
Katheline got out of bed secretly and went into the yard to see if
her friends had arrived. She was very impatient, for since seeing
Hanske again her madness had abated, for hers was a lover's madness,
as they say.

But to-night she could nowhere see her friends, and she was greatly
distressed, so that when, presently, she heard the cry of the sea-eagle
coming as it seemed from the open country in the direction of Sluys,
she went out towards that cry, making her way across the field by the
side of a tall dike that was constructed of sticks and grass. She
had not gone far when she heard the two devils conversing together
at the other side of the dike. And one of them said:

"Half shall be mine."

And the other answered:

"No. Nothing of the kind. What is Katheline's belongs to me. All
of it."

Then they blasphemed together most terribly, disputing as to which of
the two should be possessed of the property and the love of Katheline
and of Nele into the bargain. Paralysed with fear, daring neither to
speak nor to move, Katheline presently heard them fall to fighting
with one another. And then one of the devils cried aloud:

"Ah! The cold steel!"

And after that there came the sound of a death-rattle, and of a body
falling heavily.

Terrified as she was, Katheline returned to the cottage.

At two of the morning she heard once more the cry of the sea-eagle,
but this time close at hand in the yard. She went to the door and
opened it, and saw her devil lover standing there all alone.

She asked him what he had done with his friend.

"He will not come again," he told her.

Then he kissed her and caressed her, and his kisses seemed colder
than ever before. When the time came for him to depart, he asked her
to give him twenty florins. This was all that she had, but she gave
him seventeen.

The next day she could not control her curiosity, and walked out along
by the dike. But she found nothing, except at one place a mark on the
grass about the size of a man's coffin; and the grass was wet underfoot
and red with blood. But that evening rain fell, washing the blood away.

On the following Wednesday Katheline heard yet again the cry of the
sea-eagle in the yard.






XLVII


Now whenever any money was needed to pay for the expenses of
Katheline's household, Ulenspiegel was accustomed to go by night
to the hole by the well wherein had been hidden the money left by
Claes. He would lift up the stone that covered the top of the well
and would take out a carolus.

One evening the two women were busy with their spinning, while
Ulenspiegel sat carving a chest which had been commissioned from him
by the town bailiff. And upon the side of the chest he was carving
a hunting scene. Very beautiful it was and cleverly carved, with
a pack of hounds running in pairs closely following one another,
chasing their quarry.

Katheline was there, and Nele asked Soetkin absent-mindedly if she
had found a safe hiding-place for her treasure. Thinking no harm,
the widow answered that it would be hard to find a safer place than
the side of the well wall.

Near midnight of the following Thursday Soetkin was awakened by Bibulus
Schnouffius, who was barking fiercely. But soon he was quiet again,
and Soetkin, thinking that it was a false alarm, turned over and went
to sleep.

The next day when Nele and Ulenspiegel rose at dawn they were surprised
to find no Katheline in the kitchen, neither was the fire lit, nor was
there any milk boiling on the fire as usual. They were surprised at
this and went out to see if perchance she was in the yard. And there
they found her, all dishevelled in her linen shift, notwithstanding
that it was drizzling with rain, and she was all damp and shivering,
and stood there, not daring to come in.

Ulenspiegel went up to her and asked her what she was doing half
naked there in the rain?

"Ah!" she said. "Yes, yes. Strange things have happened! Strange,
wonderful things!"

And as she spoke she pointed to the ground, and they saw the dog
lying there with its throat cut, all dead and stiff.

Ulenspiegel's thoughts ran at once to the treasure. He hastened to
the hole by the well, and found as he had feared that it was empty,
and all around the earth scattered about far and wide.

He ran back to Katheline and struck her with his hand.

"Where are the caroluses?" he cried.

"Yes! Yes! Strange things have been happening!" she answered.

At this Nele tried to protect her mother from the wrath of Ulenspiegel.

"Have mercy, have pity," she cried. "O Ulenspiegel!"

Then he stopped beating the wretched woman, and at the same moment
Soetkin appeared on the scene and wanted to know what was the matter.

Ulenspiegel showed her the dog with its throat cut and the empty
hole. Soetkin turned pale, and cried out most sorrowfully:

"O God, thou hast brought me low indeed!"

And Nele, seeing how gentle Soetkin was, wept also and was very
sorrowful. But Katheline, flourishing a piece of parchment that she
held in her hand, began to speak in this wise:

"Yes, yes. Strange things and wonderful have come to pass this
night! For he came to me, my good one, my beautiful. And no longer did
his face display that ghastly glitter which makes me so afraid. And it
was with a great tenderness in his voice that he addressed me. Yes,
I was overcome with love for him, and my heart was melted within
me. 'I am a rich man.' he told me, 'and soon I will bring thee a
thousand florins in gold.' 'So be it,' I answered him. 'I rejoice for
your sake rather than for mine, Hanske, my pet.' 'But is there no one
else in your cottage,' he asked, 'that you love, perhaps, and would
rejoice to see enriched by me also?' 'No,' I replied. 'They that live
here have no need of any help of thine.' 'You are proud, it seems,'
he answered. 'Soetkin and Ulenspiegel, are they then so rich as to
need nothing?' 'They live without the help of any,' I told him. 'In
spite of the confiscations?' he asked. But then I laughed aloud, and
said that he knew that they would not be such simpletons as to hide
their treasure in the house where it could be easily found. 'Nor yet
in the cellar?' he persisted. 'Of course not,' I told him. 'Nor yet in
the yard?' To that I answered not a word. 'Ah,' he said, 'that would
indeed be a piece of imprudence.' 'Not so imprudent as all that,'
I answered, 'for neither walls nor water have tongues.' And at that
he began laughing to himself. Presently he went away, earlier it was
than usual. But first he gave me a powder, telling me that if I took
it I should be spirited away to the finest of all the Sabbaths. I
accompanied him a little way just as I was, as far as the door of the
yard, and I seemed half asleep, and soon I found myself, even as he
had told me, at the Witches' Sabbath, and I did not return from thence
until the morning. Then it was that I found myself here as you see me,
and discovered the dog with his throat cut, and the empty hole. And
this is a heavy blow to me, to me that loved him so tenderly, and had
given to him my very soul. But whatsoever I have shall be yours, and
I will labour with my hands and my feet to keep you alive, never fear."

But Soetkin said:

"I am become even as the corn beneath the grindstone. God and this
devil robber are heavy upon me both at once."

"Robber do you call him?" cried Katheline. "Speak not so. He is a
devil, a devil I say! And for proof I will show to you this parchment
which he left behind him in the yard, and on it is written, 'Forget
not to serve me, and behold, in three times two weeks and five days I
will render thee back again twice as much again as the treasure I have
now taken from thee. Doubt not, or else thou wilt surely die.' And oh,"
cried Katheline, "of a surety he will keep his word!"

"Poor mad thing," said Soetkin.

And this was the only word of reproach that she uttered.






XLVIII


Six months passed, and the devil lover came no more. Nevertheless
Katheline did not live without hope of seeing her Hanske again.

Soetkin meanwhile had given up her work altogether, and was always to
be found sitting huddled up in front of the fire; and her cough never
left her. Nele provided the choicest and most sweetly smelling herbs,
but no remedy had any power over her. As for Ulenspiegel, he never
left the cottage for fear that his mother might die while he was out.

At last there came a time when the widow could neither eat nor drink
without being sick. The surgeon (who also carried on the trade of
a barber) came to bleed her, and when the blood had been taken away
she was so enfeebled that she could not leave her chair. And at last
the evening came when she cried out, all wasted with pain:

"Claes! Husband! And Tyl, my son! Thanks be to God for He taketh me!"

And with a sigh she died.

Katheline did not dare to watch by that bed of death, so Nele and
Ulenspiegel kept watch together, and all night long they prayed for
her that was gone.

As the dawn broke a swallow came flying in by the open window.

Nele said: "The bird of souls! It is a good omen. Soetkin is in
heaven!"

The swallow flew three times round the room, and departed with a
cry. Then there came a second swallow, larger it was and darker than
the first. It fluttered around Ulenspiegel, and he said:

"Father and mother, the ashes beat upon my breast. Whatsoever you
command me, that will I do."

And the second swallow went off with a cry, just as the first had
done. And Ulenspiegel saw thousands of swallows skimming over the
fields. And the sun rose.

And Soetkin was buried in the cemetery of the poor.






XLIX


After the death of Soetkin Ulenspiegel grew dreamy, sorrowful,
and angry, and he would wander about the fields, hearing nothing,
taking what food or drink was put before him, and never choosing for
himself. And oftentimes he rose from his bed in the middle of the
night and went out into the country alone.

In vain did the gentle voice of Nele urge him not to despair, in
vain did Katheline assure him that Soetkin was now in Paradise with
Claes. To both alike Tyl answered:

"The ashes beat upon my breast."

And he was as one mad, and Nele was sorrowful because of him.

Meanwhile, Grypstuiver the fishmonger dwelt alone in his house, like
a parricide, daring only to come out in the evening. For if any man
or woman passed him on the road they would shout after him and call
him "murderer." And the little children ran away when they saw him,
for they had been told that he was a hangman. So he wandered about by
himself, not venturing to enter any of the taverns that are in Damme,
for the finger of scorn was pointed at him, and if ever he stood in
the bar for a minute, they that were drinking there left the tavern.

The result was that no innkeeper desired him as a customer any more,
and whenever he presented himself at their houses they would shut
the door on him. The fishmonger would make a humble remonstrance,
but they answered that they had a licence to sell wine certainly,
but that they were not obliged to sell it against their will.

The fishmonger grew impatient at this, and in future when he wanted
a drink he would go to the In 't Roode Valck--at the sign of the Red
Falcon--a little cabaret outside the town on the banks of the Sluys
canal. There they served him, for they were hard up at that inn, and
glad to get anything from any one. But even so, the innkeeper never
entered into conversation with him, nor did his wife either. Now
in that house there were also two children and a dog; but when the
fishmonger made as though he would kiss the children they ran away,
and the dog, when he called him, tried to bite him.

One evening Ulenspiegel was standing on his doorstep in a dream, and
Mathyssen, the cooper, happening to pass by, saw him standing there,
and said to him:

"If you worked with your hands belike you would forget this grievous
blow."

But Ulenspiegel answered: "The ashes of Claes beat upon my breast."

"Ah!" said Mathyssen, "there lives a man who is sadder even than you
are--Grypstuiver the fishmonger. None speaks to him, and all avoid him,
so much so that when he wants his pint of bruinbier he is forced to
go out all alone to the poor folk of the Roode Valck. Verily he is
well punished."

"The ashes beat...." Ulenspiegel answered him again.

And the same evening, when the bells of Notre Dame were sounding
the ninth hour, Ulenspiegel sallied forth towards the Roode Valck,
but failing to find the fishmonger there as he had expected, he went
wandering along under the trees that grow by the canal-side. It was
a bright moonlight night.

Presently he saw the figure of the murderer coming towards him. He
passed close in front of Ulenspiegel, who could hear what he was
saying, for the fishmonger was talking to himself, as is the custom
of they who live much alone.

"Where have they hidden it?" he muttered. "Where have they hidden
the money?" But Ulenspiegel answered the question for him by giving
him a great blow in the face.

"Alas!" cried the fishmonger as he felt the hand of Ulenspiegel upon
him. "Alas, I know you! You are his son! But have pity on me. Have
pity! For I am weak and aged, and what I did to your father was not
done out of malice, but in the service of His Majesty. Only deign to
forgive me, and I will give you back again all the goods that I have
bought, and you shall not pay me a penny. You shall have everything,
and half a florin over and above, for I am not a rich man. No, you
must not think that I am rich!"

And he was about to kneel down in front of Ulenspiegel. But seeing
him so ugly, so craven, and so base, Ulenspiegel took hold of him
and threw him into the canal.

And he went away.






L


And from many a funeral pyre there ascended to heaven the smoke from
the flesh of the victims, and Ulenspiegel, thinking ever upon Claes
and Soetkin, wept in his loneliness.

At last, one evening, he went to find Katheline, thinking to inquire
of her some way of remedy or revenge.

She was alone with Nele, sewing by the light of the lamp. At the sound
which Ulenspiegel made as he came in, Katheline raised her head slowly
like one that is awakened from a heavy sleep.

He said: "The ashes of Claes beat upon my breast, and I am fain to
do somewhat to save this land of Flanders. But what can I do? I have
entreated the great God of earth and heaven, but he has answered
me nothing."

Katheline said: "The great God cannot hear you. First of all you
should have recourse to the spirits of the elemental world, for they,
uniting in themselves two natures, both celestial and terrestrial, are
enabled to receive the plaints of men and hand them on unto the angels,
who themselves in their turn carry them up thereafter to the Throne."

"Help me," he said, "only help me now, and I will repay you with my
blood if need be."

"I can help you," said Katheline, "on one condition only: that a girl
who loves you is willing to take you with her to the Sabbath of the
Spirits of Spring, which is the Easter of Fruitfulness."

"I will take him," said Nele.

Whereupon Katheline took a crystal goblet and poured into it a certain
mixture of a greyish colour, and she gave it to them both to drink, and
rubbed their temples with this mixture, and their nostrils likewise,
and the palms of their hands, and their wrists, and she also caused
them to eat a pinch of white powder, and then she told them to gaze the
one at the other in such manner that their two souls might become one.

Ulenspiegel looked at Nele, and straightway the sweet eyes of the
girl illumined in him a mighty flame, and because of the mixture he
had taken he felt as it were a thousand crabs nipping his skin all
over him.

After that Nele and Ulenspiegel undressed, and very beautiful they
looked in the lamplight, he in the pride of his manly strength, and
she in all her youthful grace and sweetness. But they were not able to
see one another, for already it was as though they were asleep. Then
Katheline rested the neck of Nele upon the arm of Ulenspiegel, and
taking his hand she placed it upon the young girl's heart. And there
they stayed, all naked, lying side by side. And to both of them it
seemed that their bodies, where they touched, were made of tender fire,
like the sun itself in the month of roses.

Then, as they afterwards related, they climbed together on to the
window-sill, whence they threw themselves out into space, and felt
the air all round them, buoying them up as the waters buoy up the
ships at sea.

Thereafter they lost all consciousness, seeing naught of earth where
slept poor mortals, nor yet of heaven whose clouds were rolling now
beneath their feet; for now they had set their feet upon Sirius,
the frozen star, and from thence again they were flung upon the Pole.

There it was that a fearful sight awaited them, a giant all naked,
the Giant Winter. His hair was wild and tawny, and he was seated on an
ice-floe, with his back resting against a wall of ice. Near by in the
pools of water there disported a host of bears and seals, bellowing all
round him. In a hoarse voice the giant summoned to his presence the
hail-storms and the snow-storms and the icy showers; also there came
at his behest the grey clouds and brown odorous mists, and the winds
among whom is the sharp north wind, he that blows the strongest of
all. Such were the terrors that raged together in that place of bane.

But smiling in the midst, the giant reclined on a bed of flowers
that had been withered by his own hand, and of leaves dried by his
very breath. Then, leaning down and scratching the ground with his
finger-nails, and biting it with his teeth, the giant began to burrow
a great pit. For he wanted to discover the heart of the earth to
devour it, and to put the blackened coal where once there had been
shady forests, and chaff where once had been corn, and barren sand
in place of fruitful soil. But old earth's heart was made of fire,
so that he dared not touch it but recoiled therefrom in dread.

There he sat like a king upon his throne, draining his horn of oil. All
round him were his bears and seals, and the skeletons of those whom
he had killed on the high seas or on the dry land or in the cottages
of the poor. He listened joyfully to the roaring of the bears, to the
braying of the seals, and to the sound made by the skeletons of men
and animals as the bones clicked together beneath the claws of the
crows and vultures that came for the last remaining piece of flesh
that might still adhere to them. And sweet also to his ears was the
noise the ice-floes made as they were driven one against another by
the waves of that dreary sea.

And when he spoke, the voice of the giant was even as the roaring of
a hurricane or as the noise of winter storms, or as the wind howling
in the chimneys.

"I am cold and afraid," said Ulenspiegel.

"He is powerless against immortal souls," said Nele.

Even as she spoke a great commotion arose among the seals, who began
to rush back into the sea with all haste. And it was apparent that
the bears also were afraid for they lay back their ears and began to
bellow most piteously. As for the crows and ravens, they cawed as
though they were in terror of their lives, and started off to hide
themselves among the clouds.

And now it was that Nele and Ulenspiegel first began to hear a sound
as of a mighty battering-ram beating upon the farther side of that
glassy wall against which Giant Winter had been reclining. And the
wall cracked visibly and shook to its foundations. But of all this
Giant Winter heard nothing at all, for he went on baying and bellowing
most joyfully, filling and emptying again and again his bowl of oil,
and continuing his search for the heart of the earth, that he might
freeze it to nothing, although, forsooth, whenever he found that fiery
centre he always lacked the courage so much as to take it in his hand!

Meanwhile the blows of the battering-ram resounded heavier and louder,
and the crack in the wall of ice grew broader every second, and all
around the giant, the rain of icicles ceased not to fall in myriad
fragments. And the bears roared ceaselessly and piteously, and the
seals sent up their plaintive cries from the dreary waste of water.

Suddenly the wall gave way, and from the bright sky beyond it a man
descended. Naked he was, most beautiful of aspect, holding in one of
his hands a hatchet of pure gold. This was Lucifer, the light-bringer,
Lord of the Spring.

When Giant Winter saw him he immediately cast away his bowl of oil
and entreated the new-comer to spare at least his life. But at the
first warm breath of Spring, Giant Winter lost all his strength,
and Lucifer was able to bind him with a chain of diamonds, and tie
him securely to the Pole.

Then, standing still, the Lord of the Spring most tenderly and
amorously cried aloud, and from the heavens there descended a woman,
naked also, and most fair, most beautiful. She stood beside her lord,
and spake to him:

"You are my conqueror, strong man."

And thus he answered her:

"If you are hungry, eat; if you are thirsty, drink; if you are afraid,
come near to me. I am your mate."

"I have no hunger, no thirst, but for thee alone," she said.

Then the Lord of the Spring called out yet seven times and again. Most
tremendous was his voice, and there was a mighty din of thunder and
lightning, and behind him there came into being a kind of dais all
made of suns and stars. And the lord and his lady sat them down on
two thrones.

Then these twain, their countenances remaining still and motionless,
and without the least tremor to spoil the calmness of their majesty and
their power, both together cried aloud. And at that sound there was
a movement in the earth like that of a countless multitude of worms,
and not in the earth only but in the hard stone and in the ice-floes
also. And Nele and Ulenspiegel heard a sound like that which might
be made by gigantic birds trying to crack with their beaks the great
imprisoning egg-shells wherein they were concealed. And amid this
great commotion of the earth, heaving and subsiding like the waves
of the sea, there appeared forms like those of eggs.

And suddenly, on all sides, trees emerged, their bare branches all
entangled together, and their stems shaking and tottering together
like drunken men, which began to separate themselves the one from the
other, leaving empty spaces of earth between. And now from the ever
restless soil there emerged the Spirits of Earth, and from the depths
of the forest the Spirits of the Woods, and from the neighbouring sea,
now cleared of ice, the Spirits of the Water.

And Nele and Ulenspiegel could discern the guardian spirits of all
these wonders. Dwarfs there were, men of the woods that lived like
trees and carried, instead of mouths and stomachs, little clusters of
roots sprouting from below the face to the end that they might suck
their nourishment from the bosom of mother earth. Lords of the mines
there were as well, they that know no speech, and are destitute of
heart or entrails, and move about like glittering automatons. There
came also the dwarfs of flesh and bone, little fellows with lizards'
tails and the heads of toads, and a lantern on their head for
head-gear. These are they that leap by night upon the shoulder of the
drunken wayfarer or the tired traveller, and then jump down again,
waving their lanterns the while so as to lead into marsh or ditch
that hapless wight who thinks the light he sees is a candle set to
beacon his way home.

There came too the Girl-Flower spirits, blossoms they of womanly
health and strength. Naked they were and unashamed, glorying in their
beauty, and having nothing to cover them but their hair. The eyes of
these maids shone liquid like mother-of-pearl seen through water;
the flesh of their bodies was firm, white, and glittering in the
sunshine; and from half-opened ruby lips their breath wafted down
more balmy than jasmine.

These are the maids that wander at eventide in the parks or gardens of
the world, or belike in the shady paths of some woodland glade. Amorous
they are, searching ever for some soul of man to possess it for
themselves. And whenever some mortal lad and lass come walking their
way, they try to kill the girl, but failing in this they breathe a
breath of love upon the doubting damsel, so that she fears no longer
to abandon herself to the delights of love, but gives herself to her
lover. For then the Girl-Flower is permitted to take her share of
the kisses.

Besides all this, Nele and Ulenspiegel could see descending now
far from heaven the Guardian Spirits of the Stars, the Spirits of
the Winds, of the Breezes, and of the Rain: young, winged men that
fertilize the earth. And there appeared from every point in the heavens
the soul-birds, the dear swallows. At their coming the light itself
seemed to grow brighter, and the girl-flowers, the lords of the rocks,
the princes of the mines, the men of the woods, the spirits of water,
fire, and earth, all cried out with one voice, "O Light, O sap of
Spring, Glory to the Spirit of Spring!" And though the sound of all
this shouting was more powerful than the noise of a raging sea, or of a
thunder-storm, or of a hurricane let loose, yet it seemed most solemn
music to the ears of Nele and Ulenspiegel, who stood, motionless and
dumb, curled up behind the gnarled and wrinkled stem of a mighty oak.

But sights more terrible yet awaited them, for now the spirits took
their places by thousands upon the backs of gigantic spiders, and toads
with trunks like those of elephants, and serpents all intertwined,
and crocodiles that stood upright on their tails and held a whole bevy
of spirits in their mouths. Snakes, too, there were that carried more
than thirty dwarfs at a time, both male and female, sitting astride
on their writhing bodies; and thousands upon thousands of insects,
more huge than Goliath himself, armed with swords, lances, jagged
scythes, seven-pronged forks, and every other kind of murderous and
horrifying implement. Great was the uproar, and stern the battle
which they fought amongst themselves, the strong eating up the weak
and getting fat thereon, thus demonstrating how death is ever born
from life, and life from death.

And out of all this throng of spirits, confused and serried, there came
a sound as of a deep rumbling of thunder, or of a hundred looms, of
weavers, fullers, and locksmiths, all working together in full swing.

And suddenly the Spirits of the Sap made their appearance on the
scene. Short they were, and squat, and their loins were as large as
the great barrel of Heidelberg itself. And their thighs were fat
like hogsheads of wine, and their muscles so strangely strong and
powerful that one would have said that their bodies were made of
naught but eggs, eggs big and little, joined up to one another, and
covered over with a kind of ruddy skin, strong and glistening like
their scanty beards and tawny hair. And they carried great tankards
or goblets that were filled with a strange liquor.

When the other spirits saw them coming, there at once arose among
them a great flutter of joy. The trees and the plants became the
victims of a strange restlessness, and the thirsty earth opened in
a thousand fissures that it might drink of the liquor.

And the Spirits of the Sap poured out their wine, and at the same
moment everything began to bud, and to grow green, and to come
into flower; and the sward was alive with buzzing insects, and the
sky was filled with birds and butterflies. The spirits, meanwhile,
continued pouring out their sap, and those below them received the
wine as they best were able: the girl-flowers opening their mouths and
leaping upon the tawny cup-bearers and kissing them for more; others
clasping their hands in prayer; yet others, in their delight, allowing
the precious liquid to rain upon them as it would; but all alike,
hungry and thirsty, flying, standing still, running, or motionless,
all greedy for the wine, and more alive for every drop they were able
to get. And none was there so old, whether he were plain or handsome,
but he was filled with fresh force and with new and lusty youth.

And with great shouting and laughing they pursued each other among
the trees like squirrels, or in the air like birds, each male seeking
his female, and acting out beneath God's open sky the sacred task
of nature.

And the Spirits of the Sap brought to the King and Queen a mighty bowl
brimming with their wine. And the King and the Queen drank thereof,
and embraced one another. And the King, holding the Queen fast in
his arms, threw the dregs of that bowl far away upon the trees and
flowers and all the other spirits that were there. And loud did he
raise his voice, crying:

"Glory to Life! Glory to the free air! Glory to Force!"

And all with one voice cried aloud: "Glory to Nature! Glory to Life!"

And Ulenspiegel took Nele in his arms. And thus entwined, a dance
began, an eddying dance like that of leaves in a whirlwind; and in
that vortex everything was swinging together, both trees and plants,
and insects, the butterflies, heaven and earth itself, the King and
his Queen, the girl-flowers and the lords of the mines, spirits
of the water, hunchbacked dwarfs, lords of the rocks, men of the
woods, will-o'-the-wisps, guardian spirits of the stars, and the
thousand thousand terrible insects all commingled with their lances,
their jagged swords, their seven-pronged forks. A giddy dance it was,
rolling in the space which it filled, a dance wherein the very sun and
moon took part, and the stars and planets, the clouds, and the winds.

And in that whirlwind the oak to which Nele and Ulenspiegel were
clinging rolled over on its side, and Ulenspiegel said to Nele:

"We are going to die, little one...."

These words of Ulenspiegel one of the spirits overheard, and seeing
that they were mortals:

"Men!" he cried. "Men, here?"

And he dragged them from the tree to which they clung, and cast them
into the very midst of the crowd. But they fell softly on the backs of
the spirits, who passed them on one to another, bidding them welcome
in such terms as these:

"All hail to man! All hail, worms of the earth! Who is there now would
like to see a young mortal, a boy or a little girl? Poor wights that
are come to pay us a visit!"

Nele and Ulenspiegel flew from one to the other, crying "Mercy!" But
the spirits payed no attention to them, and they were suffered to go
on flying about, legs in air, heads downwards, whirling about like
feathers in a winter wind. And all the time the spirits were saying:

"Hail to the little men and little women! Come dance like us!" Now
the girl-flowers desired to separate Nele from Ulenspiegel, and they
would have beaten her to death had not the King of the Spring stopped
the dance suddenly with a single gesture.

"Bring them to me," he cried; "bring before me these two lice!" So
they were separated the one from the other, each girl-flower doing
all she could to tear Ulenspiegel from her rival, saying:

"Tyl, Tyl, wouldst not die to have me?"

"I shall die soon enough," answered Ulenspiegel.

And the dwarfish spirits of the woods that carried Nele said to her
also: "Why are you not a spirit like us that we might take you?"

And Nele answered: "Only have patience."

So they came at length before the throne of the King, and when they
saw his golden axe and his crown of iron they began to tremble with
fear. And he asked them:

"Wherefore have you come to see me, poor little things?"

But they answered him not at all.

"I know you," added the King, "you bud of a witch, and you also,
shoot of a charcoal-burner. By power of sorcery have you penetrated
into this laboratory of Nature, yet now your lips are closed like
capon stuffed with bread-crumbs!"

Nele trembled as she gazed upon the awful aspect of that spirit. But
the manly courage of Ulenspiegel revived, and he made answer bravely:

"The ashes of Claes beat upon my breast. For, Most Divine Highness,
Death now goes gathering his harvest through all the land of Flanders,
mowing down the bravest of her men and the sweetest of her women
in the name of His Holiness the Pope. And the privileges of my
country are broken, her charters annulled, she is wasted by famine,
her weavers and cloth-workers abandon her to look for work in other
lands. And soon must she die if none comes to her aid. Your Highness,
I am naught indeed but a poor little chit of a man that has come into
the world like any other, and I have lived as I was able, imperfect,
limited on every side, ignorant, neither virtuous nor chaste, and most
unworthy of any grace, human or divine. Yet my mother Soetkin died as
the result of torture and grief, and Claes was burned in a terrible
fire, and I have sworn to avenge them. Once I have been able to do
this. But now I long to see the miserable soil of my native land
made happy, the soil where the bones of my parents lie scattered;
and I have asked of God the death of our persecutors, but not yet has
He heard my prayer. This is why, all weary of my complaining, I have
evoked your presence by the power of Katheline's charm, and this is
why we are come to you, I and my trembling comrade here, to fall at
your feet and to beg you, Most Divine Highness, to save our poor land!"

To this the King and his illustrious companion as with one voice
made answer:


        By battle and fire,
        By death and sword,
            Seek the Seven.

        In death and blood,
        Ruin and tears,
            Find the Seven.

        Ugly, cruel, wicked, deformed,
        Very scourge of the whole earth,
            Burn the Seven.

        Listen now, attend and see,
        Tell us, poor thing, are you not glad?
            Find the Seven.


And all the spirits sang now together:


        In death and blood,
        In ruin and tears,
            Find the Seven.

        Listen now, attend and see,
        Tell us, poor thing, are you not glad?
            Find the Seven.


But Ulenspiegel only said:

"Your Highness, and you my Lords Spirits, I understand nothing of
your language. You are mocking me, without a doubt."

But the spirits, without listening to him at all, went on with their
singing:


        When the North
        Shall kiss the West,
        Then shall be the end of ruin.
            Find the Seven,
            And the Cincture.


And they sang with such an effect of unanimity and such a terrifying
force of sound that the very earth trembled and the heavens
shuddered. And the birds twittered, the owls hooted, the sparrows
chirruped with fear, the sea-eagles wailed aloud, flying hither and
thither in their dismay. And all the animals of the earth, lions,
snakes, bears, stags, roe-bucks, wolves, dogs, and cats, roared,
hissed, belled, howled, barked, and miawed most terribly.

And the spirits kept on singing:


        Listen now, attend and see,
            Love the Seven,
            And the Cincture.


And the cocks crowed, and all the spirits vanished away, excepting
only one wicked lord of the mines, who took Nele and Ulenspiegel each
in one of his arms, and cast them most roughly into the void.

Then they awoke and found themselves lying by each other, as if they
had been asleep, and they shivered in the chill morning air.

And Ulenspiegel beheld the sweet body of Nele, all golden in the
light of the rising sun.







HERE BEGINS THE SECOND BOOK OF THE LEGEND OF THE GLORIOUS JOYOUS AND
HEROIC ADVENTURES OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL AND LAMME GOEDZAK IN THE LAND
OF FLANDERS AND ELSEWHERE


I


One morning in September Ulenspiegel took his staff, three florins
that had been given him by Katheline, a piece of pig's liver and a
slice of bread, and set out to go from Damme to Antwerp, seeking the
Seven. Nele he left asleep.

On the way he met a dog who followed after him, smelling around
because of the liver, and jumping up at his legs. Ulenspiegel would
have driven off the dog, but seeing the persistence of the animal,
he thus addressed him:

"My dear dog, you are certainly ill-advised to leave your home,
where you would find awaiting you an excellent meal of patties and
other fine remains (to say nothing of the marrow-bones), to follow,
as you are now doing, a mere adventurer of the road, a vagabond that is
like to lack so much as a root to give you for nourishment. Follow my
advice, most imprudent little dog, and return to your innkeeper. And
for the future, take good care to avoid the rain and snow, the hail,
the drizzling mists, the glassy frosts and other such wretched fare
as is alone reserved for the back of the poor wanderer. Keep close at
home, rather, in a corner of the hearth, and warm yourself, curled up
in front of the cheerful fire. But leave to me the long wandering in
mud and dust, in cold and heat, to be roasted to-day, to-morrow frozen,
plenished on Friday but on Sunday famished for want of food. For,
trust me, little dog, the wise thing is to return at once like a
sensible and experienced little dog to the place whence you came."

But it would seem that the animal did not hear a single word of what
Ulenspiegel was saying, for he continued to wag his tail and jump his
highest, barking all the while, in his desire for food. Ulenspiegel
imagined that all this was just a sign of friendliness, and gave no
thought to the liver which he carried in his scrip.

So on and on he walked, with the dog following behind. And when
they had gone in this way the better part of a league, they saw a
cart on the roadside with a donkey harnessed thereto, holding his
head down. On a bank, at the side of the road, between two clumps of
thistles, reclined a man. He was very fat, and in one hand he held the
knuckle-end of a leg of mutton, and in the other hand a bottle. He
gnawed the knuckle-bone and drank from the bottle, but when he was
doing neither of these things he would fall to weeping and groaning.

Ulenspiegel stopped on his way, and the dog stopped too, but quickly
jumped up on to the bank, smelling doubtless a good odour of liver and
mutton. There he sat on his hind legs by the fat man's side, and began
to paw at the stranger's doublet, as much as to say, "Please give me
a share of your meal!" But the man elbowed him off, and holding up
the knuckle-bone in the air began to moan aloud most piteously. The
dog did likewise in the eagerness of his desire, while the donkey
(who was weary of being tied to the cart and thus prevented from
getting at the thistles) set up, in his turn, a most piercing bray.

"What's the matter now, Jan?" the man inquired of his donkey.

"Nothing," said Ulenspiegel, answering for him, "except that he would
fain make his breakfast off those thistles that grow there on either
side of you, like the thistles that are carved on the rood-screen at
Tessenderloo, below the figure of Our Lord. Nor would this dog here,
I'm thinking, be any the less inclined to join his jaws together on
the bone you have got there. But in the meanwhile I will give him a
piece of this liver of mine."

The man looked up at Ulenspiegel, who straightway recognized him as
none other than his friend Lamme Goedzak of Damme.

"Lamme," he cried, "you here? And what are you doing, eating and
drinking and moaning? Has some soldier or other been so impertinent
as to box your ears, or what's the matter? Tell me."

"Alas!" said Lamme, "my wife!"

And he would have emptied his bottle of wine there and then had not
Ulenspiegel laid a hand on his arm and suggested that it were fairer
that the drink should be given to him that had none. "Besides," he
added, "to drink thus distractedly profits naught but one's kidneys."

"Well said," answered Lamme, handing his friend the bottle, "but will
you drink, I wonder, to any better purpose?"

Ulenspiegel took the bottle, drank his fill, then handed it back again.

"Call me a Spaniard," he said, "if I've left enough to make a minnow
drunk!"

Lamme inspected the bottle. Then, without ever ceasing to groan,
he rummaged in his wallet and produced another bottle, and another
piece of sausage which he cut up in slices and began to munch in the
most melancholy fashion.

"Do you never stop eating, Lamme?" asked Ulenspiegel.

"Often, my son," he replied. "But now I am eating to drive away sad
thoughts. Where are you, wife of mine?" And as he spoke, Lamme wiped
away a tear. After which he cut himself ten slices of sausage.

"Lamme," said Ulenspiegel, "you should not eat so quickly, taking no
thought at all for the poor pilgrim."

Lamme, who was still whimpering, gave four of the slices to
Ulenspiegel, who ate them up immediately, and was much affected by
their good flavour. But Lamme said, eating and crying all at the
same time:

"O wife, O goodly wife of mine! How sweet she was, how beautiful she
was! Light as a butterfly, nimble as the lightning, and with a voice
like a skylark! For all that, she was overfond of fine clothes. Alas,
but how well she looked in them! And surely, the flowers also, are
they not fond of rich apparel? Oh, if you had seen her, my son--her
little hands, so nimble to caress, such hands as you never could
have suffered to come in contact with saucepan or frying-pan! And
her complexion, which was clear as the day, would surely have been
burnt by standing over the kitchen fire. And what eyes she had! Only
to look at them was to be melted quite with tenderness. Alas, I have
lost her! Go on eating, Tyl; it is good Ghent sausage."

"But why has she left you?" asked Ulenspiegel.

"How should I know?" Lamme replied. "Alas! gone for ever are those
days when I used to go to her home a-courting! Then, verily, she would
fly away from me, half in love and half in fear! And her arms were
bare, as like as not (beautiful arms they were, so round and white),
but if she saw me looking at them she would cover them quickly with
the sleeve of her gown.

"At other times, again, she would gladly lend herself to my caresses,
and I would kiss her closed eyes, and that lovely neck of hers, so
large and firm. She would shiver all over, uttering little cries of
love, and then, leaning her head backwards, she would give me a playful
slap upon my nose. Thereafter she would laugh and I would cry aloud,
and we would wrestle together right amorously, and there was naught
betwixt us but laughter and fun. But there, there. Is any wine left
in the bottle, Tyl?"

Tyl gave him what remained.

"This ham does great good to my stomach," he said.

"To mine also," answered Lamme, "but I shall never see my dear one
again. She has fled away from Damme. What say you, will you come with
me in my cart to look for her?"

"That will I," answered Ulenspiegel.

So they got up into the donkey-cart, and the donkey set up a most
melancholy bray to celebrate their departure.

As for the dog, he had already made off, well filled, without a word
to any one.






II


While the cart went lumbering along on the top of the dike, with the
pond on one side and the canal on the other, Ulenspiegel sat brooding
on the past and cherishing in his bosom the ashes of Claes. He pondered
deeply upon that vision he had seen, and asked himself if indeed it
were true or false, and if those spirits of Nature had been making mock
of him, or if perchance they had been revealing to him under a figure
those things that must be done if the land of his fathers were to be
restored. In vain did he turn the matter over and over in his mind,
for he could not discover what was meant by those words, the "Seven"
and the "Cincture." He called to mind the late Emperor Charles V,
the present King, the Governess of the Netherlands, the Pope of Rome,
the Grand Inquisitor, and last of all, the General of the Jesuits--six
great persecutors of his country whom most willingly would he have
burned alive had he been able. But he was forced to conclude that
none of these was the personage indicated, for that they were all too
obviously worthy of being burnt, and would be in another place. And
he could only go on repeating to himself those words of the Lord of
the Spring:


        When the North
        Shall kiss the West,
        Then shall be the end of ruin.
            Love the Seven,
            And the Cincture.


"Alas!" he cried, "in death, in blood, in tears, find the Seven, burn
the Seven, love the Seven! What does it all mean? My poor brain reels,
for who, pray, would ever want to burn that which he loved?"

The cart by this time had progressed a good way along the road, when
all at once a sound was heard of some one stepping along the sand,
and of a voice singing:


        Oh, have ye seen him, ye that pass,
        The lover I have lost, alas!
        Feckless he wandereth, knowing no tie--
            Have ye seen him pass by?

        As tender lamb the eagle seizeth,
        So on my poor heart he feedeth.
        Beardless his chin, though to manhood nigh--
            Have ye seen him pass by?

        If ye find him, ye may tell
        Weary with following faints his Nele.
        O Tyl, my beloved, hear me, I cry!
            Have ye seen him pass by?

        Languisheth ever the faithful dove,
        Seeking, seeking her fickle love.
        So, far more so, languish I--
            Have ye seen him pass by?


Ulenspiegel gave Lamme a blow on his great belly, and told him to
hold his breath.

"That," said Lamme, "is a very difficult thing, I fear, for a man of
my corpulence."

But Ulenspiegel, paying no further attention to his companion, hid
himself behind the canvas hood of the cart, and began to sing in the
voice of a man with a bad cold that has drunk well:


        In a shaky old cart with age all green,
        Your feckless sweetheart I have seen;
        And a glutton rides with him, like pig in sty--
            I have seen him pass by.


"Tyl," said Lamme, "you have a wry tongue in your cheek this morning!"

But Tyl put his head out of a hole in the hood:

"Nele, don't you know me?" he said.

And Nele, for it was none other than she herself, was filled with fear,
crying and laughing all at the same time, and her cheeks were wet as
she answered him:

"I see you, and I know you, you wretch, you traitor!"

"Nele," said Ulenspiegel, "if you want to give me a beating, you will
find a stick in the cart here. It is heavy enough in all conscience,
and knotted so that it will leave its mark right enough."

"Tyl," said Nele, "are you seeking the Seven?"

"Even so," Tyl told her.

Now Nele carried with her a bag, or satchel, that was so full it
seemed likely to burst. This satchel she offered to Tyl, saying:

"I thought it was unwholesome, Tyl, that a man should go on a journey
without a good fat goose, and a ham, and some Ghent sausages. So take
them, and when you eat of them think of me."

While Ulenspiegel stood gazing at Nele, quite oblivious of the satchel
which she was holding out to him, Lamme poked out his head from
another hole in the hood, and began to address the girl in his turn.

"O girl most wise," he said, "O girl most prudent, if he refuses
such a gift it must be from pure absence of mind. But you had much
better give into my own keeping that goose of yours, that ham, and
those fine sausages. I will take care of them, I promise you!"

"And who," asked Nele of her lover, "who may this red-face be?"

"A victim of the married state," Tyl told her, "that is wasting away
with sorrow, and would soon, in fact, shrink away to nothing, like
an overbaked apple, were it not that he recuperated his strength from
time to time and all the time by taking nourishment."

"Alas, my son," sighed Lamme, "what you say is only too true."

Now it was very hot, and Nele had covered her head with her apron
because of the sun. Ulenspiegel looked upon her, and conceived a
sudden desire to be alone with her. He turned to Lamme, and pointed
to a woman that was walking some way off in a field.

"Do you see that woman?" he said.

"I see her," said Lamme.

"Do you recognize her?"

"Heavens!" cried Lamme, "can it be my wife? In truth she is dressed
like no common country wench!"

"Can you still be doubtful, you old mole?"

"But supposing it were not her after all?" said Lamme.

"You would be none the worse off," Ulenspiegel told him, "for over
there to the left, towards the north, I know a tavern that sells most
excellent bruinbier. We will join you there, and here meanwhile is
some salt ham that will provide an excellent relish to your thirst."

So Lamme got down from the cart, and made off as fast as his legs
would carry him in the direction of the woman in the field.

Ulenspiegel said to Nele: "Why will you not come near me?"

Then he helped her to climb up beside him on to the cart, and made
her sit close by his side. He removed her apron from her head and the
cloak from her shoulders, and then when he had kissed her a hundred
times at least, he asked her:

"Where were you going to, beloved?"

She answered him nothing, but seemed carried away in a sort of
ecstasy. Ulenspiegel, in like rapture, said to her:

"Anyway you are here now! And truly the wild hedgerow is dun beside
the sweet pink colouring of your skin, and though you are no queen,
behold I will make a crown of kisses all for you! O sweet arms of
my love, so tender, so rosy, and made for nothing but to hold me
in their embrace! Ah, little girl, little love, how dare I touch
you? These rough hands of mine, will they not tarnish the purity of
your white shoulder? Yea verily, for the lightsome butterfly may flit
to rest upon the crimson carnation, but I, clumsy bumpkin that I am,
how can I rest myself without tarnishing the living whiteness that
is you? God is in heaven, the king is on his throne, the sun rides
triumphing in the sky, but am I a god, or a king, or the sun himself
that I may come so close to you? O tresses softer than silk! O Nele,
I fear to touch your hair, so clumsy am I, lest I tear it, lest I
shred it all to pieces. But have no fear, my love. Your foot, your
sweet foot! What makes it so white? Do you bathe it in milk?"

Nele would have risen from his side, but,

"What are you afraid of?" he asked her. "It is not the sun alone that
shines upon us now and paints you all gold. Do not cast down your
eyes, but look straight into mine, and behold the pure fire that
flames there. And listen, my love, hearken to me, dearest. Now is
midday, the silent hour. The labourer is at home, eating his dinner
of soup. Shall we not also feed upon our love? Oh why, oh why have I
not yet a thousand years wherein to tell at your knees my rosary of
Indian pearls!"

"Golden Tongue!" she said.

But my Lord the Sun blazed down upon the white hood of the cart,
and a lark sang high over the clover, and Nele leant her head upon
the shoulder of Ulenspiegel.






III


After a while Lamme came back to the cart, great drops of sweat
pouring off him, and he, puffing and blowing like a dolphin.

"Alas!" he cried, "I was born under an evil star. For no sooner had
I run and caught up with this woman than I found that she was not a
woman at all, but an old hag rather, as indeed I could see at once
by her face--forty-five years old at the very least! And to judge by
her head-gear she had never been married. For all that, she inquired
of me in a harsh voice what I was doing there, carrying my great fat
belly about in the clover! I told her as politely as I could that I
was looking for my wife who had lately left me, and that I had run
after her by mistake.

"At that the old girl told me that the only thing for me to do was
to return at once whence I came, and that if my wife had left me she
had indeed done well, seeing that all men are thieves and rascals,
heretics, unfaithful, poisoners, and deceivers of women; and she
threatened to set her dog on me if I did not make off at once. Which
in truth I did incontinently, for that I perceived a great mastiff
lying there growling at her feet. When, therefore, I had reached the
boundary of the field, I sat me down to rest myself and to eat a bit
of ham. And I was between two clover-fields. Suddenly I heard a great
noise just behind me, and turning round I saw the old girl's mastiff,
no longer now in menacing mood but wagging his tail as sweetly as
possible and as much as to say that he was hungry and would like a
piece of my ham. I was for throwing him some small bits when all at
once his mistress appeared on the scene, and shouted out fiercely:

"'Seize the man! Seize him with your fangs, my son!'

"I started to run away, the great mastiff hanging on to me by my
breeks. And now he had bitten off a piece of them, together with
a gobbet of my own flesh. The pain made me angry and I turned and
gave him such a smart stroke with my stick upon his front paws
that I must have broken one of them at least. At that he fell down,
crying out in his dog language: 'Mercy! Mercy!' the which I granted
him. Meanwhile his mistress, finding no stones to throw at me, had
begun to threaten me with pieces of earth and bits of grass. So I
made good my retreat. And is it not a sorry thing, and a thing most
unjust and most cruel, that because a girl has not been good-looking
enough to find some one to marry her, she must needs go and take her
revenge on a poor innocent like me?"






IV


Some while after these happenings, when Nele had returned to her home
with Katheline, Lamme and Ulenspiegel came to Bruges. They were at
the place called Minne-Water, the Lake of Love--though the learned
folk would have it to be derived from Minre-Water, that is, the Water
belonging to the order of monks who are called Minims. Be this as it
may, here on the bank of the lake, Lamme and Ulenspiegel sat themselves
down, watching those that passed in front of them under the trees. The
green branches hung over the pathway like a vault of foliage, and
below there sauntered both men and women, youths and maids, clasping
each other's hands, with flowers on their heads, walking so close
together and gazing so tenderly into each other's eyes that they
seemed to see nothing else in all the world save themselves alone.

As he watched them, the thoughts of Ulenspiegel were far away with
Nele, and his thoughts were sad thoughts. Yet his words were of
another colour, bidding Lamme come off with him to the tavern for
a drink. But Lamme paid no attention to what Tyl was saying, for he
himself was absorbed no less by the sight of those loving pairs.

"In the old days," he said, "we too, my wife and I, were wont to go
a-courting, while others, just as we are now, would watch us, alone
and companionless by the lake-side."

"Come and have a drink!" said Ulenspiegel, "Belike we will find the
Seven at the bottom of a pint of beer."

"That's but a drunkard's notion," answered Lamme, "for you know
quite well that the Seven are giants, and taller than the roof of
the Church of St. Sauver itself!"

The thoughts of Ulenspiegel were still with Nele, but none the less
did he hope to find, perchance, good quarters in some inn, a good
supper, and a comely hostess into the bargain. Again, therefore, did
he urge his companion to come along with him and drink. But Lamme
would not listen to him, gazing sadly at the tower of Notre Dame,
and addressing himself in prayer to Our Lady somewhat in this wise:

"O Blessed Lady, patroness of all lawful unions, suffer me, I pray,
to see yet once again the white neck, the soft and tender neck,
of my love!"

"Come and drink!" cried Ulenspiegel. "Belike you will find her
displaying these charms of hers to the drinkers in the tavern."

"How dare you harbour such a thought!" cried Lamme.

"Come and drink!" repeated Ulenspiegel. "Your wife has turned innkeeper
without a doubt."

And thus conversing, they repaired to the Marché du Samedi, and entered
into the Blauwe Lanteern--at the sign of the Blue Lantern. And there
they found a right jolly-looking innkeeper.

The donkey meanwhile was unharnessed from the cart, and was put up
in the stables and provided with a good feed of oats. Our travellers
themselves ordered supper, and when they had eaten their fill, they
went to bed and slept soundly till morning, only to wake up and eat
again. And Lamme, who was wellnigh bursting with all that he had
eaten, said that he could hear in his stomach a sound like the music
of the spheres.

Now when the time came to pay the bill, mine host came to Lamme and
told him that the total amounted to six patards.

"He has the money," said Lamme, pointing to Ulenspiegel.

"No such thing," said Ulenspiegel.

"What about that half-florin?" said Lamme.

"I haven't got it," said Ulenspiegel.

"Here's a nice way of going on!" cried the innkeeper. "I shall strip
your doublet and shirt from the two of you!"

Suddenly Lamme took courage of all he had been drinking:

"And if I choose to eat and to drink," he cried, "yea, to eat and
to drink the worth of twenty-seven florins, and more, do you think
I shall not do so? Do you think that this belly of mine is not the
equal of a penny? God's life! Up to now I have fed on ortolans. But
you, never have you carried anything of that sort under your belt of
greasy hide. For you, you bad man, must needs carry your suet in the
collar of your doublet, far otherwise than I that bear three inches
at least of delicate fat on this good belly of mine."

At this the innkeeper fell into a passion of rage, and though he was a
stammerer he began to talk at a great rate, and the greater his haste
the more he stammered and spluttered like a dog that has just come
out of the water. Ulenspiegel began to throw pellets of bread at him,
and Lamme, growing more and more excited, continued his harangue in
the following strain:

"And now, what do you say? For here have I enough, and more than
enough, to pay you for those three lean chickens forsooth, and those
four mangy poulets, to say nothing of that big simpleton of a peacock
that parades his paltry tail in the stable yard. And if your very
skin was not more dry than that of an ancient cock, if your bones even
now were not falling to very dust within your breast, still should I
have the wherewithal to eat you up, you and your slobbering servant
there--your one-eyed serving-maid and your cook, whose arms are not
long enough to scratch himself though he had the itch! And do you see,"
he continued, "do you see this fine bird of yours that for the sake of
half a florin would have deprived us of our doublet and our shirt? Say,
what is your own wardrobe worth, preposterous chatterbox that you are;
and I will give you three liards in exchange for the lot!"

But the innkeeper, who by this time was beside himself with rage,
stammered and spluttered more and more, while Ulenspiegel went on
throwing pellets of bread in his face, till Lamme at last cried out
again in a voice brave as a lion's:

"What's the value, think you, skinny-face, of a fine donkey with
a splendid nose, long ears, large chest, and legs as strong as
iron? Twenty-eight florins at the least, is it not so, most seedy of
innkeepers? And how many old nails have you, pray, locked fast away
in your coffer, with which to pay the price of so fine an animal?"

More than ever did the innkeeper puff and blow, yet dared not budge
an inch from where he stood. And Lamme said again:

"And what is the value, think you, of a fine cart of ash-wood, finely
painted in crimson, and furnished with a hood of Courtrai cloth for
protection from sun and rain? Twenty-four florins at the least, is
it not so? And how much is twenty-four florins added to twenty-eight
florins? Answer that, you miser that cannot even count! And now,
since it is market day, and since your paltry tavern happens to be
full of peasants that are come to market, behold I will put up my
cart to auction and my donkey too, and I will sell them here, now,
and at once!"

Which, in very truth, he did. For all they that were there knew very
well who Lamme was. And he actually realized from the sale of his
donkey and cart as much as forty-four florins and ten patards. And
he jingled the money under the innkeeper's nose, and said to him:

"Scent you not the savour of festivities to be?"

"Yea," answered mine host. But under his breath he swore that
if ever Lamme came to him and offered to sell him his very skin,
he would buy it for a liard and make of it an amulet for a charm
against extravagance.

Meanwhile there was a sweet and gentle-looking young woman that
stood in the yard without, and she came up oftentimes to the window
and looked at Lamme, but withdrew her pretty face each time that he
might have seen her. And the same evening, when Lamme was going up to
bed, stumbling about on the staircase without any light (for he had
been drinking not wisely), he was aware of a woman that put her arms
round him, and greedily kissed his cheek and mouth and his nose even,
and moistened his face with amorous tears, and then left him.

But Lamme, who was thoroughly drowsed by all that he had been drinking,
lay down straightway and went to sleep; and on the morrow he departed
to Ghent together with Ulenspiegel. There he went seeking his wife
in all the cabarets and taverns of the town. But at nightfall he
rejoined Ulenspiegel at the sign of the Singing Swan.






V


Now King Philip was obstinate as a mule, and he thought that his
own will ought to dominate the entire world as if it had been the
will of God himself. And his will was this: that our country, little
accustomed as it was to obedience, should now curb itself under an
ancient yoke without obtaining any reforms at all. And the be-all
and the end-all of his desire was the aggrandizement of that Holy
Mother of his, the Catholic Church, Apostolic and Roman, One, Entire,
Universal, changeless and unalterable, and this was his will for no
other reason at all than just the fact that it was his will. And in
this he was like some woman without sense, that tosses about all night
upon her bed as though it were a bed of thorns, endlessly tortured
by her own imaginings.

"Yes," he would say, "O most Holy Saint Philip, and you, O my Lord
God, if only I could turn the Low Countries into a common grave, and
cast therein all the inhabitants of that country, then surely they
would return to Thee, my most blessed Patron, and to Thee, my Lady
Virgin Mary, and to ye, my good masters, the saints and saintesses
of Paradise!"

And he really tried to do as he said; so that he was more Roman than
the Pope and more Catholic than the Councils!

And the people of Flanders and of the Low Countries began to grow
anxious again, and to think that they could discern in the distance
this crowned spider, working in the sombre house of the Escurial,
reaching out his long claws with their nippers open, and spreading
wide the web in which he might enwrap them all and suck them white
of their blood.

Ulenspiegel, for his part, went spreading the alarm wherever he could,
and stirring up the people against the ravishers of his country and
the murderers of his parents.

One day, therefore, when he was in the Marché du Vendredi, near by
the Dulle-Griet--the Great Canon--Ulenspiegel lay flat down on his
stomach in the middle of the road. A charcoal-burner who happened to
be passing came up and asked him what he was doing there.

"I am giving my nose a wetting," Ulenspiegel told him, "so that I
may discover where this great wind is coming from."

Next a carpenter came along.

"Do you take the pavement for a mattress?" he asked.

"Before long," said Ulenspiegel, "there are some that will be taking
it for a counterpane."

A monk came up and stopped by his side.

"What does this booby here?"

"He entreats your blessing, lying flat at your feet," said
Ulenspiegel. The monk gave his blessing and went away. But Ulenspiegel
continued where he was with his head pressed to the earth, till at
last a peasant came along and asked him what he was listening for. "Do
you hear some noise or other?" he said.

"Yes," replied Ulenspiegel. "I hear the wood beginning to grow,
that wood whence many a faggot shall be made for the burning of
poor heretics."

"Do you hear aught else?" inquired a sergeant of the commune.

"Yes," said Ulenspiegel, "I hear the men-at-arms that are on their way
from Spain. If you have anything you wish to save, bury it now, for
in a little while our cities will not be safe from thieves any more."

"The man is mad," said the sergeant.

And the people of the town thought so too.






VI


Now in those days, day in, day out, King Philip of Spain was used
to spend his time fingering old papers and scribbling and writing
on leaves of parchment. To these alone did he confide the secrets
of his cruel heart, for he loved no man living, and knew that none
loved him. For he desired to direct his great empire by himself alone,
and like a weary Atlas he was bowed under that weight. Melancholy and
phlegmatic by nature, this excess of work was consuming a body that
was already none too strong. Hating as he did every happy face, he
had begun to hate our land of Flanders, for its gaiety if for nothing
else. And he hated our merchants just because they were wealthy and
luxurious, and he hated our nobility just because they were free in
speech and frank in manner, and because of the high ardour of their
bravery and their jovial bearing. Neither had he forgotten the tale
that was told how, as early as the year 1380, the Cardinal de Cousa
had pointed out the abuses of the Church, and had preached the need
of reformation, since which time the revolt against the Pope and
the power of Rome had begun to be manifest in our land, and was now,
under different forms and sects, rife in every head like water boiling
in a kettle with the lid on.

And although, under the Emperor Charles, the Papal Inquisition had
already been the death, by burning, burying alive, or hanging, of
so many as a hundred thousand Christians, and although the property
of these unfortunates had gone into the coffers of the Emperor and
the King like rain falling into a sink, Philip decided that this was
not enough, and now imposed on the country a new College of Bishops,
and aspired to introduce into Flanders all the horrors of the Spanish
Inquisition.

And the Town Heralds sounded their trumpets and their timbrels, and
declaimed a proclamation to the effect that all heretics, whether
men, women, or girls, should be done to death. Those who would recant
their heresies were to be hanged, but those who were obstinate were
to be burnt at the stake. The women and girls were to be buried alive,
and the executioner was to dance upon their dead bodies.

And the flame of resistance began to burn and run through all the
country.






VII


It was the fifth of April, just before Easter, and the Counts Louis of
Nassau, de Culembourg, and de Brederode (he that was surnamed Hercule
the Toper) were entering the courtyard of the palace of Brussels,
together with three hundred gentlemen. They were come to seek an
audience of the Governess of the Netherlands, Madame the Duchess of
Parma, and were mounting the great stairway of the palace four by four.

Coming at length into the hall where my Lady was seated they presented
their petition, which entreated her to use her influence with King
Philip for the abolition of all those decrees which concerned religion
and the introduction into Flanders of the Spanish Inquisition. This
petition, which afterwards became known as "The Compromise," also
declared that in our already disaffected country such a policy as the
introduction of the Inquisition could only result in troubles of all
kinds, ruin to the country, and universal misery.

Berlaymont, who later on was to prove so treacherous and baneful to
the land of his birth, stood close by Her Highness, and mocked at the
poverty of certain of the confederate nobles who had come to visit her.

"Have no fear, my Lady," he told her, "they are nothing but beggars!"

And by these words he implied either that the said nobles had been
ruined in the service of the King, or else that they were eager to
emulate the luxury of the great Lords of Spain. And thus it was that
later on these same nobles endeavoured to bring ridicule upon the
words of Berlaymont by saying that "they held it indeed an honour to
be esteemed and spoken of as beggars--beggars for the good service of
the King and the advantage of these lands." And from that time they
began to wear round their necks a golden medal carved with an effigy
of the King. And on the obverse side of the medal were two hands
clasped upon a beggar's wallet, with these words writ thereunder:
"To the King, faithful even unto beggary." On their hats and bonnets
they carried also little golden ornaments made in the form of beggars'
hats and platters.

And all this time Lamme went carrying his portly form about the town,
seeking the wife that he never found.






VIII


One morning Ulenspiegel said to Lamme:

"Come with me. Let us go and present our compliments to a certain
high noble I wot of, a most renowned and powerful personage!"

"Will he tell us where my wife is?" asked Lamme.

"Certainly," answered Ulenspiegel, "if he knows."

And away they went to Brederode, surnamed Hercule the Toper. And they
found him in the courtyard of his house.

"What do you want with me?" he demanded of Ulenspiegel.

"To speak with you, my Lord."

"Speak then," said Brederode.

"You are a handsome, brave, and powerful nobleman," said
Ulenspiegel. "Time was when you were able to flatten out a Frenchman in
full armour as though he were no better than a mussel in its shell. But
if you are brave and powerful you are also well-informed. Can you tell
us, therefore, why you wear this medal inscribed with these words:
'To the King, faithful even unto beggary'?"

"Yes," Lamme put in, "pray tell us why, my Lord!"

But Brederode made no answer, and only looked very hard at Ulenspiegel,
who thereupon continued his discourse in this wise.

"And why, pray, do you, you other noble Lords, seek to be faithful to
the King even unto beggary? Is it for the great good that he wishes
you? Or for the fair friendship that he bears you? How is it that
instead of being faithful to the King even unto beggary you do not
so act rather that the brute himself may be despoiled of his country,
and thus be made faithful for ever to beggary himself?"

And Lamme nodded his head to show his agreement with what his friend
had said:

Brederode looked at Ulenspiegel with his keen glance, and smiled with
pleasure at his handsome appearance.

"Either you are a spy of King Philip," he said, "or else a good man
of Flanders; and for whichever you are I will pay you your due."

So saying he led Ulenspiegel to his pantry, and Lamme followed close
behind. When they were come there, Brederode pulled Ulenspiegel's
ear till the blood flowed.

"This for the spy," he said.

But Ulenspiegel remained quite quiet and said nothing.

Then Brederode, pointing to a pipkin of cinnamon wine, bade his butler
bring it to him.

"Drink," said Brederode, "this for the good Fleming."

Ah!" cried Ulenspiegel, "good Fleming means sweet tongue for
cinnamon! Verily the saints themselves do not know the likes of it!"

When he had drunk half the tankard he passed the remainder to Lamme.

"And who," said Brederode, "who is this papzak, this belly-carrier
that needs must be recompensed for having done nothing?"

"This," said Ulenspiegel, "is my friend Lamme Goedzak, and whenever
he drinks mulled wine he thinks that he is going to find the wife he
has lost."

"That's so," said Lamme, sucking up the wine from the goblet most
devotedly.

"And where may you be going to now?" asked Brederode.

"In quest of the Seven," said Ulenspiegel, "the Seven that shall save
the land of Flanders."

"And who may they be?" asked Brederode.

"When I have found them," said Ulenspiegel, "then I will tell you."

But Lamme, who was grown sprightly with what he had been drinking,
suggested to Ulenspiegel that they should go there and then to the
moon, to see if his wife perchance was there.

"All right," said Ulenspiegel, "if you'll provide a ladder!"

And it was May, the green month of May, and Ulenspiegel said to Lamme:

"O Lamme, behold the lovely month of May! Ah, the bright blue of the
sky! The joy of the swallows! And behold, the branches of the trees,
how they are all red with sap, and the very earth is in love! Verily
this is now the time both to hang and to burn for the Faith. For they
are ready, the good little Inquisitors. Ah, what noble faces they
have! And theirs is the power to correct us and to punish us and to
degrade, and hand us over to the secular judges, or to imprison us--O
the fine month of May!--and to take us captive, and to proceed to trial
against us without serving any writ, and to burn, hang, behead us, and
to dig the grave of premature death for our women and our girls. In
the trees the chaffinch is singing! But upon him that is rich and
wealthy the good Inquisitors have cast a favourable eye! And it is
the King himself that shall enter into their inheritance. Then go,
my girls, dance in the meadows to the sound of bagpipes and shawms. O
the fine month of May!"

And the ashes of Claes beat upon the breast of Ulenspiegel.

"On, on!" said he to Lamme. "Happy are they that shall keep heart
high and sword drawn in the dark days that are coming!"






IX


Lamme and Ulenspiegel, each mounted upon a donkey given him by
Simon Simonsen, one of the followers of the Prince of Orange, went
riding far and wide, warning the people concerning the bloodthirsty
designs of King Philip, and always on the look-out for any news from
Spain. They frequented all the markets and fairs of the countryside,
selling vegetables and habited like peasants.

One day as they were returning from the market at Brussels, they passed
a stone house on the Quai aux Briques, and there, in a room on the
ground floor, they beheld a beautiful dame dressed all in satin. She
had a high complexion, a lively look in her eyes, and her neck was
most fair to behold. By her side was a young, fresh-looking cook,
to whom she was addressing words like these:

"Clean me this saucepan, will you! No rusty sauce for me!"

"As for me," cried Ulenspiegel, poking in his nose at the window,
"any kind of soup is good enough! For a hungry man cannot afford to
be particular."

The lady turned towards him:

"And who," she said, "who is this little man, I wonder, that must
needs concern himself with my soup?"

"Alas, my lovely lady," said Ulenspiegel, "if only you will consent to
make soup in my company, I will teach you how to prepare a traveller's
relish of a sort that is quite unknown to lovely ladies who stay
at home."

And then, smacking his lips:

"I am hungry," he said.

"Hungry for what?" she asked him.

"For you."

"Sure, he's a nice enough looking fellow," said the cook to her
mistress. "Let him come in a while and tell us his adventures."

"But there are two of them!" said the lady.

"I'll look after the other," said the cook.

"Madame," said Ulenspiegel, "it is true that there are two of us, I
and my poor friend Lamme here, whose back cannot support so much as the
weight of a hundred pounds, yet who carries in his stomach five hundred
pounds at the least of food and drink, and that right willingly!"

"My son," Lamme said, "do not make mock of me, unfortunate that I am,
for my belly costs a deal to fill."

"To-day, at any rate, it shall not cost you so much as a liard,"
said the lady. "Come in, both of you."

"But what about these donkeys of ours?" said Lamme.

"There is no lack of fodder," answered the lady, "in the stable of
Monsieur le Comte de Meghen!"

Thereupon the cook left her saucepan, and led Lamme and Ulenspiegel
into the stable yard, they still riding on their donkeys, who now
began to bray inordinately.

"Hark," cried Ulenspiegel, "hearken to the fanfare with which they
greet their coming nourishment. They are blowing their trumpets for
joy, the poor beasts!"

But when they were dismounted, Ulenspiegel said to the cook:

"Come now, my dear, tell me, if you were a she-ass would you choose
for your mate a donkey like me?"

"If I were a woman," the cook replied, "I would desire a fellow that
had a merry countenance."

"What are you then," asked Lamme, "being neither woman nor she-ass?"

"I am a maid," quoth she, "and that is neither woman nor she-ass into
the bargain. Now do you understand, fat-belly?"

Meantime the lady was inviting Ulenspiegel to drink a pint of
bruinbier and to partake of some ham, a gigot, a pâté, and some
salad. Ulenspiegel clapped his hands.

"Ham!" he cried, "that's good to eat; and bruinbier is a drink
divine. Gigot is food fit for the Gods! And the thought of a pâté is
enough to send one's tongue a-tremble in one's mouth for joy! A rich
salad is worthy victual for a king, forsooth. But blessed above all
men shall that man be to whom it is given to dine off thy loveliness,
O lady mine!"

"How the fellow does run on!" she exclaimed. And then: "Eat first,
you rogue."

"Shall we not say grace ere we consume all these dainties?" said
Ulenspiegel.

"Nay," answered the lady.

But Lamme began to make moan, complaining that he was hungry.

"Eat, then, your fill," said the beautiful dame, "for well I see that
you have no other thoughts but of meats well cooked."

"And fresh withal," Lamme added, "even as was my wife."

At this the cook grew moody; nevertheless they ate and drank their
fill, and that night also did the beautiful dame give his supper to
Ulenspiegel, and so the next day, and the days that followed.

As for the donkeys, they were given double feeds, and for Lamme there
was always a double ration. And throughout a whole week he never once
went outside the kitchen, playing the wanton with many a dish of food,
but never with the cook, for he was thinking of his wife all the time.

This annoyed the girl, and she went so far as to say that it was
not worth while to cumber the earth if one thought of nothing but
one's belly.

But all this time Ulenspiegel and the beautiful dame were passing
the time together in right friendly wise, till one day she said to him:

"Tyl, I think you have no principles at all. Who are you?"

"I am," said he, "a son that Chance begat one day on High Adventure."

"You are not afraid to speak well of yourself," she told him.

"That's for fear that others will praise me."

"Would you go so far as to help such of your brethren who have suffered
for the Faith?"

"The ashes of Claes beat upon my breast."

"There is something splendid about you, Tyl, when you say that,"
she told him, "but who is this Claes?"

"He was my father," answered Ulenspiegel, "that was burnt alive for
the Faith."

"Verily you are not at all like my husband, the Count de Meghen,"
she said, "for he, if he could, would bleed to death the country that
I love. For you must know that I was born in the glorious city of
Antwerp. And now I will make known to you that the Count has entered
into an agreement with the Councillor of Brabant to bring into that
very city of Antwerp a regiment of infantry."

"I must inform the citizens of this," said Ulenspiegel. "Behold,
I will go there immediately, swift as a ghost."

He departed there and then; and by the following morning the citizens
of Antwerp were in arms. But Ulenspiegel and Lamme, having sent
their donkeys to a farmer that was a friend of Simon Simonsen, were
themselves obliged to go into hiding for fear of the Count de Meghen,
who was seeking for them everywhere to have them hanged; for it had
been reported to him that there were two heretics that had drunk of
his wine and eaten of his meat. And he was jealous and spoke concerning
this matter to his lovely dame, who ground her teeth in anger, and wept
and swooned seventeen times. The cook behaved in a similar fashion,
but swooned not so often, and swore by her hope of Paradise and by
the eternal salvation of her soul, that neither she nor her mistress
had done anything wrong unless it had been to give what was left of
their dinner to a couple of poor pilgrims who, mounted on two wretched
donkeys, had stopped for a moment at the kitchen window.

All that day there was a great shedding of tears, so that the floors
of the house became quite damp with them. And when he saw this,
Monsieur de Meghen felt reassured that he was being told the truth
and nothing but the truth.

Lamme did not dare to show himself again there, for the cook always
jeered at him, calling after him, "My wife!" And for this cause he
was very sorry for himself, thinking of all the good food that he was
missing. But Ulenspiegel continued his visits to the beautiful dame,
entering the house by the rue Sainte-Catherine, and hiding himself
in the storeroom. And he always took care to bring back to Lamme some
dainty morsel.

Now one evening the Count de Meghen informed his lady that before
morning dawned he was resolved to lead his men-at-arms into the
city of Bois-le-Duc. When he had told her this he went to sleep. But
the beautiful dame went straightway to the storeroom, and apprised
Ulenspiegel of what had happened.






X


Ulenspiegel, in the garb of a pilgrim, and with no provision of food
or money, departed incontinently for Bois-le-Duc, with the intention
of warning the citizens. He reckoned to find a horse at the house
of Jeroen Praet, the brother of Simon Simonsen, for whom he carried
letters from the Prince. From thence he would go by side roads to
Bois-le-Duc as fast as his horse would carry him.

As he was crossing the road he spied a company of soldiers coming
towards him. This gave him a great fright because of the letters
which he carried; but being resolved to put the best face on the
misadventure, he awaited the arrival of the soldiers with all the
courage at his command, standing still by the roadside telling his
beads. When the soldiers came up with him he joined them, and soon
discovered that they also were going to Bois-le-Duc.

At the head of the troop marched a company of Walloons led by a
captain, Lamotte by name, with his bodyguard of six halberdiers. Then
followed the other officers each according to rank, and with a
smaller bodyguard: the provost with his halberdiers and two bailiffs,
the chief watchman with the baggage-carriers, the executioner
with his assistants, and a band of drums and fifes making a great
row. Thereafter came a company of Flemish soldiers, two hundred strong,
with their captain and his ensign-bearers. They were divided into two
divisions, each of one hundred men, under the command of two sergeants,
and in squads of ten under the command of corporals. The provost and
his lieutenants were likewise preceded by a band of drums and fifes,
beating and screaming.

Behind these, again, came two open wagons wherein rode the loving
companions of the soldiers, pealing with laughter, twittering like
birds, singing like nightingales, eating, drinking, dancing, standing,
lying down, or sitting astride--all gay and pretty girls.

Many of them were dressed like foot-soldiers, but in fine white cloth
which was cut away at the arms and legs and at the neck so as to
show their sweet white flesh. And on their heads they wore bonnets of
fine linen trimmed with gold and surmounted with magnificent ostrich
plumes that fluttered in the wind. Their belts were of cloth of gold
crimped with red satin, from which hung the scabbards of their daggers,
made of cloth of gold. And their shoes, their stockings, their hose,
their doublets, shoulder-knots and fitments were all of gold and white
silk. Others there were, dressed also in the uniform of infantrymen
but with uniforms of divers colours, blue, green, scarlet, sky-blue,
and crimson, cut away and embroidered or emblazoned according to their
fancy. But on the arm of each and all was to be seen the coloured
band that indicated her calling.

The girls were in charge of a sergeant who did his best to keep them
in order, but they made no pretence of obeying him, but bombarded
him with japes and sweet grimaces so that he found it hard to keep
his countenance.

Ulenspiegel meanwhile, in his dress of a pilgrim and telling his
beads, went marching along by the side of the two ensign-bearers and
their guard, for all the world like a little boat by the side of a
big ship. Suddenly Lamotte inquired of him whither he was going.

"Sir Captain," answered Ulenspiegel, who was growing hungry, "you must
know that I am one that has committed a grievous sin, for which I have
been condemned by the Chapter of Notre Dame to journey to Rome on foot
and to ask pardon there from the Holy Father. This he has granted,
and now I am shriven and suffered to return to my own country on the
one condition that I am to preach the Holy Mysteries to whatsoever
soldiers I may encounter on the way; and they for their part are
enjoined to give me bread and wine in return for my preaching. And
thus by my sermons do I sustain my wretched life. Would you now give
me permission to fulfil my vow at the next halt?"

"I will," said Monsieur de Lamotte.

After this, Ulenspiegel began to mingle with the Walloons and Flemings
in right brotherly fashion, but all the time he kept fingering those
letters which he kept concealed under his doublet. And the girls
began to cry out to him:

"Come hither, handsome pilgrim, come hither and show us the strength
of your pilgrim's oyster-shells!"

And Ulenspiegel drew nigh to them with modest mien, and said:

"O my sisters in God, pray you do not make mock of the poor pilgrim
that wendeth up hill and down dale preaching ever the Holy Faith to
the soldiers."

But with his eyes he feasted himself upon the sight of their sweet
charms. And the wanton girls, thrusting their lively faces betwixt
the canvas curtains of the wagons, cried out to him yet the more:

"Surely you are too young a man to go preaching to soldiers? Climb
up into our wagon and we will teach thee more gentle subjects of
conversation!"

And right willingly would Ulenspiegel have done as they bade him, but
he dared not, by reason of the letters which he carried. And already
two of the girls were leaning out of the wagon trying to hoist him
up with their white, round arms. But the sergeant was jealous.

"Be off with you, or else I'll off with your head!" he threatened.

So Ulenspiegel removed himself away, but not without a sly look behind
him at the fresh young beauty of those joysome girls, all golden in
the sun which now shone brightly.

They came at last to Berchem, where Philip de Lannoy, Lord of Beauvoir,
ordered a halt. For he it was that was in command of the Flemings.

Now in that place was an oak-tree, of medium height, but despoiled
of all its branches save one only, a big branch that was broken off
short in the middle; for only a month before an Anabaptist had been
hanged there by the neck.

Here then the soldiers came to a halt, and the keepers of the canteen
came up and began to sell to them bread, wine, beer, with meats of
every kind. And to the gay girls they sold all manner of sugared
sweets, and castrelins, and almonds, and tartlets, the which when
Ulenspiegel saw, he felt hungrier than ever.

All at once Ulenspiegel climbed up like a monkey into the tree, and
seated himself astride on the big branch, seven feet above the ground
at the least. And then, when he had given himself a few strokes from
his pilgrim's scourge, he began his sermon, while the soldiers and
their gay girls sat round him in a circle.

"It is written," he began, "that whosoever giveth to the poor, the
same lendeth to God. Very well then, O soldiers present here to-day,
and you, fair ladies, sweet comrades in love of all these valiant
warriors, do you lend now to God. That is to say, give me, I beg you,
some of your bread, meat, wine, beer, if you please, and eke your
tartlets, and I promise you that God, who is very rich, shall give
you back in exchange many pieces of ortolan, rivers of malmsey wine,
mountains of sugar-candy, and great pieces of that lovely rystpap
which they eat in Paradise from silver spoons."

Then, changing to a more sorrowful tone, he continued:

"Behold now, with what cruel tortures do I strive to merit pardon
for my sins! Will you do nothing to assuage the smarting pain of this
scourge by which my back is lacerated till the blood flows?"

"Who is this madman?" cried the soldiers.

"My friends," answered Ulenspiegel, "I am no madman but one that is
repentant even to the point of starvation. For while my soul weeps for
its sins, my stomach weeps for want of food. Good soldiers, and you,
fair damosels, I see you well provided with ham and goose, with fat
sausages and wine and beer and all manner of tartlets. Will you not
give so much as a morsel to the wandering pilgrim?"

"Yes, yes, we will," cried the Flemish soldiers, "for the preacher
hath a merry countenance."

And now they all began to throw him chunks of bread as though they
had been balls, and Ulenspiegel did not cease from talking and from
eating, astride as he was on the branch.

"Hunger," he said, "makes a man hard of heart and little apt for
prayer, yet a piece of ham removes that evil disposition in no time."

"Look out for your head," shouted a sergeant as he threw him a
bottle half full of wine. Ulenspiegel caught the bottle in mid-air,
and began to drink in little gulps, talking all the while.

"If hunger, sharp and raging, is bane to the poor body of a pilgrim,
there is something else that is equally harmful to his soul; nothing
less than his fear that the generosity of his soldier friends may lead
him on to drunkenness. For as a general rule the pilgrim is a right
sober fellow, but when, as now, one soldier gives him a slice of ham,
and another a bottle of beer, he is mightily afraid lest by drinking
thus upon an empty, or nearly empty, stomach he may lose his head."

And even as he spoke, he caught hold of the leg of a goose that came
whizzing to him through the air.

"This truly is a miracle," he cried, "that one should go fishing in the
air for a bird of the field! And see! Hey, presto! it has disappeared,
bone and all! Verily, what is it that is greedier than dry sand? I
will tell you. A barren woman and a hungry man."

Scarcely had he spoken than he clapped his hand to his face, for
two tartlets had flattened themselves, one on his eye, the other
on his cheek. The gay girls who had thrown them laughed aloud, but
Ulenspiegel made answer:

"Many thanks, my pretties, many thanks for thus embracing me with
this jammy accolade."

Nevertheless the tartlets had fallen to the ground.

And then suddenly the drums began to beat, the fifes screamed, and
the soldiers fell in again.

Monsieur de Beauvoir ordered Ulenspiegel to come down from his tree and
to march by the side of the soldiers. Ulenspiegel would willingly have
been parted from them by a hundred leagues, for he had gathered from
the remarks let fall by certain thin-faced foot-soldiers that he was
already under suspicion, and that he ran danger of being arrested for a
spy; and if this was so, he knew that they would most certainly search
his pockets, and have him hanged when they found the letters which he
carried. So in a little while he purposely let himself stumble into
the ditch which ran by the wayside, and as he fell he cried out loudly:

"Mercy, soldiers, mercy! My leg is broken, and now I cannot walk any
more. You must let me get up into the cart with the girls!"

But to this he knew that the jealous sergeant would never consent.

The girls, meanwhile, cried out from the carts:

"Come, come, jolly pilgrim, and we will succour you, and caress and
make much of you, and cure you all in a day."

"I know it," said Ulenspiegel, "for a woman's hand is balm celestial
for all and every wound."

But the jealous sergeant consulted with Monsieur de Lamotte, saying:

"Sir, I suspect that this pilgrim is playing some trick upon us with
his tale of a broken leg. All he wants is to have the chance of getting
up into the cart with the girls. Order him rather to be left behind
on the road."

"Very well," answered Monsieur de Lamotte.

So Ulenspiegel was left where he was in the ditch.

Some soldiers, who really believed that his leg was broken, were sorry
for him because of his gaiety, and they left with him a two days'
ration of food and wine. And the girls would have got down and run
to his assistance, but as this was forbidden they threw him all that
was left of their castrelins.

As soon as the soldiers had disappeared in the distance Ulenspiegel,
still in his pilgrim's dress, recovered his liberty, purchased a horse,
and rode like the wind by roads and by-paths to Bois-le-Duc.

When he told them the news of the approach of Monsieur de Lamotte,
the townspeople flew to arms to the number of eight hundred men, and
they chose out their leaders, and sent off Ulenspiegel, disguised as
a charcoal-burner, to Antwerp to summon help from Hercule Brederode,
surnamed the Toper.

And the soldiers of de Lamotte and de Beauvoir were able to gain
no entry into Bois-le-Duc, most vigilant of cities, most valiant
in defence.






XI


One day Simon Simonsen said to Ulenspiegel:

"Hearken, brother mine, and tell me, are you a brave man think you?"

"Brave enough," answered Ulenspiegel, "to whip a Spaniard to death,
to kill an assassin, or to murder a murderer."

"Do you think you could hide yourself in a chimney and wait there
patiently so as to overhear what was being said in the room below?"

"God has given me strong legs," answered Ulenspiegel, "and a supple
back, and in virtue of these gifts I could stand a long time in
whatever position I would, like a cat."

"Have you patience and a good memory?" asked Simon.

"The ashes of Claes beat upon my breast," answered Ulenspiegel.

"Very well then," said Simon, "you will take this playing card,
folded as you see it, and you will go to Dendermonde to a house,
a drawing of which I will give you, and you will knock at the door
twice loudly and once softly. Some one will open to you and will
ask if you are the chimney-sweep; you will answer that you are he
and that you have not lost the card. Then you will show the card to
him who opened the door. After that, Tyl, you must do as best you
can. For great are the evils that are a-planning against the land of
Flanders. And you will be conducted to a chimney that has been swept
and cleaned against your arrival, and in it you will find a series
of strong cramp-irons made ready for you to climb by, and a little
wooden shelf securely fastened to the side of the chimney for a seat;
and when he that has opened the door shall direct you, you will climb
up into your hiding-place, and there remain. In the chamber below,
and in front of the chimney where you will be hidden, a conference is
to be held between certain noble Lords: William the Silent, Prince
of Orange, and the Counts d'Egmont, de Hoorn, de Hoogstraeten, and
Ludwig of Nassau, the brother of William. And we Reformers desire to
find out whether these noble Lords are able and willing to undertake
the saving of our country."

Well, on the first day of April, Ulenspiegel did as he had been
bidden and took up his place in the chimney. Luckily for him there
was no fire in the grate, and it seemed that the absence of smoke
would not make it any the less easy for him to hear properly. After
a little while the door of the room was opened, and Ulenspiegel was
pierced through and through by a draught of cold wind blowing up the
chimney. But he endured the wind with patience, telling himself that
it would serve to keep him alert and attentive.

After a while he could hear my Lords of Orange, Egmont and the rest
making their entrance into the room. They began by speaking of the
fears they felt, of the wrath of the King and of the maladministration
of the revenue and finances of the country. One of them spoke in a
sharp, clear, and haughty tone of voice, which Ulenspiegel recognized
as that of my Lord of Egmont; just as he recognized de Hoogstraeten
by his husky tones, and de Hoorn by his loud voice, the Count Ludwig
of Nassau by his firm and soldierly manner of speech, and William
the Silent by that slow, deliberate way of enunciating his words as
if they had all been thought out beforehand and weighed in a balance.

The Count d'Egmont asked why they had been summoned to this second
conference when they had had plenty of time at Hellegat to come to
a decision on what they meant to do. De Hoorn replied that the days
passed quickly, that the King was growing angry, and that they must
be careful to lose no time.

Then spake William the Silent.

"The country is in danger. It must be defended against the attack of
a foreign army."

At this d'Egmont grew excited, and said that he was indeed astonished
to hear that the King his master had thought it necessary to send
an army when all was so peaceful by reason of the watchful care of
their noble Lordships, and of himself especially.

But William the Silent made answer:

"King Philip already has an army in the Low Countries consisting of
not less than fourteen regiments of artillery, and they are under
the control of him who commanded them at Gravelines, a general to
whom all the soldiers are devoted."

D'Egmont said that he could scarcely believe it.

"I will say no more," said William, "but there are certain letters
which shall be read to you and to the assembled Lords, and to begin
with, letters from the poor prisoner, Monsieur de Montigny."

And in these letters it was told how that the King was extremely vexed
with what was happening in the Low Countries, and that when the hour
was come he had determined to punish the fomenters of disturbance.

It was at this juncture that the Count d'Egmont complained of the
cold, and desired to have the fire lit; the which was done while
the two Lords continued their discussion of those letters. Now it
was a big fire of wood, but it did not burn well on account of that
big obstruction which was hidden in the chimney, and the room became
quickly full of smoke.

Then the Count de Hoogstraeten began to read (for all that he was
coughing continually because of the smoke) certain letters which had
been intercepted on their way from Alava, the Spanish ambassador,
to the Governess of the Netherlands.

"The ambassador," he said, "writes that all the evil that has happened
in the Low Countries was the work of three men: the Lords of Orange,
Egmont, and Hoorn. But it were desirable, he adds, to appear well
disposed to these three, and to tell them that the King recognizes
that it is thanks to them that their lands have been kept loyal to
him. As for the two others, Montigny and de Berghes, let them alone
where they are."

"Ah!" said Ulenspiegel, "I had rather a smoky chimney in the land of
Flanders than a damp prison in the land of Spain; for garrotters grow
between damp walls."

But the Count de Hoogstraeten continued:

"The said ambassador adds that on one occasion the King, being in the
city of Madrid, spoke these words: 'By all accounts that come from the
Low Countries it is evident that our royal reputation is diminished,
and we are ready therefore to abandon all our other possessions rather
than leave such a rebellion unpunished. We are decided to proceed to
the Netherlands in person, and to claim the assistance of the Pope and
of the Emperor. For beneath the present evil is concealed a future
good. We shall reclaim the Low Countries to absolute obedience, and
according to our own will we shall modify the constitution of that
State, its religion and its government.'"

"Ah, King Philip," said Ulenspiegel, "if only I could modify yours to
mine! Verily you would suffer, under the blows of my trusty Flemish
stick, a wondrous modification of your thighs and arms and legs! I
would fix your head in the middle of your back with a couple of
nails, and as you viewed from this position the charnel-house you
have created, you should sing at your good ease a pretty song of
tyrannous modification!"

Now wine was brought, and de Hoogstraeten rose upon his feet and said:

"I drink to our country!" and every one followed his example, and
when he had finished the toast he threw his empty tankard down on
the table, and said: "Now sounds an evil hour for the nobility of
Belgium. Let us take counsel as to how we may best defend ourselves."

He awaited some response, and looked at d'Egmont, but he uttered not
a word, and it was left to William of Orange to break the silence.

"We can offer resistance," he said, "provided that the Count
d'Egmont--who at Saint-Quentin and at Gravelines has twice made
France to tremble and who holds complete sway over the Flemish
soldiery--provided that he, I repeat, is willing to come to our
assistance in our endeavour to prevent the Spaniard from entering
the fatherland."

To this my Lord of Egmont made answer:

"I have too much respect for the King to think that it is right that
we should take up arms against him like rebels. Let those who fear
his wrath retire before it. I shall remain where I am, for I have no
means of living if I am deprived of his help."

"Philip knows how to avenge himself most cruelly," said William
the Silent.

"I trust him," answered d'Egmont.

"You would trust him with your heads?" asked Ludwig of Nassau.

"Head, body, and soul," replied d'Egmont.

"Friend, faithful and true, I will do likewise," said de Hoorn.

But William said:

"It behoves us to be far-sighted, and not to wait for things to
happen."

And then my Lord of Egmont spoke again, very excitedly.

"I have arrested twenty-two Reformers at Grammont," he said, "and if
their preachings come to an end, and if punishment is meted out to
the iconoclasts, the anger of the King will be appeased."

But William said:

"These are mere hopes."

"Let us arm ourselves with trust," said d'Egmont.

"Let us arm ourselves with trust," echoed de Hoorn.

"It is cold steel rather than trust that should be our weapons,"
replied de Hoogstraeten.

Whereupon William the Silent made a sign to the effect that he wished
to depart.

"Adieu, Prince without a country," said the Count d'Egmont.

"Adieu, Prince without a head," answered William.

"The sheep are for the butcher," said Ludwig of Nassau, "but glory
waits the soldier that saves the land of his fathers."

"That I cannot," said d'Egmont, "neither do I desire to."

"May the blood of the victims fall once again upon the head of the
flatterer," said Ulenspiegel.

And then those Lords retired.

Whereupon did Ulenspiegel come down from his chimney, and go
straightway to carry the news to Praet. And the latter said: "D'Egmont
is nothing better than a traitor. But God is with the Prince."

The Duke! The Duke at Brussels! Where are the safes and coffers that
have wings?






XII


William the Silent went in the way by God appointed. As for the two
Counts, they had already given themselves up to the Duke of Alba, who
offered pardon to William as well if only he would appear before him.

At this news Ulenspiegel said to Lamme:

"My good friend, what do you think now? The Duke has sent out a summons
through Dubois, the Attorney-General, by which the Prince of Orange,
Ludwig his brother, de Hoogstraeten, Van den Bergh, Culembourg,
de Brederode, and other friends of the Prince are cited to appear
before him within forty days; and if they do this they are assured of
justice and mercy. But listen, Lamme, and I will tell you a story. One
day there was a Jew of Amsterdam who summoned one of his enemies to
come down and join him in the street, for the Jew was standing on the
pavement, but his enemy was looking out of a window just above. 'Come
down at once,' said the Jew, 'and I will give you such a blow on the
head as will squash it down into your chest, so that your two eyes
will look out from your sides like the eyes of a thief from betwixt
prison-bars.' But the other answered: 'Even if you promised me a
hundred times as much, still I would not come down.' Even so may the
Prince of Orange and his friends make reply to him that summons them!"

And so they did, refusing point-blank to appear before the Duke. But
the Counts d'Egmont and de Hoorn were not of this mind. And their
failure to do their duty brought them nearer to their doom.






XIII


One day in June, a fine warm day it was, a scaffold was set up in the
market square at Brussels, in front of the Town Hall. The scaffold
was draped in black, and close to it were two tall posts tipped with
steel. On the scaffold were a couple of black cushions and a little
table with a silver cross thereon.

And on this scaffold were beheaded the noble Counts d'Egmont and de
Hoorn. And the King entered into their inheritance. And it was of
the Count d'Egmont that the ambassador of Francis spake, saying:

"This day have I seen a man beheaded who twice made the Kingdom of
France to tremble."

And the heads of the two Counts were placed upon the posts with the
iron tips. And Ulenspiegel said to Lamme:

"With a black cloth have they covered both their flesh and their
blood. Verily, blessed now are they who keep heart high and sword
drawn in the dark days that are coming!"






XIV


In those days William the Silent gathered together an army and invaded
the country of the Netherlands from three sides.

And Ulenspiegel was at a meeting of his countrymen at Marenhout. And
they were wild with anger and he addressed them in this wise:

"Know you, my friends, that King Philip has taken counsel with the Holy
Inquisition, and by their advice he has declared all the inhabitants
of the Netherlands to be guilty of high treason. And the charge
against them is one of heresy, namely, that either they are heretics
themselves, or else that they have put no obstacles in the way of
the spread of heretical doctrine. And for this execrable crime the
King has condemned them all, without regard to age or sex, to suffer
the appropriate penalties--all except a few here and there that are
exempted by name. And there is no hope of grace or pardon. And the
King will enter into their inheritance. For the scythes of Death are
busy through all the wide land that borders the North Sea: the Duchy of
Emden, the river-land of Amise, and the countries of Westphalia and of
Cleves, of Juliers and Liége, together with the Bishoprics of Cologne
and Treves and the lands of France and Lorraine. The scythes of Death
are busy over more than three hundred leagues of our soil, and in two
hundred of our walled towns, in a hundred and fifty boroughs, in the
countrysides and villages and level lands of the whole country. And
the King is taking all for his own. And I tell you," Ulenspiegel
continued, "that eleven thousand executioners will not be too many
for this business. But the Duke of Alba calls them soldiers. And all
the land of our fathers is become a charnel-house. Fugitive are all
the arts of peace, and all the crafts and industries abandon us now
to enrich those foreign lands which still permit a man to worship at
home the God of conscience. But here the scythes of Death are busy,
and the King takes all for his own.

"Our country, as you know, had gained various privileges by gifts
of money to princes when they were in need. But now these privileges
have all been annulled. And as the result of many an agreement made
between ourselves and our overlords we had hoped to enjoy the wealth
that came to us as the fruit of our labours. Yet were we deceived. The
stone-mason builded for the incendiary, the labourer laboured for
the thief. And the King takes all for his own.

"Blood and tears! Everywhere naught but blood and tears! For the
scythes of Death are busy--busy at the places of execution and at the
trees that serve for gallows by the roadsides; and at many an open
grave wherein are thrown the living bodies of our maids. And they are
busy in the prison dungeons and within those circles of faggots that
flame around the victims, scorching them little by little to death;
or in the huts of straw where they fall suffocated in the fire and
the smoke. And the King takes all for his own. And this, forsooth,
by the will of the Pope of Rome. The very cities teem with spies that
await their share of the plunder. The richer one is the more likely
one is to be found guilty. And the King takes all for his own.

"But never shall the valiant men of Flanders suffer themselves to
be butchered thus like lambs. For among those who fly away for refuge
there are some who carry arms, and these are hiding in the woods....

"The monks verily have denounced them and hold themselves free to
kill them and take possession of their goods. But by night and day
these refugees, banded together like wild beasts, rush down upon the
monasteries and seize the money that has been stolen from the poor,
and take it away under the form of candlesticks and reliquaries of
gold and silver, ciboria and patens, and other precious vessels of the
kind.... Do I not speak truth, my friends? And they drink therefrom
that wine which the monks had been keeping for themselves. And when
melted down or mortgaged, these vessels will serve to provide money
for the Holy War. Long live the Beggarmen!

"And even now they begin to harass the soldiers of the King, killing
and plundering, then back into their lairs. And in the woods by day
and night are to be seen the fires which have been lit during the
hours of darkness, flaring up or dying down and ever breaking out
in some fresh place. These are the fires of our banquetings. All
for us the game of the woods, both furred and feathered. We are the
masters here. And the peasants load us with bread and bacon whenever
we are in need. Look at them Lamme; fierce and talkative, resolute
and proud of bearing, they wander through the woods. And they are
armed with hatchets and halberds, and with long swords and bragmarts,
with arquebuses, pikes, lances, and crossbows. For any kind of weapon
is good enough for such brave men, and they need no officers to lead
them. Long live the Beggarmen!"

And Ulenspiegel sang this song:


        Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
            Drums of war!
        Slit the carcass of the Duke,
        Flog him on his hangman's face!
            To the death with the murderer!

        Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
            Drums of war!
        With the victims of his wrath
        Foul corruption let him share!
            But long live the Beggarmen!

        Christ from Heaven look Thou down,
            Look upon thy soldiers true,
        That risk hanging, fire, and sword
            For thy Word!
            And for their dear Fatherland!
        Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
            Drums of war!


And all drank the toast and cried aloud:

"Long live the Beggarmen!"

And Ulenspiegel drank in his turn from a golden goblet that had once
belonged to some monk or other, and proudly he gazed on the wild
faces of the brave Beggarmen that stood before him.

"Men," he cried, "wild beasts rather that are my comrades, be you
wolves lions, or tigers in very deed, and eat up all the cursed dogs
of this King of Blood!"

"Long live the Beggarmen!" they shouted, and yet again they sang the
song of


        Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
            Drums of war!






XV


William the Silent, with his army, was at the gates of Liége. But
before crossing the Meuse he made sundry marches and counter-marches,
leading the Duke astray, for all his vigilance.

Ulenspiegel applied himself most diligently to his duties as a
soldier, worked his arquebus most skilfully, and kept his eyes and
ears wide open.

Now at that time there arrived in the camp certain gentlemen of
Flanders and Brabant, and these lived in friendly fashion with the
colonels and captains of the Prince's following.

But soon there came into being two parties in the camp, who began
to dispute one with the other continually, some saying that William
was a traitor, others that such accusation was a gross libel on the
Prince, and that they who had made it should be forced to eat their
words. Suspicion grew and grew like a spot of oil, and at length they
came to blows--small companies of six, eight, or a dozen men fighting
together in single combat, with all kinds of weapons and sometimes
with arquebuses even.

One day the Prince, hearing the noise, came to see what was going on,
and walked straight in between the combatants. It chanced that a piece
of shot hit his sword and struck it from his side. He stopped the
combat, and visited the whole camp, intending to put an end once for
all to these combats and to these cries of "Death to William!" "Death
to the war!"

Now the day after this adventure, Ulenspiegel had been to the house of
a Walloon maiden to sing to her some Flemish love-songs of his. And
it was near midnight, and very misty, and Ulenspiegel, being just
about to leave the house, thought he heard the cawing of a crow,
three times repeated. And the sound came from the door of a cottage
close by. And from far off came other cawings, three times repeated,
as if in answer. Presently a peasant made his appearance at the doorway
of the cottage, and at the same time Ulenspiegel heard steps on the
road. Two men came up to the peasant and began to talk to him in the
Spanish tongue. The peasant spoke to them, also in Spanish:

"Well? And how goes it?" asked the cottager.

"Well, indeed," the two men answered. "We have been spreading rumours
on behalf of the King, and it is thanks to us that the captains and
their soldiers are everywhere suspicious and talking among themselves
in this wise:

"'The Prince, so the gossip goes--is resisting the King for vile
ambition and for nothing else. For by this means he thinks to make
himself feared so that he may acquire cities and overlordships as the
price of peace. For five hundred thousand florins he would leave in
the lurch all the brave nobles who have come out to fight for their
country. And it is a fact that the Duke has offered him a complete
amnesty, and has promised to restore both him and his chief officers
in their possessions, if only the Prince will return to the obedience
of the King, and will negotiate with him alone.'

"But they that remain faithful to the Prince make answer to us in
this wise:

"'By no means will William have aught to do with the proposals of
the Duke. For these are but snares and treachery. For the Prince must
surely call to mind what happened to d'Egmont and de Hoorn. And it is
well known that the Cardinal de Granville said at Rome, when the two
Counts had been taken: "The two gudgeon, verily, have been caught,
but the pike has been allowed to escape." For nothing has been taken
while William still remains at large.'"

"Is the camp divided in twain then?" asked the peasant.

"It is," replied the two men, "and the division grows greater every
day. But whom are those letters for?"

Whereupon they all entered into the cottage. A lantern was lit inside,
and looking through a crack in the door Ulenspiegel could see them
unsealing two letters. These they read with every appearance of
enjoyment, and then they all fell to drinking honey-wine. After
which the two men came out of the cottage and said to the peasant,
still speaking in Spanish:

"The camp split in two, and the Prince captured--that will be worth
a dozen glasses, eh?"

"Those men," said Ulenspiegel to himself, "cannot longer be allowed
to live."

But even now they were disappearing in the thick mist, with the
lantern which the peasant had brought for them. The light of the
lantern shone out intermittently, as if continually intercepted by
some dark body. From this Ulenspiegel concluded that the two men must
be walking one behind the other.

He raised his arquebus to his shoulder and fired. Then he saw the
lantern raised and lowered several times, as if the man who carried
it was looking at his fallen comrade, trying to discover where he
had been hit and the nature of the wound.

Yet again did Ulenspiegel raise his arquebus, and then when the lantern
began to steady itself and to retreat speedily towards the camp, he
fired again. Now the lantern swayed, fell to the ground and went out,
leaving all in darkness.

Ulenspiegel ran on to the camp, and there he soon encountered the
provost with a number of soldiers who had been awakened by the noise of
the firing. Ulenspiegel accosted them, saying: "I am the huntsman. Go
you now and find the game."

"Brave Fleming," said the provost, "methinks you are a man that knows
other ways of talking besides with your tongue."

"Words of the tongue they are but so much wind," answered
Ulenspiegel. "But words of lead--they know how to find for themselves a
lasting habitation in the carcass of a traitor! Come then, follow me."

And so saying he led them to the place where the two men had
fallen. And in very deed the soldiers saw by the light of their
lanterns two bodies stretched out on the ground. One was dead, and
the other at the last gasp, holding his hand to his heart, and in
his hand a letter all crumpled in the agony of death. The soldiers
lifted the two bodies, whose clothes clearly showed them to be the
bodies of gentlemen, and straightway carried them, still by the light
of their lanterns, to the Prince.

Now William was about to hold a council with Frederick of Hollenhausen,
the Margrave of Hesse, and other nobles. But the soldiers, who had
now been joined by a company of other troopers in green and yellow
jackets, stood before the tent, demanding with shouts and cries that
the Prince should give them audience.

At length William of Orange came out to them, and the provost began
to clear his throat and make other preliminaries for the accusation
of Ulenspiegel. But the latter cut in before him, saying:

"My Lord, I had thought to kill two crows, but I have killed two
traitors in their stead--two noblemen--belonging to your suite."

Then he told the story of all that he had seen and heard and
done. William did not utter a word, but the two bodies were carefully
examined in the presence of Ulenspiegel himself and William the
Silent, together with Frederick of Hollenhausen, the Margrave of
Hesse, Dietrich of Schoonenbergh, Count Albert of Nassau, the Count
de Hoogstraeten, and Antoine de Lailang, Governor of Malines. And
the soldiers stood by, with Lamme Goedzak, his great belly all of a
tremble. Sealed letters were found on the persons of the deceased
gentlemen, which had been sent by Granvelles and Noircames, and
engaged the recipients to sow division in the Prince's entourage,
and by that means to diminish his power and to compel him to yield,
so that he might ultimately be delivered up to the Duke and beheaded
according to his deserts. "The right procedure is," continued the
letter, "to act at first with caution and to use allusive phrases only,
so that the army may be led to think that the Prince has already come
to a secret understanding with the Duke, for his own advantage. This
will arouse the anger of his captains and soldiers, and they will
assuredly take him prisoner." Now as a reward for this service it
appeared that notes to the value of some five hundred ducats were
being sent them on the Fugger Bank at Antwerp, and they were promised
a thousand more as soon as the four hundred thousand ducats which
were already on their way from Spain had arrived in Zeeland.

The whole plot having been now unmasked, the Prince turned in silence
towards the gentlemen, Lords, and soldiers who stood round him. Many
of these men he knew to be suspicious of him already, nevertheless,
he pointed at the two bodies without speaking a word, intending by
this gesture to reproach them for their mistrust. And at this every
one present there exclaimed and shouted aloud:

"Long live the Prince of Orange! The Prince is faithful and true!" And
such was their anger that they were desirous to throw the two dead
bodies to the dogs; but William forbade them, saying:

"It is not these two poor corpses that deserve to be thrown to the
dogs so much as that littleness of mind which must needs be suspicious
of the purest intentions."

And the Lords and soldiers cried out again:

"Long live the Prince! Long live the Prince of Orange, the friend of
our country!"

And the sound of their voices was like the noise of thunder threatening
injustice. And the Prince pointed to the two corpses and ordered that
they should be given Christian burial.

"And I," demanded Ulenspiegel, "what shall be done to me, faithful
and true? If I have done evil let me be beaten, but if good--why then
let me be suitably rewarded!"

Then the Prince addressed him, saying:

"This soldier is to receive fifty strokes from the green wood in
my presence for having killed two gentlemen without orders, to the
contempt of all discipline. At the same time let him receive a reward
of thirty florins for having used his eyes and ears to some purpose."

"My Lord," answered Ulenspiegel, "give me the thirty florins first,
and I shall then be able to support my beating with equanimity."

"Yes, yes," murmured Lamme Goedzak, "give him the thirty florins first,
and then he will bear the rest with equanimity."

"One thing more," said Ulenspiegel, "since my soul is admittedly free
from fault, is there any real reason why I must be cleansed with the
wood of the oak or washed with the branch of the cherry-tree?"

"No," murmured Lamme again, "Ulenspiegel surely has no need to be
washed or cleansed. For his soul is without stain. Do not wash it,
my masters, do not wash it."

But when Ulenspiegel had received the thirty florins the provost
ordered him to give himself up to the Stock-meester.

"Behold, my Lords," said Lamme, "behold how piteous he looks. There's
no love lost between the hard wood and him--my beloved Ulenspiegel."

But Ulenspiegel answered:

"Of a truth I love a fine ash-tree in full leaf, growing up towards
the sun in all its native verdure, but I agree I loathe like poison
these heavy cudgels of wood with their sap still oozing out of them,
stripped of their branches and without any leaves or twigs growing
thereon, for they are rough to look upon and hard to feel."

"Are you ready?" demanded the provost.

"Ready?" Ulenspiegel repeated. "Ready for what? Ready to be
flogged do you mean? No, I cannot, nor will I, be flogged by you,
Mr. Stock-meester. You have a red beard certainly, and your appearance
is formidable. Nevertheless, I am sure that you have a kind heart
and would have no desire to thrash a poor fellow like me. And now
to tell you the truth I should be loath to do such a thing myself,
much less to see any one else do it. For the back of a Christian is
a sacred thing, as sacred as his breast which holds the lungs, those
trusty organs whereby we breathe the goodly air of God. And think how
bitter would be your remorse if a too brutal blow from your cudgel
should chance to break me in pieces!"

"Make haste," said the Stock-meester.

"My Lord," said Ulenspiegel, addressing himself to the Prince,
"believe me, there is no need for all this hurry. First of all the
wood of the cudgel ought to be allowed to dry. For I have heard that
wood while still green is like to communicate a mortal poison to any
flesh with which it comes in contact. Would your Highness desire to
see me die such an ugly death? My Lord, my back I hold most pitifully
at your service. Have it flogged, if you must, with rods and lashed
with whips. But unless you wish to see me dead, spare me, I pray you,
from the wood while it is still green."

"Have mercy on him, Prince," cried my Lords of Hoogstraeten and of
Schoonenbergh both together; while the others all began to smile
compassionately. Lamme also put in a word of his own, "Have mercy,
my Lord. Green wood is poison, neither more nor less than rank poison!"

The Prince said:

"Very well."

Thereupon Ulenspiegel leapt in the air again and again, and smote Lamme
on his belly and compelled him to dance too, saying: "Join me now in
praising the good Duke who has delivered me from the green wood."

And Lamme did his best to dance, but could not very well because of
his belly. And Ulenspiegel gave him to eat and to drink as much as
he was able.






XVI


It was now at the end of October. The Prince was in want of money,
and his army of food. The soldiers too began to murmur, and he marched
them towards the French frontier to offer battle to the Duke. But
the Duke would not fight.

Leaving Quesnoy-le-Comte to go to Cambrésis, the Prince's army fell
in with ten companies of Germans and eight Spanish ensigns and three
cohorts of cavalry. They at once joined battle, and in the midst of
the mêlée was Ruffele Henricis, the Duke's son, crying out at the
top of his voice:

"No quarter! No quarter! Long live the Pope!"

Now Don Henricis found himself opposite to a company of arquebusiers
which was led by Ulenspiegel, and he threw himself upon them with
all his men. Ulenspiegel said to his sergeant:

"I will cut out this murderer's tongue for him!"

"Very good," said the sergeant.

And Ulenspiegel took careful aim, and his bullet shattered the
tongue and the entire jaw-bone of Don Ruffele Henricis, son of
the Duke. At the same time Ulenspiegel brought down the son of the
Marquess Delmares, and in a little while more the eight ensigns and
the three cohorts of cavalry were thoroughly worsted.

After this victory Ulenspiegel went seeking for Lamme everywhere
through the camp, but he could not find him.

"Alas," he said, "he is gone! Lamme is gone; my friend, my great fat
friend! In his warlike ardour he must have forgotten how heavy his
belly was, and tried to follow the Spaniards in their flight. Out of
breath he must have fallen like a sack on the wayside. And then the
enemy will have picked him up for ransom--a ransom of good Christian
fat! O Lamme, my friend, where are you? Where are you, my great
fat friend?"

Ulenspiegel sought him everywhere but found him not and had to nurse
his grief in silence.

And now November was come, the month of snow-storms, and Ulenspiegel,
having been ordered to report himself before William, found the Prince
brooding in silence, and biting the lacings of his coat of mail.

"Listen to me," the Prince said presently, "and give me your whole
attention."

Ulenspiegel answered: "My ears are like the gates of a prison. One
enters easily but to get out again is a different matter."

"Very good," said William, "but now I would have you go for me to
Namur, and to Flanders, Hainaut, Sud-Brabant, Antwerp, Nord-Brabant,
and to Gueldre, Overyssel, and the North of Holland, telling the
people everywhere that, although it seems that the fates on land are
hostile to our most Holy and Christian Cause, we will yet continue
the struggle by sea, no matter what the evil powers that are arrayed
against us. For God holds the issue in His own good providence,
whether in success or failure. And when you are come to Amsterdam you
will render an account of all that you have done to Paul Bruys who
is my trusty vassal. Here are three passports, signed by the Duke
of Alba himself, which were found on certain bodies of the dead at
Quesnoy-le-Comte. My secretary has filled them in afresh. And it may
be that on your journey you will meet some good companion in whom
you can trust. Let him go with you. And those are to be accounted
trustworthy who know how to answer the song of the lark with a warlike
cockcrow. Here are fifty florins. Be valiant and faithful."

"The ashes of Claes beat upon my heart," answered Ulenspiegel.

And he went his way.






XVII


Now the passports were countersigned both by the King and the Duke,
and they authorized the bearer to carry any kind of arms at his
convenience. So Ulenspiegel took with him his trusty arquebus as well
as a good supply of cartridges and dry gunpowder. He dressed himself
in a short cloak and a shabby doublet and hose made after the Spanish
fashion, and thus accoutred, with a plumed cap on his head and a sword
at his side, he made his departure from the Prince's army where it
lay at the French frontier, and set out for Maestricht.

The roitelets, those heralds of bad weather, were flying around
the houses seeking asile from the storm, and on the third day snow
fell. Many times during the journey did Ulenspiegel have to show his
safe-conduct. But they always let him pass, and so he came at length
to the confines of Liége. He was plodding along over a level heath,
and a fierce wind was driving the swirling snowflakes against his face,
and in front and on every side the heath stretched out all white under
the snow that fell in eddies, which themselves were whirled about
hither and thither in the squalls of wind. And there were three wolves
that began to follow him. But one of them he killed with a shot from
his arquebus, and the other two flung themselves upon their wounded
comrade, and then made off into the woods, each carrying a piece of
the corpse.

Delivered from this peril, Ulenspiegel peered about him, fearing
lest there might be other bands of wolves in that country, but he
saw nothing except, in the far distance, certain objects that looked
like grey statues moving slowly along in the falling snow. Behind
these again, Ulenspiegel could descry the dark figures of a couple of
soldiers on horseback. To see the better what all this might portend,
Ulenspiegel climbed up into a tree, and there the wind brought to
him a far-off sound of lamentation. "It may be," Ulenspiegel said
to himself, "these people are pilgrims, clad in white habits; for I
can scarcely distinguish their figures against the snow." But after
a little while he saw that they were men running, quite naked, and
that behind them were two German troopers in black uniforms riding
on horses. And they were driving the poor wretches in front of them
with whips. Ulenspiegel took aim with his arquebus. Now he could
distinguish the individual figures of that mournful company--old men
and young men naked, shivering, and quaking with cold, hardly able
to stand some of them, but running all, for fear of the cruel whips
of the two soldiers who, themselves being warmly clad and red with
brandy and good food, took pleasure in lashing the bodies of naked
men to make them run the faster.

Ulenspiegel said: "You shall be avenged, ashes of Claes!" And he killed
one of the soldiers outright with a bullet from his arquebus. The
soldier fell from his horse, and his companion took fright, not knowing
whence the shot had come. But concluding that his assailant must be
hiding somewhere in the wood, he decided to make good his escape,
together with the horse of his dead companion. The man contrived to
get hold of the horse's bridle, but while he himself was dismounting
to plunder the body of the dead, he was hit by a bullet in the neck
and fell to the ground.

As for the naked prisoners, they imagined that some angel from heaven,
who was also forsooth a fine marksman, had descended from the sky
to aid them, and they all fell down upon their knees in the snow. At
this Ulenspiegel descended from his tree, and was at once recognized
by the company who had previously served with him as soldiers in the
armies of the Prince. They said to him:

"O Ulenspiegel, we are come from France, and we were being driven in
this piteous plight to Maestricht, where the Duke is, to be treated
there as rebel prisoners because we cannot pay our ransom, and are
therefore condemned in advance to be tortured, cut into pieces,
or sent to row like caitiffs and criminals in the galleys of the King."

Ulenspiegel gave his opperst-kleed to the oldest of the soldiers,
saying:

"Come with me, my friends. I will accompany you as far as Mézières;
but first of all let us strip these two dead soldiers and take
possession of their horses." Thereupon the doublets, hose, boots,
head-gear, and body-armour of the soldiers were divided up among the
sick and feeble, and Ulenspiegel said:

"We shall soon be entering the wood, where the air is thicker and
more gentle. You had better run, my brothers."

Suddenly one of the men fell down on the ground, crying: "I am hungry
and cold, and I am going to God to bear witness that the Pope is
Antichrist on earth." And he died, and the others agreed to carry
the body with them that it might be given Christian burial.

While thus proceeding along the road, they met a peasant driving
a cart with a canvas hood. Seeing the men all naked, the peasant
had compassion on them and invited them to ride in his cart. There
they found some hay to lie on, and some empty sacks to cover them
withal. And they were warmed and gave thanks to God. Ulenspiegel
rode beside the cart on one of the two horses that had belonged to
the German troopers, leading the other by the bridle.

At Mézières they all alighted. Good hot soup and beer and bread
and cheese were handed round, with some meat for the older men
and women. And they were nobly entertained; and they were clothed
and armed again, all at the expense of the commune. And every one
joined in giving thanks and praise to Ulenspiegel, who received it
gladly. Ulenspiegel also sold the horses of the German troopers for
eight-and-forty florins, out of which he distributed thirty florins
among the Frenchmen.

Thereafter he took the road again, and as he walked solitarily along
he said to himself:

"Verily now do I wander through a land of ruin, blood, and
tears. Nevertheless, I find nothing. Those spirits lied to me without
a doubt. For where is Lamme? Where is Nele! Where are the Seven?"

And he heard a voice speaking to him as though in a whisper:

"In death, in ruin, and in tears, seek!"

And he went his way.






XVIII


It was the month of March when Ulenspiegel came to Namur. There he
found Lamme, who, having conceived a violent passion for the fish of
the Meuse, and for the trout especially, had hired a boat and spent
all day fishing in the river by permission of the commune. But for
this privilege he had been obliged to pay the sum of fifty florins
to the Guild of the Fishmongers.

Some of his fish he sold. But the rest he ate himself, and by
this means he gained a finer belly than ever, and a small sack of
money. When he saw his friend and comrade walking along the banks of
the Meuse and about to enter the town, Lamme was mightily rejoiced
and pushed his boat to the shore, and there springing on to the bank
rushed up to Ulenspiegel, blowing and puffing and stammering for joy.

"Here you are," he cried, "here you are at last, my son. And where
are you off to? What are you after? You are not dead, then? And have
you seen my wife? You'll feed off the fish of the Meuse, which are
the best to be found anywhere on this base earth! And let me tell you
something. The people here make such sauces as will tempt you to dip
your fingers into the dish right up to your shoulder! Ah, but how proud
and splendid you look! On your cheeks is the very bloom of battle. And
here you are! It's you, it's really you, my son! My Ulenspiegel! You
jolly vagabond!" Then in a lower tone of voice he added:

"And how many Spaniards have you killed? You have not seen my wife
by any chance, in the carts with those other hussies? Ah, but the
wine of the Meuse! You must taste it. And have you been wounded, my
son? You must rest here a while, so fresh and cheery as you are, and
vigilant as a young eagle. But our eels! You must taste our eels. No
muddy taste about them! Come, kiss me, my second self! Praise be to
God! How glad I am!"

And Lamme danced and leapt in the air, puffing and blowing and
compelling Ulenspiegel to dance too.

Thereafter they walked towards Namur. At the gate of the city
Ulenspiegel showed his passport signed by the Duke. And Lamme
conducted him to his house. While their repast was being prepared
he made Ulenspiegel tell him all his adventures and then recounted
his own, telling how he had left the army to follow a girl whom he
thought was his wife. It was in pursuit of her, it seemed, that he
had come at last to Namur. And he kept on asking Ulenspiegel:

"Are you sure you have not seen her anywhere?"

"I have seen many other beautiful women," answered Ulenspiegel, "and
in this town especially, where it seems they are all most amorous...."

"It is so," said Lamme, "nevertheless I have remained faithful. For
my sad heart is heavy with but a single recollection."

"Even as your belly is heavy with countless platter-fuls!" said
Ulenspiegel.

"When I am unhappy I have to eat," Lamme replied.

"Your unhappiness knows no end?" demanded Ulenspiegel.

"Alas, no!" said Lamme.

And helping himself to another trout:

"Look," he cried, "look how lovely and firm he is. This flesh is as
pink as the flesh of my wife. But to-morrow we will leave Namur. I
have a purseful of florins, and we will buy a donkey for each of us,
and so we will go riding away to the land of Flanders!"

"You will be giving up a great deal," said Ulenspiegel.

"Never mind," said Lamme. "My heart draws me back to Damme. For it
was there that my love loved me well. And it may be that she also
has returned thither."

"We will set out to-morrow," said Ulenspiegel, "since such is your
desire."

And in fact they set forth as Lamme had said, each on a donkey;
and so they rode along side by side.






XIX


Nele all this time was living at Damme, sorrowful and alone, with
Katheline, who still continued to call amorously for her cold devil
who never came.

"Ah!" she would say, "you are rich, Hanske my pet; and you could
easily give me back those seven hundred caroluses. Then Soetkin would
live again and come to earth once more, and Claes in heaven would
laugh for joy. Easily could you do this, and you would! Put out the
fire! My soul wants to get out!"

And with her finger she would point without ceasing to the place on
her head where the flaming tow had burned her.

Katheline was very impoverished, but the neighbours helped her by
sending in beans and bread and meat, according as they were able. The
commune also gave her a certain amount of money, and Nele did sewing
for the wealthy bourgeois, and went to their houses to mend their
linen, earning in this way a florin or two every week. But Katheline
kept on with her eternal "Make a hole! Let out my soul! She is knocking
to be let out! And he will give me back the seven hundred caroluses!"

And Nele wept to hear her.






XX


In the meantime Ulenspiegel and Lamme continued their wanderings. Under
the protection of their passports, they entered one day into a little
tavern built against the rocks of the Sambre, the which rocks are
covered with trees here and there, and on the sign of the tavern was
written mine host's name--MARLAIRE. When they had drunk many a flask of
wine--wine of the Meuse, rather like Burgundy--and when they had eaten
a large plate of fish, they fell talking to the innkeeper, who was a
keen Papist but as talkative as he was pious because of the wine he had
been drinking. And he kept on winking his eye maliciously. Ulenspiegel
had a suspicion that all this winking portended something mysterious,
and he made the fellow drink yet more, with the result that he fell to
dancing and shouting with laughter, till at last he sat himself down
at the table again, and, "Good Catholics," says he, "I drink to you."

"And to you we drink also," answered Lamme and Ulenspiegel.

"And I drink to the extinction of all heresy and rebellion."

"We will join you in that toast," answered Lamme and Ulenspiegel,
who kept on filling up the goblets which mine host could never suffer
to remain full.

"You are good fellows," said the innkeeper. "Let me drink to the health
of your noble Generosities. For you must know that I derive some profit
from all the wine that is drunk here. But where are your passports?"

"Here they are," replied Ulenspiegel.

"With the Duke's signature and all," said the innkeeper. "Here's a
health to the Duke."

"To the Duke," echoed Lamme and Ulenspiegel. And mine host went
on talking:

"Answer me now, do you know what it is that they catch rats and mice
in? Why in rat-traps to be sure, and mouse-traps. Who is the mouse
then? The great heretic of Orange--and orange he is in very truth,
like the flames of hell! But God is on our side. They will come. Ho
ho! A toast! Pour out the wine; I bake and burn with thirst. Come,
drink, my masters. Fine little Protestant evangelists.... I said
little. Fine valiant little fellows they are, and brave soldiers,
sturdy as oaks.... I drink to them! Are you not going with them to
the camp of the great heretic? I have certain passports signed by
him.... You will see."

"We are going to the camp," answered Ulenspiegel.

"Yes, they will do their work well. And one fine night, if the
opportunity presents itself"--and here the innkeeper whistled, and
made a gesture as of one man cutting another's throat--"cold steel,
I tell you. It's that that shall prevent the black bird of Nassau
from singing any more. Come, drink again."

"You're a gay fellow," said Ulenspiegel, "in spite of being married."

The innkeeper said:

"I am neither married nor have I ever been. The secrets of Princes are
safe with me. Drink! But if I had a wife she would steal my secrets
from under my pillow to get me hanged and herself made widow before
the time. Long live God! They will come.... But where are the new
passports? On my heart of a Christian. Drink! They are there, there I
tell you. One hundred paces along the road near by Marche-les-Dames. Do
you see them? Drink again!"

"Drink?" said Ulenspiegel. "Yes, I drink and drink and drink. To
the King, to the Duke, to the Protestant preachers, and to Vent
d'acier--Wind of Lead. And I drink to thee and to me, to the wine
and the bottle that holds it. But why? It is you that have stopped
drinking!"

And at each new toast Ulenspiegel filled up the glass of the innkeeper,
who emptied it straightway.

Ulenspiegel looked at him for some time, then rose and said to Lamme:
"Come, Lamme, it is time for us to be off. He is asleep." But when
they were outside, "He has no wife," Ulenspiegel continued. "We are
safe. The night is at hand. Did you hear what the rascal said? And
do you rightly understand who these three preachers are? Do you
realize that they are to come along the bank of the Meuse from
Marche-les-Dames, and that it will be our part to await them on the
road? And then for Vent d'acier--Wind of Lead--to start his whistling?"

"Yes," said Lamme.

"It is for us to save the Prince's life," said Ulenspiegel.

"Yes," said Lamme.

"Wait," said Ulenspiegel. "You take my arquebus, and go and
hide in the undergrowth among the rocks. Load it with two shots,
and shoot when you hear me caw and crow."

"I will," said Lamme.

And so saying he disappeared into the undergrowth. And Ulenspiegel
could hear quite clearly the click of the gun as Lamme loaded it.

"Do you see them coming?" he asked presently.

"I see them," answered Lamme. "There are three of them, marching
together like soldiers, and one of them is much taller than the
others."

Ulenspiegel sat himself down by the side of the road, with his legs
stretched out in front of him, muttering his prayers on a rosary,
just like beggars do. And he held his hat between his knees. And when
the three evangelists passed in front of him, he held out his hat as
though asking for alms; but they gave him nothing. Then Ulenspiegel
got up and addressed them most piteously:

"Kind sirs," he said, "do not refuse a patard to a poor quarryman
who has recently had an accident and broken his back by falling down
a mine. The people in this part of the world are hard of heart,
and they have not been willing to give me anything to relieve my
distress. Alas! Give me but a patard, and I will say many prayers for
you. And God will keep you happy, all your lives long, kind friends!"

"My son," said one of the evangelists, "there can be no happiness
for us in this world so long as the Pope and the Inquisition remain
in power."

Ulenspiegel heaved another sigh:

"Alas! What are you saying, my lords? Do not speak so loud, if it
please you. But give me a patard."

"My son," replied one of the evangelists, he that was the smallest of
the three, and of a very warlike countenance, "we poor martyrs carry
no patards save only just enough to keep us going on our journey."

At this Ulenspiegel threw himself on to his knees in front of them.

"Give me your blessing then," he said.

The three evangelists laid their hands upon the head of Ulenspiegel,
albeit with little signs of devotion.

Now Ulenspiegel noticed that although they were lean of figure,
these men all had very fat stomachs, so he rose from his knees,
and then pretended to stumble, knocking against the body of the tall
evangelist as he did so. At that a merry tinkle of coin was distinctly
audible. Thereupon Ulenspiegel raised himself to his full height and
drew his dagger.

"My good man," he said, "it is cold and I am but poorly clad; but
methinks you have too much about you. Give me some of your wool,
that I may get a cloak made for me. I am a Beggarman. Long live the
Beggarmen!" The tall evangelist made answer:

"You cock of a Beggarman, you carry your crest proudly forsooth,
and we are going to cut it off for you!"

"Cut it off then," cried Ulenspiegel, giving ground, "but let me
warn you that trusty Wind of Lead is going to sing for you or ever he
sings for the Prince my master! Beggar I am! Long live the Beggarmen!"

The three evangelists were astounded and cried out to each other: "How
does he know? We are betrayed! Kill him! Long live the Mass!" And each
man drew forth from beneath his hose a sharp dagger. But Ulenspiegel,
without waiting for them to attack him, gave ground towards the bushes
where Lamme was hidden, and when he judged that the three evangelists
were within range of the arquebus, he cried out: "Crows, black crows,
the Wind of Lead is going to whistle. I sing your bitter end!"

Then he cawed like a crow. And a shot rang out from the bushes, and
the tall evangelist fell prone on the earth. The next moment followed
a second shot, which accounted in the same way for the second.

And from among the bushes Ulenspiegel saw the jolly face of Lamme,
and his arm raised as he hastily reloaded his arquebus. And from the
midst of the dark shrubbery a puff of blue smoke mounted into the air.

There now remained but one evangelist, and he was in a furious rage,
and tried to cut at Ulenspiegel with all his might. But Ulenspiegel
cried:

"Wind of Steel or Wind of Lead, which matters it? Either way you
shall quit this world for another, you shameless murderer!"

And he attacked the foe and defended himself most bravely. So they
stood on the roadway, inflexible, face to face, giving and parrying
blows. Now Ulenspiegel was covered with blood, for his opponent
was an experienced fencer, and had wounded him on the hands and
on the legs. But Ulenspiegel attacked and defended himself like a
lion. Still the blood which began to flow from his head blinded him,
and he retreated continually, trying to wipe away the blood with his
left hand but every moment feeling weaker. And he would most certainly
have been killed had not Lamme brought down the third evangelist with
another shot from his arquebus.

And Ulenspiegel saw him fall, and heard him vomit forth blasphemies
and blood, and the white froth of death. And once again the blue
smoke drifted up above the dark shrubbery, in the midst of which
Lamme displayed yet again his jolly face.

"Have you finished him off?" he asked.

"Yes, my son," replied Ulenspiegel, "but come...."

Lamme, then, coming out of his hiding-place, saw Ulenspiegel all
covered with blood. He ran like a stag, in spite of his fat belly,
and came to Ulenspiegel where he sat by the three dead men.

"He is wounded!" Lamme cried. "My gentle friend is wounded by
the rascally murderer." And then, with a vicious kick at the jaw
of the evangelist who lay nearest to him: "You cannot answer
me, Ulenspiegel? Are you going to die, my son? Where is the
ointment! Ha! I remember now. It is at the bottom of his satchel
under the sausages. Can't you hear me speak, Ulenspiegel? Alas! there
is no warm water here to wash your wound, and no way of getting
any. The water of the Sambre will have to do instead. But speak to
me, my friend. You are not so badly hurt after all, surely. A little
water--there, it's cold, isn't it? But he is waking up. It's I, your
friend; and your enemies are all dead! Oh, where is some linen? Some
linen to bind up his wounds. There isn't any. What am I to do? Ah! my
shirt, that must serve."

Presently Ulenspiegel opened his eyes and raised himself from the
ground with his teeth all chattering because of the cold.

"And here you are standing up already!" Lamme exclaimed.

"It is a balm of much virtue," said Ulenspiegel.

"Balm of valiance," answered Lamme.

And then, taking the bodies of the evangelists one by one, he cast
them into a hole in the rocks, leaving their weapons and their clothes
upon them. But he took their cloaks.

And all around in the sky the crows were beginning to caw to each
other, in anticipation of the feast. And the Sambre flowed by like
a river of steel under the grey sky.

And the snow fell, washing the blood away.

Yet they felt ill at ease, and Lamme said:

"I had rather kill a chicken than a man."

And they mounted again upon their donkeys. And when they arrived at
the gates of Huy, the blood was still trickling from the head of
Ulenspiegel, so they dismounted and pretended to have a quarrel,
and to use their daggers on one another, with the utmost ferocity
as it seemed. But when they had finished their duel, they remounted
their donkeys and came into the town, showing their passports at the
city gates.

The women, seeing Ulenspiegel wounded and bleeding while Lamme rode
his donkey as though he had been the victor, threw many a glance of
tender commiseration upon Ulenspiegel, and pointed their fingers at
Lamme, saying: "That is the rascal who wounded his friend."

Lamme all this time was anxiously scrutinizing the crowd, hoping to
discover his wife among them; but all was in vain, and he was sad
at heart.






XXI


"Where are you going now?" said Lamme.

"To Maestricht," answered Ulenspiegel.

"But stay, my son. I have heard that the army of the Duke is camped
all round the city and that he himself is within. Our passports
will be of no use to us there. Even if they satisfy the Spanish
soldiers, we shall still be arrested in the city and put through an
examination. And in the meantime they will become aware of the death
of the evangelists and our days on this earth will be numbered."

To this Ulenspiegel made answer:

"The crows and the owls and the vultures will make short work of their
repast. Already no doubt the dead bodies have become unrecognizable. As
for our passports, there is no reason why they should not remain
effective. But if the murder of the evangelists becomes known we
should be arrested as you say. Nevertheless, whatever happens we
shall have to go to Maestricht and pass through Landen on the way."

"We shall be captured," said Lamme.

"We shall get through," answered Ulenspiegel.

Conversing in this wise they came to the inn of La Pie, where they
found a good supper awaiting them, and good quarters for the night,
both for themselves and for the donkeys; and on the morrow they took
the road again for Landen.

Not far from that town they came to a large farm. There Ulenspiegel
whistled like a lark, and from the interior came the sound of a warlike
cockcrow in answer. After that a jolly-looking farmer appeared at the
door of the farmhouse, and greeted them as friends and good Beggarmen,
and bade them welcome.

"Who is this man?" Lamme inquired.

"His name is Thomas Utenhove," said Ulenspiegel, "and he is a valiant
Protestant. The man-servants and maid-servants that work on the farm
are fellows with him in the cause of freedom of conscience."

Then Utenhove said:

"You are the envoys of the Prince? Come in then, eat and drink
with me."

And the ham was crackling in the frying-pan, the sausages likewise,
and the wine flowed and the glasses were filled again. And Lamme drank
like dry sand, and ate his fill. And the boys and girls of the farm
came one after another and thrust their noses into the half-open door
to gaze on him as he worked away so hard. But the men were jealous,
saying that they also would be able to eat and drink as bravely if
they had the chance.

When all was finished, Thomas Utenhove said:

"One hundred of our peasants will be leaving us this week under pretext
of going to work on the dikes at Bruges and thereabouts. They will
be setting out in small bands of five or six at a time, and all by
different routes. At Bruges they will find certain barges waiting
for them to take them by sea to Emden."

"Will these men be provided with arms and with money?" inquired
Ulenspiegel.

"Each man will carry ten florins and a heavy cutlass."

"God and the Prince will reward you," said Ulenspiegel.

"But tell me," said the farmer, "is Edzard, Count of Frise, still
friendly to the Prince?"

"He feigns not to be," answered Ulenspiegel. "Nevertheless, he is
giving harbourage all the time to the Prince's ships at Emden."
And then he added: "We are on the way to Maestricht."

"You cannot go there," said the farmer. "The Duke's army is camped
in front of the town and all round it."

With that he conducted his visitors up into the loft, whence they
could see the standards of enemy cavalry and infantry moving about
in the distance over the plain.

Ulenspiegel said:

"I have a plan to get through, if only they who have authority in this
place would give me leave to get married. But for wife I should need
a sweet and a gentle and comely lass who would be willing to marry
me--if not for always, then for a week at least."

Lamme gasped with astonishment.

"Don't do it, my son," he cried. "She will only leave you, and then,
all alone, you will burn with the fire of love; and the bed where
now you sleep so sweetly will seem to you nothing better than a bed
of prickly holly leaves, and gentle sleep will shun you for evermore."

"Still I must marry," replied Ulenspiegel. And then to Thomas Utenhove:
"Come now, find me a wife; rich or poor, I don't care which! And I
will take her to church, and our marriage shall be blessed by the
priest. And he shall give us our marriage lines. Though, to be sure,
we shall not hold them valid as being given by the hand of a Papist and
an Inquisitor. Nevertheless they will be good enough for our purpose,
and we will prepare ourselves, as is the custom, for our wedding trip."

"But what about the wife?"

"That's your look-out," answered Ulenspiegel. "But when you have found
her I shall take two wagons and decorate them with wreaths of fir
branches and holly and paper flowers, and in the wagons themselves
I shall dispose the men whom you wish to be conveyed to the Prince
of Orange."

"But your wife?" persisted Thomas Utenhove. "Where will you find her?"

"Here, I doubt not," answered Ulenspiegel. "And then I shall harness
two of your own horses to one of the wagons, and our two donkeys to the
other. In the first wagon will ride my wife and myself, together with
my friend Lamme here, and the witnesses of our nuptials. In the second
wagon will follow the musicians, the players upon the drum, the fife,
and the shawm. And then, with all our joyous wedding-flags a-flying,
and with music playing, and we ourselves singing and drinking each
other's healths, we shall ride along at the trot by the high road
that leads to the Galgen-veld--the Field of the Gallows--which for
us indeed will be the Field of Liberty."

"I will do all in my power to help you," said Thomas Utenhove,
"but the women and girls will want to follow their men-folk."

"We will go where God wills," said a pretty-looking girl who had
thrust in her head at the half-opened door.

"You can have four wagons if need be," said Thomas Utenhove, "and by
that means we should be able to convey as many as five-and-twenty men."

"The Duke will be nicely fooled," said Ulenspiegel.

"And the Prince's fleet will gain the service of some fine soldiers,"
added Thomas Utenhove.

Then he caused a bell to be rung to summon his footman and his
servants, and when they were all assembled he said to them:

"All you that are from the land of Zeeland, women as well as men,
listen now to me. Ulenspiegel, who is hither come from Flanders,
has a plan to convey you through the enemy's lines, disguised as the
followers in a wedding procession."

And thereat the men and women of Zeeland cried out with one accord:

"We are ready, even unto the death!"

And the men said one to another:

"What joy it will be to exchange this land of slavery for the freedom
of the sea!"

And the women and girls said likewise:

"Let us follow our husbands and our lovers; we belong to Zeeland and
there we shall find asile!"

Now Ulenspiegel had noticed a young and pretty maid, and he addressed
her jokingly:

"I would you were my wife!"

But she blushed and answered him:

"I would have thee for my husband--but at the church only, remember!"

The women laughed and said among themselves:

"She is in love with Hans Utenhove, the master's son. He will go
along with her, doubtless."

"You say truly," Hans replied.

And his father said:

"You have my permission."

Then all the men put on their best clothes, their doublets and hose
of velvet, and the great opperst-kleed over all. As for the women,
they wore black petticoats and pleated shoes. Round their necks they
wore a white ruff, their bodices were embroidered in gold, scarlet,
and blue; their skirts were of black wool with broad stripes of black
velvet thereon, and their stockings were of black wool, and their
shoes of velvet with silver buckles.

Thereupon Thomas Utenhove went to the church and put into the hands
of the priest a couple of rycksdaelders, asking him at the same time
to join in marriage Thylbert the son of Claes (that is Ulenspiegel)
and Tannekin Pieters. And this the curé consented to do.

Ulenspiegel then went to church, followed by the wedding
procession. And there, in the presence of the priest, Tannekin was
made his wife.

And she looked so pretty and so sweet, so complaisant and so tender,
that right willingly would he have eaten her up as she had been a
ripe apple of love. And he told her so, not daring to do more for the
respect he felt for her gentle loveliness. But she pouted her lips,
and bade him leave her alone, for that Hans was watching him and
would kill him without a doubt.

And a certain damsel was jealous, and said to Ulenspiegel:

"Seek elsewhere for a lover. Do you not see that she is afraid of
her own man?"

Lamme clapped his hands together and cried:

"You cannot have them all, you rascal!"

So Ulenspiegel, making the best of his misfortune, returned to the
farm with the wedding guests. And there he drank and sang and made
merry, clinking many a glass with the damsel that was jealous. And
at this Hans was glad, but not so Tannekin, nor yet the youth that
was betrothed to the damsel.

At noon, while the sun shone down from a clear sky and a fresh breeze
was blowing, the wedding carriages started off. They were decorated
with flowers and every kind of greenery, with flags flying, and drums
and fifes, bagpipes and shawms playing most joyfully.

Now it happened that in the camp of the Duke of Alba there was another
fête in progress; and the sentries of the guard, having sounded the
alarm, ran to the Duke, crying:

"The enemy is at hand. We have heard the noise of drums and fifes,
and we have seen their banners in the distance. There is a strong
force of cavalry that is hoping to draw you into some ambush. The
main body, doubtless, is not far off."

The Duke at once sent to warn the colonels and captains, and himself
ordered the army to be massed in battle array, and dispatched certain
scouting parties on reconnaissance.

Then it was that there came on the scene the four carriages, making
straight for the Duke's gunners. And in the chariots were none but
men and women dancing and drinking and playing most joyously on fifes
and drums and bagpipes and shawms. And wondrous was the din that came
from all those instruments.

When the procession had been brought to a halt, the Duke himself came
up, attracted by the noise, and he saw the newly married bride where
she stood in one of the four chariots; and beside her was Ulenspiegel,
the bridegroom, covered with flowers; and all the other peasants,
both men and women, who had by now got down from the chariots and
were dancing all round them and offering drink to the soldiers.

The Duke and his friends were much astonished at the simplicity of
these peasants who sang and made merry when all around them was an
army ready to do battle.

And now they that remained in the chariots were giving all the wine
to the soldiers, and they in their turn were fêted by them and made
much of; till at last, when the wine began to run out, the peasants
continued on their way again. The drums and fifes and bagpipes
struck up once more and the cavalcade moved off without any let or
hindrance. And the soldiers, in high good humour, let off a volley
from their guns in honour of the festal occasion.

And thus they came to Maestricht, where Ulenspiegel took counsel with
the agents of the Reformers as to the best way of sending ships loaded
with arms and munitions to the assistance of the Prince's fleet.

And from there they went to Landen and to other places, disguised as
working men.

The Duke was not long in learning the trick that had been played on
him, and there came into his hands a lampoon which was in circulation
at the time, with this refrain:


        Bloody Duke,
        Silly Duke,
        Hast thou seen the Bride?


And every time that the Duke made a mistake in his general-ship the
soldiers would sing:


        The Duke he can't see clearly;
        He has seen the Bride!






XXII


Now in those days the Duke divided his army into two parts, one of
which he ordered to march towards the Duchy of Luxemburg and the
other to the Marquisate of Namur.

"These tactics of the military are all one to me," said Ulenspiegel
to Lamme, "let us go on our way with confidence."

They were walking along the banks of the Meuse, near the town of
Maestricht, and Lamme saw that Ulenspiegel gazed attentively at all
the boats that were sailing on the river. Suddenly he came to a stand
before one of these boats upon whose prow was carved the figure of
a mermaid. And the mermaid carried a shield and on it in gold upon
a black ground were blazoned the letters J.H.S., being the monogram
of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Ulenspiegel signed to Lamme
that he should stand still, and then he began to sing like a lark
most joyously.

A man appeared on the boat and began to crow like a cock. At this
Ulenspiegel set up a noise like a donkey's bray, which the man
immediately echoed with interest. And the two donkeys of Lamme and
Ulenspiegel lay back their ears and joined in the chorus with their
own natural voices. Sundry women and men were passing along that way,
the latter riding on the backs of the horses which were tugging the
barges along the tow-path. And Ulenspiegel said to Lamme:

"This boatman is making mock of us and our good steeds. What do you
say to going and attacking him on his boat?"

"Let us rather entice him over to the bank," replied Lamme.

But a woman who happened to be passing at the moment said:

"If you don't want to come back with your arms cut off, your backs
broken, and your noses in pieces, let me advise you to let this
Stercke Pier bray at his ease."

"Ee--aw! Ee--aw! Ee--aw!" went the boatman.

"Let him sing," continued the woman. "Only the other day he showed us
how he could lift on his shoulders a truck of heavy barrels of beer,
and hold back yet another truck that was being dragged forwards by a
strong horse. And at the inn there"--and as she spoke she pointed to
the tavern of the Blauwe Torre--"it was there one day that he threw
his knife at a plank of oak-wood twelve inches thick and pierced it
at a distance of twenty paces!"

"Ee--aw! Ee--aw! Ee--aw!" went the boatman, and now he was joined by
a youngster of twelve or so, who climbed on to the bridge of the boat,
and began to bray in like manner.

But Ulenspiegel answered the woman:

"He's nothing to us, your Peter the Strong! For however strong he is,
we are stronger! See my friend Lamme here. He could eat up two men
like that without so much as a hiccup!"

"What's this you're saying, my son?" demanded Lamme.

"The truth," answered Ulenspiegel. "And do not let your modesty
contradict me. For of a truth, good people, women and working men of
Maestricht, I tell you that before long you shall see my friend here
belabouring and beating to nothing this famous Stercke Pier of yours!"

"Be quiet," said Lamme.

"Your strength is famous far and wide," answered Ulenspiegel. "You
cannot conceal it."

"Ee--aw!" went the boatman. "Ee--aw!" went the boy.

Suddenly Ulenspiegel began again to sing like a lark very melodiously,
and the men and women and workmen standing by were enchanted, and
began to ask him where he had learnt the art of whistling so divinely.

"In Paradise," answered Ulenspiegel, "whence I come." Then he addressed
himself to the boatman, who was still continuing his braying and
mocking:

"Why do you stay there on your boat, you good-for-nothing? Haven't you
the courage to come and jeer at us and our steeds from the dry land?"

"Haven't you the courage for that?" said Lamme.

"Ee--aw! Ee--aw!" went the boatman. "Come, my good bray-masters,
come up rather into my boat."

Then Ulenspiegel whispered to Lamme to do exactly as he did. But to
the boatman he said aloud:

"If you are Stercke Pier, I am Tyl Ulenspiegel. And these two here
are our donkeys, Jef and Jan, and they know how to bray better than
you do, for that is their natural way of talking. As for coming on
to your leaky decks, it is the last thing we wish to do. Your boat
is like a tub, and each time that a wave comes along it shivers,
and it knows no other way of walking save sideways-on like a crab."

"Yes, like a crab!" said Lamme.

To which the boatman made answer:

"What are you croaking there between your teeth, great block of fat?

At this Lamme fell into a rage, crying:

"You are no Christian to make mock of my infirmity. My fat is my own,
let me tell you, and is the result of the good food I eat, whereas you,
old bag of bones that you are, you have never lived upon aught better
than smoked herrings and old candle-wicks if one may judge anything
from the lean flesh that shows through the tears in your measly hose."

"Ee--aw! Ee--aw!" cried the boatman, and Lamme would have got down
from his donkey to collect stones to throw at him had not Ulenspiegel
said him nay.

The boatman now began to whisper something into the ear of the lad
who was still "ee--awing" at his side, and a moment later the lad
unfastened a little boat which lay by the side of the big one, and
with the end of the boat-hook shoved himself cleverly off towards the
river-bank. When the boy was quite close to the bank he drew himself
up proudly and threw down this challenge:

"My master wants to know if you will have the courage to come on to
his boat and join with him in a battle of fist and feet. And these
good men and women shall be the arbiters."

"Certainly," said Ulenspiegel in a dignified tone of voice.

"We accept the challenge," said Lamme haughtily.

It was midday. The workmen who laboured on the dike and the
road-menders and the builders of ships were about to take their
repast of beans and boiled beef which had been brought them by their
women-folk or their children. All these, then, who stood around
began to laugh and to clap their hands at the prospect of a fight,
looking forward with joy to the chance of seeing the head of one of
the combatants broken, or his body thrown in pieces into the river.

"My son," said Lamme under his breath, "the boatman will assuredly
throw us into the water."

"Let him throw you in if he wants to," said Ulenspiegel.

"The big one is afraid," said the crowd of workmen.

Lamme, who was still sitting his donkey, turned round and gave them
a look of anger, but they jeered at him the more.

"Come on," said Lamme. "Let us to the boat, and then they shall see
if I am afraid."

At these words the jeers broke out again, and Ulenspiegel said:

"Come, let us to the boat!"

When, therefore, they had dismounted from their donkeys they threw the
bridles to the boatman's lad, who caressed the animals in friendly
wise and led them to a place where he saw some thistles growing. At
the same time Ulenspiegel seized hold of the boat-hook, made Lamme
get into the skiff, and then steered straight for the big boat. There
he mounted on to the deck by the help of a rope, and Lamme climbed
up in front of him, puffing and blowing.

Arrived on the bridge of the boat, Ulenspiegel leant down as if
to lace up his boots, and at the same time he spoke a word into
the boatman's ear, who straightway laughed and gave Lamme a curious
look. Then he began to roar out at him every kind of insult, calling
him worthless rogue, a man bloated with vicious fat, prison-bred,
pap-eter, and at the same time inquiring of him how many tons of oil
they gave him when he was bled.

All of a sudden, without waiting to reply, Lamme threw himself like
a mad bull upon the boatman, knocked him down, and began to beat
him with all his might. The boatman, however, did not receive much
injury, forasmuch as Lamme's arms were but weak on account of their
fatness. And the boatman suffered himself to be thus dealt with despite
the fact that he was making a great pretence at resistance all the
time. And the men and women who were watching the battle from the
bank were astonished, and exclaimed to each other: "Who would have
thought that this fat man could be so fiery!"

And they clapped their hands while Lamme continued to belabour the
boatman most unmercifully. But the latter took care only to protect
his face. Suddenly Lamme was seen to be kneeling upon the breast of
Stercke Pier, with one hand on his adversary's throat, and the other
raised to strike.

"Cry for mercy," he said furiously, "or else I shall make you pass
through the planks of your tub."

At this the boatman began to cough, thereby signifying that he could
not speak, and demanded mercy with a sign of his hand.

Then Lamme was seen to pick up his adversary in a most generous
manner, who thereupon, standing upright and turning his back towards
the onlookers, put out his tongue at Ulenspiegel. Now the latter was
rocking with laughter to see Lamme shaking the feather on his cap so
proudly and walking about in triumph upon the deck of the boat.

And the men and women, boys and girls, who were watching from the
bank applauded their loudest and cried out: "Long live the conqueror
of Stercke Pier! He is a man of iron! Did you see how he cuffed him
with his fist, and how he threw him down on his back with a blow
of his hand? But see, they are now about to drink together to make
the peace! Stercke Pier is coming up from the hold with wine and
sausages!" And in very truth, Stercke Pier might now have been seen
coming on deck with two tankards and a quart of white Meuse wine. And
Lamme and the boatman made their peace. After which Lamme asked his
new friend what sort of fricassees they were that were being cooked
in the hold of the ship; for at one end of the deck was a chimney
whence rose a column of thick black smoke. And the boatman made answer:

"Since you are men of valiant heart, knowing well the song of the lark,
the bird of freedom, and the warlike clarion of the cock, and the bray
of the ass withal, come you with me and I will show you my kitchen."

And so saying he led the way into the hold, where, removing certain
planks from the floor, he disclosed some mighty piles of gun-barrels,
together with a quantity of iron lances, halberds, sword-blades,
and a great heap of powder and shot.

"Where shall I take them?" he asked.

"To Emden, through the North Sea," said Ulenspiegel, "good Beggarman
that you are!"

"The sea is big," said the boatman.

"Big for battle," said Ulenspiegel.

"God is with us," said the boatman.

"Who then can be against us?" cried Ulenspiegel.

And when they had thus spoken, the boatman conducted Lamme and
Ulenspiegel on deck, with many words of cheer and good counsel. Then
they rowed to the bank, where they mounted again upon their donkeys
and set off towards Liége.

"My son," said Lamme whilst they were ambling gently along, "pray tell
me why did that man, strong as he was, allow himself to be beaten by
me so cruelly?"

"To the end," answered Ulenspiegel, "that wherever we go, the fear of
your prowess may go before us. That indeed will prove a more powerful
escort than twenty landsknechts. For who would dare to measure
his strength with Lamme the mighty, Lamme the conqueror? Lamme the
matchless bull among men, that overcame in the sight of all beholders
the famous Stercke Pier--Peter the Strong--and threw him to the ground
like a feather?"

"You say well, my son," said Lamme, drawing himself up in the saddle.

"And I say what is true," answered Ulenspiegel, "for did you not
notice the faces that looked out so curiously from the houses on the
outskirts of this village? They were pointing at the terrible figure
of Lamme the Conqueror! And do you see these men who are gazing on
you even now with such envy, and these sorry cowards who uncover
as you pass? Answer to their salute, O Lamme, my sweet one, nor be
disdainful of the populace. Behold, the very children know your name
and whisper it with terror."

And Lamme passed along proudly, saluting right and left like a
king. And the fame of his valour followed him from village to village
and from town to town, as far as Liége, Chocquier, La Neuville, Vesin,
and Namur, to which place, however, our travellers gave a wide berth
because of the three evangelists. And so they wended along by the banks
of river and canal, and everywhere the song of the lark answered the
song of the cock. And wherever they went they found that in the sacred
cause of Liberty weapons were being forged and armour furbished for
the ships that stood by along the coast to carry away.

And Lamme, preceded everywhere by his glorious reputation, began
himself to believe in his own prowess, and growing proud and warlike he
let his beard grow too. And Ulenspiegel called him Lamme the Lion. But
Lamme did not continue in this purpose longer than the fourth day,
because the hairs of his beard began to tickle him. And he passed
a razor over the surface of his victorious countenance, so that it
appeared thereafter like his own face once more, round and full as
the sun, ablaze with the flame of good nourishment. And thus they
came at length to Harlebeke.






XXIII


At Harlebeke Lamme renewed his provision of oliekoekjes, eating
seven-and-twenty of them on the spot and putting thirty away into his
basket. The same evening they came to Courtrai and dismounted from
their donkeys at the tavern of the Bee that was kept by one Gilis
Van den Ende, who himself came to the inn door as soon as he heard
the singing of the lark.

At once the new arrivals found that everything was made like sugar and
honey for them; for mine host, as soon as he had seen the letter from
the Prince, presented Ulenspiegel with fifty caroluses on the Prince's
behalf, nor would he accept any payment at all for the turkey which
he served for their dinner, nor yet for the dobbel clauwaert which he
gave them to drink. He warned them also that there were many spies
in Courtrai, and that it behoved both Ulenspiegel and his companion
to keep a close watch on what they said during their stay in the city.

"We shall be careful," said Ulenspiegel and Lamme. And so saying they
came out of the tavern.

The gables of the houses were all gilded in the rays of the setting
sun. The birds sang in the lime-trees, and Lamme and Ulenspiegel
wandered at their ease along the streets of the town. All at once
Lamme said:

"I asked Martin Van den Ende if by chance he had seen any one at
all resembling my wife in Courtrai, and he told me that there were a
number of women that were accustomed to meet together of an evening
at the sign of the Rainbow, a house that is kept by a woman called
La Stevenyne, just outside the town on the road to Bruges. I shall
go there."

"I will meet you anon," said Ulenspiegel. "But now I would see
the sights of the town. If I meet your wife I will send her on to
you. Meanwhile remember what the innkeeper said, and keep your own
counsel if you value your own skin."

"I will be careful," said Lamme.

Ulenspiegel walked about by himself till the sun set and night began
to come on quickly. He had come to the Pierpot-Straetje--the Alley
of the Pot of Stone--and there he heard the sound of a viola being
played most melodiously, and presently he noticed a white figure
that beckoned to him from a distance, then retreated, playing the
viola all the time. It was a woman, and she sang like a seraphim,
a sweet, slow song, stopping now and then to look behind her with a
beckoning gesture, then retreating again. But Ulenspiegel ran quickly
and overtook her, and was about to speak to her when she sealed his
lips with a hand all scented with benjamin.

"Are you a working man or a nobleman?" she asked.

"I am Ulenspiegel."

"Are you rich?"

"Rich enough for you."

"But you have not seen me!" And she opened the lantern she carried
so as to let the light shine straight upon her face.

"You are beautiful," said Ulenspiegel.

"Then come with me," she said.

And she brought him to the house of La Stevenyne, on the road to
Bruges, at the sign of the Rainbow.

They entered a large room where a great number of girls were assembled,
who all looked up jealously at Ulenspiegel's companion as she came
in. And suddenly Ulenspiegel saw Lamme, sitting there in a corner by
a little table whereon was a candle, a ham, and a pot of beer. By his
side were a couple of girls, who were endeavouring to get a share in
the ham and the beer; but Lamme was trying to prevent them. As soon
as he noticed Ulenspiegel he jumped up, crying:

"Blessed be God who has given back to me my friend! Bring more drink,
baesine!"

At this Ulenspiegel drew out his purse, saying:

"Yes, bring us to drink to the value of what is in here!" and he
jingled the money that was in the purse.

"No, by heaven!" cried Lamme, seizing the purse. "It's I that shall
pay, not you."

Ulenspiegel would have recovered the purse by force, but Lamme kept
tight hold. As they were struggling together, the one to keep the
purse, the other to get it back again, Lamme whispered by fits and
starts into Ulenspiegel's ear:

"Listen. Constables. Here ... four of them ... in the little room
with three girls. Two outside waiting for you and for me.... I tried
to go out ... prevented.... The girl over there in the brocaded gown
is a spy ... Stevenyne a spy!"

And all the time they were fighting Ulenspiegel listened attentively,
though he kept on crying aloud:

"Give me back my purse, you rascal!"

And they seized each other by the neck and by the shoulders, and
rolled together on the floor, while Lamme went on with his tidings
to Ulenspiegel. Suddenly there appeared on the scene mine host of the
tavern of the Bee; and he was followed by seven other men, with whom,
however, he apparently had no connexion. As he came in he crowed like
a cock and Ulenspiegel whistled like a lark. Then, seeing Ulenspiegel
and Lamme still struggling on the floor, he inquired of La Stevenyne
who they might be. "Two rascals," she told him, "who ought to be
parted from each other instead of being allowed to make all this
disturbance ere they are brought to the gallows."

"If any one tries to separate us," said Ulenspiegel, "we will make
him eat of these paving-stones."

"Yes," said Lamme, "we will make him eat these paving-stones!"

Then Ulenspiegel whispered something in Lamme's ear. "The innkeeper
is come to rescue us." And presently the innkeeper, who must have
divined some mystery was afoot, joined the mêlée on the floor with
his head down, and Lamme attacked him in the ear with these words:

"You have come to rescue us? How will you do it?"

The innkeeper made pretence of pulling Ulenspiegel by the ears,
but managed to say to him the while, under his breath:

"These seven men are on your side ... they are strong men
... butchers.... I must be off ... too well known in the town ... but
when I have gone.... 'T is van te beven de klinkaert.... Break up
everything...."

"I understand," said Ulenspiegel, rising at the same time from the
floor and kicking out at the innkeeper. The latter struck Ulenspiegel
in his turn and Ulenspiegel said:

"You hit hard, my hearty!"

"As hard as a hail-storm," said the innkeeper. And quickly seizing
the purse from Lamme he handed it back to Ulenspiegel.

"You may stand me a drink, you rogue, now you are come into your
right mind again."

"I'll stand you one, you scandalous scamp," replied Ulenspiegel.

"See how insolent he is," said La Stevenyne.

"As insolent as you are beautiful," answered Ulenspiegel.

Now La Stevenyne was sixty years old at least, and her face was like
the fruit of the medlar, but all yellow with bile, and she had a
large port-wine stain on her left cheek.

When the innkeeper had had his drink, he paid the bill and
departed. The seven butchers meanwhile made sundry knowing grimaces at
the constables and La Stevenyne. One of them indicated by a gesture
that he held Ulenspiegel for a simpleton, and that he would be able
to do for him very easily. But all the time that he was putting out
his tongue in mockery to La Stevenyne, who herself was grinning and
laughing, he whispered in Ulenspiegel's ear:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert--it is time to rattle the
glasses." Then, in his ordinary tone of voice, and pointing at the
constables:

"Gentle Reformer," he said, "we are all on your side. Stand us some
food and drink, won't you?"

And La Stevenyne laughed with pleasure, and put out her tongue at
Ulenspiegel when his back was turned. And La Gilline, she of the
brocaded gown, she also put out her tongue at Ulenspiegel, and the
girls all began to whisper one to another: "Behold the spy that by
her beauty draweth men to the torture and bringeth them at last to a
death more cruel even than torture. Above seven-and-twenty Protestants
hath she betrayed already. Gilline is her name, and now she is in
a rapture of joy as she thinks of the reward she will get for her
information--the first hundred caroluses, to wit, from the estate of
each of her victims. But she will not laugh when she bethinketh her
that she must share one-half of the spoil with La Stevenyne!"

And every one there present--the constables, the butchers, and the
girls themselves--put out their tongues in mockery of Ulenspiegel. And
Lamme sweated great drops of sweat, and became red with anger like
the crest of a cock. But he would not let himself say a word.

"Come, stand us food and drink," said the butchers and the constables.

"Very well," said Ulenspiegel, jingling yet again the money in his
purse. "Bring us meat and drink, my sweet Stevenyne; bring us drink
in glasses that can sing!"

At this the girls began to laugh anew; but La Stevenyne went down to
the cellar and brought back with her ham, sausages, black-pudding
omelettes, and some of those singing glasses, that are so called
because they are mounted on tall stems and can be made to resound
like a bell when some one strikes them. Then Ulenspiegel said:

"Let him who is hungry eat, and he who is thirsty let him drink!" And
the constables, the girls, the butchers, Gilline, and La Stevenyne
applauded these words of Ulenspiegel, clapping their hands and stamping
their feet; and then they all sat down to the feast. Ulenspiegel,
Lamme, and the seven butchers sat at the big table of honour, the
constables and the girls at two smaller tables; and they ate and
drank right heartily. And the constables invited their two comrades,
who had been waiting outside the house, to come in and join them.

La Stevenyne said with a snigger:

"Remember, no one can leave till he has paid me."

And she went and locked all the doors, and put the keys in her pocket.

At this La Gilline raised her glass.

"The bird is in its cage," she cried. "Let us drink."

But two of the girls, whose names were Gena and Margot, said to her:

"Is this yet another man that you are going to lure to his death,
you wicked one?"

"I know not," said Gilline; "let us drink."

But the girls would not drink with her.

And Gilline took her viola and sang in French this song:


        Au son de la viole,
        Je chante nuit et jour;
        Je suis la fille-folle,
        La vendeuse d'amour.

        Astarté de mes hanches
        Fit les lignes de feu;
        J'ai les épaules blanches,
        Et mon beau corps est Dieu.

        Je suis froide ou brûlante,
        Tendre au doux nonchaloir:
        Tiède, éperdue, ardente,
        Mon homme, à ton vouloir.

        Vois, je vends tout: mes charmes,
        Mon âme et mes yeux bleus;
        Bonheur, rires et larmes,
        Et la Mort si tu veux.

        Au son de la viole,
        Je chante nuit et jour;
        Je suis la fille-folle,
        La vendeuse d'amour.


As she sang this song La Gilline looked so beautiful, so soft and
fragrant, that all the men, the constables and the butchers, Lamme
and Ulenspiegel himself, sat smiling there, quite melted and overcome
by her charm.

All at once La Gilline gave a loud laugh and fixed her gaze on
Ulenspiegel:

"And it's thus that the birds are caged," she said. And the spell of
her charm was broken.

Ulenspiegel, Lamme, and the butchers looked at one another.

"Well now," said La Stevenyne, "are you going to pay the bill, my
Lord Ulenspiegel?"

"We shall pay nothing in advance," said he.

"Then I shall pay myself later on--out of your inheritance," said La
Stevenyne. After that:

"Let us drink!" she cried.

"Let us drink!" cried the constables.

"Let us drink!" cried La Stevenyne. "The doors are shut; the windows
are strongly barred; the birds are in their cage. Let us drink!"

"Let us drink then," said Ulenspiegel. "And bring us wine of the best
to crown the banquet."

La Stevenyne brought in more wine. And now they were all seated,
drinking and eating, the constables and the girls together. But the
seven butchers were at the same table with Ulenspiegel and Lamme,
and they kept on throwing pieces of ham, and sausages, omelettes, and
bottles of wine to the table of the girls, who themselves caught the
food in mid-flight as carp catch the flies that buzz on the surface
of a fishpond. And La Stevenyne laughed and grinned, and pointed to
the packets of candles which hung over the counter. And these were
the candles that the gay girls were used to purchase, five to the
pound. Then La Stevenyne said to Ulenspiegel:

"On his way to the stake it is the custom for the condemned man to
carry a wax candle. Shall I make you a present of one?"

"Let us drink!" said Ulenspiegel.

But La Gilline said: "Look at Ulenspiegel's eyes. They are shining
like the eyes of a swan that is about to die."

"Wouldn't you like to eat one of the candles?" said La Stevenyne. "They
would serve you in hell to lighten your eternal damnation."

"I see clearly enough to admire your ugly mug," said Ulenspiegel.

Suddenly he struck the stem of his wine-glass and clapped his hands
together with a rhythm like that an upholsterer uses when he beats
the wool of a mattress with his stick.

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert," he said; "it is time to make the
glasses shiver--the glasses which resound...."

And this, in Flanders, is the signal that the drinkers make when they
are angry, and when they are like to ransack and despoil in their
wrath the houses of ill fame. So even now did Ulenspiegel raise his
glass and drink, and then did he made it vibrate upon the table,
crying yet again:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert."

And the seven butchers did likewise.

Then a great stillness fell upon the company. La Gilline grew pale;
La Stevenyne looked astonished. The constables said:

"Are the seven with them too?" But the butchers winked their eyes
and reassured them; yet all the time they continued without ceasing,
and louder and louder as Ulenspiegel led them:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert. 'T is van te beven de klinkaert."

La Stevenyne took another draught of wine to give herself courage.

Then Ulenspiegel struck his fist on the table in that regular rhythm
which the upholsterers use as they beat their mattresses; and the
seven did likewise; and the glasses, jugs, trenchers, flagons, and
goblets began to dance upon the table, slowly at first, but beginning
soon to knock against each other, and to break and to heel over on
one side as they fell. And all the time echoed and re-echoed, more
sternly menacing, with every monotonous repetition:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert."

"Alas!" said La Stevenyne, "they will break everything." And her teeth
seemed to show farther out from her lips than ever. And the hot blood
of their fury and of their anger began to flame in the souls of the
seven butchers, and in the souls of Lamme and Ulenspiegel. Till at
last, without ceasing once their melancholy and monotonous chant,
all they that were sitting at Ulenspiegel's table took their glasses,
and brake them upon the table, and at the same moment they drew their
cutlasses and leapt upon the chairs. And they made such a din with
their song that all the windows in the house shook. Then like a band
of infuriated devils they went round the room, visiting each table
in turn, crying without ceasing:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert."

And the constables rose up trembling with terror and seized their ropes
and chains. But the butchers, together with Lamme and Ulenspiegel,
thrust their knives quickly back into their cases, and sprang up to
run nimbly through the chamber, hitting out right and left with their
chairs as though they had been cudgels. And they spared nothing there
except the girls, for everything else they brake in pieces--furniture,
windows, chests, plates, pots, trenchers, glasses, and flagons, hitting
out at the constables without mercy, and crying out all the time in the
rhythm of the mattress-beaters: "'T is van te beven de klinkaert. 'T
is van te beven de klinkaert." And Ulenspiegel, who had given La
Stevenyne a blow on the nose with his fist, and had taken all her keys
and put them into his satchel, was now amusing himself by forcing her
to eat those candles of hers. And the girls laughed at the sight of
her as she sneezed with anger and tried to spit out the candles--but
in vain, for her mouth was too full. And all the time Ulenspiegel and
the seven butchers did not cease the rhythm of their dire refrain:
"'T is van te beven de klinkaert." But at last Ulenspiegel made a sign,
and when silence had at last been restored he spake, saying:

"You are here, my friends, in our power. It is a dark night and the
River Lys is close at hand, where a man drowns easily if he is once
pushed in. And the gates of Courtrai are shut." Then turning to the
seven butchers:

"You are bound for Peteghen, to join the Beggarmen?"

"We were ready to go there when the news came to us that you were
here."

"And from Peteghen you were going to the sea?"

"Yes," they said.

"Do you think there are one or two among these constables whom it
would be safe to release for our service?"

"There are two," they said, "Niklaes and Joos by name, who have never
as yet been guilty of persecuting the poor Reformers."

"You can trust us!" said Niklaes and Joos.

"Very well then," said Ulenspiegel. "Here are twenty caroluses for you,
twice as much, that is, as you would have got for an act of shameful
betrayal." And at that the other five constables cried out as one man:

"Twenty florins! We will serve the Prince for twenty florins. The
King's pay is bad. Only give us half as much and we will tell the
judge any tale you please." But Lamme and the butchers kept muttering
under their breath:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert. 'T is van te beven de klinkaert."

"In order that you may be kept from too much talking," Ulenspiegel
continued, "the seven will lead you in handcuffs to Peteghen, and there
you will be given over into the hands of the Beggarmen. The florins
will be handed to you at sea, and if you prove brave in battle you
will have your share of the spoil. If you attempt to desert you will
be hanged."

"We will serve him who pays us," they said.

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert! 'T is van te beven de klinkaert,"
murmured the seven.

"You will also take with you," said Ulenspiegel, "La Gilline, La
Stevenyne and the girls. If any one of them tries to escape you will
sew her in a sack and throw her into the river."

"He has not killed me yet!" cried La Gilline, jumping up from her
corner and brandishing her viola in the air. And she began to sing:


        Sanglant était mon rêve.
        Le rêve de mon coeur.
        Je suis la fille d'Eve
        Et de Satan vainqueur.


But La Stevenyne and the others seemed as if they were going to cry.

"Do not be afraid, my sweets," said Ulenspiegel. "You are so pretty
and so tender that all men will love to caress you wherever you go,
and after every victory you will have your share in the spoils." But
the three girls turned upon La Gilline:

"You that were her daughter, her breadwinner, sharing with La Stevenyne
the shameful rewards of her espionage, do you still dare to flaunt
yourself before us and to insult us with your dress of brocade? Verily
it is the blood of the victims and nothing else that has clothed you
so richly. But now let us take her dress from her, so she may be like
to us."

"That shall not be," said Ulenspiegel.

And the girls looked jealously at Ulenspiegel, saying:

"He is mad about her, like all the rest."

And La Gilline played upon her viola and sang, and the seven butchers
departed for Peteghen, taking with them the constables and the
girls. And they passed along by the River Lys. And as they went they
kept muttering:

"'T is van te beven de klinkaert! 'T is van te beven de klinkaert!" And
at break of day they came to the camp, and sang out like the lark and
were answered straightway by a cockcrow. The girls and the constables
were put under a strong guard, but in spite of these precautions La
Gilline was found dead at noon on the third day, her heart pierced
by a long needle. The three girls accused La Stevenyne of having
done this deed, and she was brought before the captain. There she
confessed that she had committed the crime out of jealousy and anger
at the way the girl had treated her. And La Stevenyne was hanged and
buried in the wood.

La Gilline also was buried, and prayers were said over her sweet body.






XXIV


Warm was the air, and not a breath of wind was wafted from the
calm sea. The trees on the Damme canal were motionless, and the
grasshoppers were busy in the meadows, while from many a church and
abbey the men came into the fields to fetch that "thirteenth part
of the harvest" which was claimed by the curés and the abbés who
lived round about. From the depths of a blue and blazing sky the sun
poured down his heat, and Nature slept beneath that radiance like some
beautiful girl that has swooned away beneath the caresses of her lover.

From far off, Lamme and Ulenspiegel descried the high, square,
massive tower of Notre Dame, and Lamme said:

"There, my son, is the home both of your loves and of your
sorrows." But Ulenspiegel made no answer.

"In a little while," continued Lamme, "I shall be seeing my old home,
and perhaps my wife!" But Ulenspiegel did not answer.

"You man of wood," said Lamme, "you heart of stone, will nothing move
you--neither the near approach to the place where you passed your
childhood, nor yet the dear memory of poor Claes and Soetkin, the two
martyrs? What! You are not sad, neither are you merry; who can it be
that has thus hardened your heart? Look at me, how anxious and uneasy
I am, and how my belly heaves with nervousness; look at me I say!"

But Lamme looked at Ulenspiegel and saw that his face was drawn
and pale, and his lips were trembling with tears, and he said not a
word. And now Lamme also held his peace.

They walked along in this way without speaking till they came to
Damme, which they entered by the rue Héron; and they saw no one
about because of the heat. Only the dogs lay on their sides on
the doorsteps of many a house, gasping, with their tongues out,
while Lamme and Ulenspiegel passed right in front of the Town Hall
where Claes had been burnt to death; and here the lips of Ulenspiegel
trembled the more, and his tears dried up. And at last they were come
to the house of Claes himself, which was now occupied by a master
charcoal-burner. Ulenspiegel entered in and said:

"Do you recognize me? I would wish to rest here a while."

The master charcoal-burner answered:

"I recognize you. You are the son of the victim. You are free in this
house to go wheresoever you will."

Ulenspiegel went into the kitchen, and then upstairs into the room
of Claes and Soetkin, and there he shed many tears.

When he had come down again, the master charcoal-burner said to him:
"Here is bread, cheese, and beer. If you are hungry, eat. If you are
thirsty, drink."

But Ulenspiegel made a gesture to the effect that he was neither
hungry nor thirsty, and he left the house and came with Lamme to
Katheline's cottage, and there they tethered their donkeys and
straightway entered in. It was the hour of the midday meal. On the
table was a dish of broad beans in their pods together with some
white beans. Katheline was busy eating, while Nele was standing by
her ready to pour into Katheline's plate some vinegar sauce which
she had just taken off the fire. When Ulenspiegel came into the room
Nele was so startled that she put the sauce, and the pot and all,
into Katheline's platter. And Katheline kept on wagging her head,
and picking out the broad beans with her spoon from the trencher,
striking her forehead the while and crying ever like one mad:

"Put out the fire! My head is burning!"

And the smell of the vinegar made Lamme feel hungry. But Ulenspiegel
stood still where he was, gazing at Nele and smiling for love of her
despite his great sorrow.

And Nele, without a word of greeting, flung her arms round his
neck. And she also seemed like one bereft of sense. For she cried and
laughed, and blushing as she was with her great and sweet happiness,
she could only say: "Tyl! Tyl!"

Ulenspiegel, happy now in his turn, gazed into her eyes. Then she let
go of him and stepped back a pace or two, gazed at him joyfully in her
turn, and then threw herself on him again, clasping her arms round
his neck, and so many times and again. And he suffered her gladly,
powerless to tear himself away from her, till at last she fell into
a chair, tired out and like one bereft of her senses, and she said
without shame:

"Tyl! Tyl, my beloved! Here you are come back to me again!"

Lamme meanwhile was standing at the door; but when Nele had recovered
herself a little, she pointed to him, saying:

"Where have I seen this fat man?"

"He is my friend," Ulenspiegel told her. "He goes seeking his wife
in my company."

"I know you," said Nele to Lamme. "You used to live in the rue
Héron. You are seeking for your wife? Well, I have seen her. She is
living at Bruges in all piety and devotion, and when I asked her why
she had left her husband so unkindly, she answered that it was by
the Holy Will of God and at the command of Holy Penance, and that
she could never live with her husband again."

At these words Lamme was sad, but his eyes wandered to the beans and
vinegar. And outside the larks sang as they flew upwards into the sky,
and all Nature swooned away under the caress of her Lord the Sun. And
Katheline kept stirring with her spoon that pot of beans and sauce.






XXV


Now, in those days a damsel some fifteen years of age was going from
Heyst to Knokke, alone in the middle of the day, by the sand-dunes. No
one had any fear for her for they knew that the wolves and wicked
spirits of the damned go biting their victims only in the night. The
damsel carried a satchel wherein were forty-eight gold coins of the
value of four florins carolus, being the sum owed by the girl's mother,
Toria Pieterson, who lived at Heyst, to her uncle, Jan Rapen of Knokke,
on account of a sale. The girl's name was Betkin, and she was wearing
her best clothes, and she went on her way most happily.

The same evening, seeing that she did not return, her mother became
anxious, but reassured herself with the thought that the girl must
have stayed the night with her uncle.

On the morrow, certain fishermen on their way back from the sea with
a boat-load of fish, drew their boat on to the beach and unloaded
their catch, which they would sell at auction by the cart-load at the
Minque of Heyst. They went up the road along the dunes, all strewn with
shells, and presently came upon a young girl, stripped naked even to
her chemise, with traces of blood all about her. Coming nearer they
found upon her neck the horrid marks of long sharp teeth. She was
lying on her back with her eyes wide open gazing up into the sky,
and her mouth was open also as if with the cry of death itself!

Covering the girl's body with an opperst-kleed they brought it to
Heyst, to the Town Hall, and there quickly assembled the aldermen
and the leech, who declared that the long teeth that had made those
marks were no teeth of a wolf as known in nature, but rather of some
wicked and devilish werwolf, and that it behoved them now to pray
God one and all that he would deliver the land of Flanders.

And in all that country, and notably at Damme, at Heyst, and at Knokke,
prayers and orisons were ordered to be made.

But Ulenspiegel went to the town bailiff and said to him: "I will
go and kill the werwolf."

"What gives you this confidence?" asked the bailiff.

"The ashes beat upon my heart," Ulenspiegel replied. "Only give me
leave to labour a while at the forge of the commune."

"Very well," said the bailiff.

Ulenspiegel, without telling a word concerning his project to any
man or woman in Damme, betook him to the forge, and there, in secret,
he fashioned a fine and a strong trap such as those traps which are
made to catch wild beasts.

On the following day, which was a Saturday, day beloved of werwolves,
Ulenspiegel armed himself with a letter from the bailiff to the curé
of Heyst, together with the trap which he carried under his cloak, as
well as a good crossbow and a well-sharpened cutlass. Thus provided,
he departed on his way, saying to those in Damme:

"I am going out to hunt the seagulls, and of their down will I make
a soft pillow for madame the wife of the bailiff."

Now before he reached Heyst, he came out on to the seashore. The sea
was rough and boisterous, and he heard the great waves growling like
thunder, and the wind that blew from England whistling in the rigging
of the boats that were stranded on the beach. A fisherman said to him:

"This bad wind will be our ruin. Last night the sea was calm, but
at sunrise she suddenly swelled with anger. And to-day we shall not
be able to go out fishing." Ulenspiegel was pleased at this, for he
knew that now he would be sure of some assistance if need arose. At
Heyst he went straight to the curé and presented the letter that the
bailiff had given him. The curé said:

"You are a brave man, but let me tell you that no one goes along the
dunes on Saturday nights without being bitten by the werwolf and left
dead on the sands. Even the men who are at work on the dikes never
go there except in a party. The evening is coming on. Do you not
hear the werwolf howling in his valley? Perchance he will come again
into the cemetery, even as he came last night, howling most horribly
through all the hours of darkness! God be with you, my son. But go
not there." And the curé crossed himself.

"The ashes beat upon my heart," answered Ulenspiegel.

The curé said:

"Because you have so brave a spirit I will help you."

"Monsieur le Curé," said Ulenspiegel, "you will be doing a great
kindness, as well to me as to this poor desolated land of ours, if you
will go to Toria, the dead girl's mother, and to her two brothers also,
and tell them that the wolf is near at hand, and that I am going out
to wait for it and kill it."

The curé said:

"If you want to know where you should lie in wait, let me advise you to
keep along by the path which leads to the cemetery. It runs between two
hedges of broom. It is so narrow two men could scarcely walk abreast."

"I understand," said Ulenspiegel. "And you, brave curé, will you tell
the girl's mother and her husband and her brothers to come themselves
and wait together in the church about the hour of the curfew. There,
if they hear a cry like the cry of a seagull, it will mean that I have
seen the werwolf. Then they must sound the wacharm on the bell, and
come fast to my assistance. And if there are any other brave men...."

"There are none, my son," replied the curé. "The fishermen are less
afraid of the plague and of death itself than of the werwolf. Do not
go, I beseech you."

Ulenspiegel answered:

"The ashes beat upon my heart."

And the curé said to him:

"I will do as you bid. God bless you. Are you hungry or thirsty?"

"Both," answered Ulenspiegel.

The curé gave him some beer, some bread, and some cheese, and
Ulenspiegel when he had eaten and drunk went his way.

And as he walked along he raised his eyes and beheld Claes, his father,
seated in glory at the side of God in heaven where the moon shone so
brightly. And thereafter he gazed upon the sea and upon the clouds,
and he heard the wind that came blowing stormily from England.

"Alas!" he cried, "O Dusky Clouds that pass along so rapidly yonder
in the sky, be you now for a vengeance on the murderer. And you,
O Wind that whistles so sadly in the gorse along the dunes and in
the rigging of the ships, be you now the voice of the victims that
cry to God that he should help me on in this enterprise."

And so saying he came down into the valley, stumbling as if he had
been a drunken man; and he began to sing, hiccuping all the time,
staggering from side to side, yawning, spitting, and then standing
still and pretending to be sick. But all the time he was keeping his
eyes wide open, and peering this way and that, for he had heard the
sharp sound as of a wolf howling. Then, as he stood there vomiting
like a dog, he descried the long outline of a wolf moving towards
the cemetery in the bright light of the moon.

At that he lurched on again, and came into the path between the hedges
of broom. There he pretended to fall down, and as he did so, he placed
his trap upon the side from which the wolf was coming. Then he loaded
his crossbow, and went forward about ten paces, standing up again in
a drunken posture. He still went on staggering to right and to left,
nor did he cease to retch and to hiccup, but all the time his mind
was taut as a bowstring, and he was all eyes and ears for what might
be going to happen. Yet he saw nothing save the dark clouds racing in
the sky, and again that large and heavy form of blackness coming down
the path towards him. Neither did he hear aught but the dismal wailing
of the wind, and the angry thunder of the sea, and the sound that the
shells on the path gave forth beneath a heavy step that tapped upon
them. Feigning to be about to sit down, Ulenspiegel fell forwards on
to the path, very heavily like a drunken man. After that he heard as
it were a piece of iron clinking close to his ear, and then the sound
of the trap shutting, and a human voice that cried out in the darkness.

"The werwolf," said Ulenspiegel to himself. "He's got his front
paws caught in the trap. Now he is howling and trying to run away,
dragging the trap with him. But he shall not escape." And he drew
his crossbow and shot an arrow at the legs of the werwolf.

"He's wounded now," said Ulenspiegel, "and he has fallen down."

Thereupon he whistled like a seagull, and straightway the church bell
clanged out from the village and a boy's shrill voice was heard crying
from afar off:

"Awake! Awake, you sleepers! The werwolf is caught."

"Praise be to God," said Ulenspiegel.

Now the first to arrive on the scene of the capture were Toria the
mother of Betkin, and Lansaen her husband, and her two brothers Josse
and Michael. And they brought lanterns with them.

"You have caught him?" they asked.

"Look on the path," answered Ulenspiegel.

"Praise be to God," they exclaimed, crossing themselves.

"Who is it that is calling out the news in the village?" asked
Ulenspiegel.

"It is my eldest boy," Lansaen answered. "The youngster is running
through the village knocking on all the doors and crying out that
the wolf is caught. Praise be to thee!"

"The ashes beat upon my heart," answered Ulenspiegel.

Suddenly the werwolf began to speak:

"Have mercy on me! Have mercy, Ulenspiegel!"

"This wolf can talk!" they exclaimed, crossing themselves again. "He
is a devil in very truth, and knows Ulenspiegel's name already!"

"Have mercy! Have mercy!" the voice cried again. "I am no
wolf. Order the bell to stop ringing. For thus it is that it tolls
for the dead. And my wrists are torn by the trap. I am old and I am
bleeding. Have mercy! And what is this--this shrill voice of a child
awakening all the village? Oh pray, have mercy!"

"I have heard your voice before," said Ulenspiegel passionately. "You
are the fishmonger. The murderer of Claes, the vampire that preys
upon poor maids! Have no fear, good mother and father. This is none
other than the Dean of the Fishmongers on whose account poor Soetkin
died of grief." And with one hand he held the man fast by the neck,
and with the other he drew out his cutlass.

But Toria the mother of Betkin prevented him.

"Take him alive," cried she. "Take him alive. Let him pay!"

Meanwhile there were many fisherfolk, men and women of Heyst, who were
come out at the news that the werwolf was taken and that he was no
devil but a man. Some of these carried lanterns and flaming torches,
and all of them cried aloud when they saw him:

"Thief! Murderer! Where hide you the gold that you have stolen from
your poor victims?"

"He shall repay it all," said Toria. And she would have beaten him
in her rage had she not fallen down there and then upon the sand in
a mad fury like unto one dead. And they left her there until she came
to herself.

And Ulenspiegel, sad at heart, beheld the clouds racing like mad
things in the sky, and out at sea the white crests of the waves,
and on the ground at his feet the white face of the fishmonger that
looked up at him in the light of the lantern with cruel eyes. And
the ashes beat upon his heart.

And they walked for four hours, and came to Damme where was a great
crowd assembled that already was aware of what had happened. Every one
desired to see the fishmonger, and they pressed round the fishermen
and fisherwives, crying out and singing and dancing and saying:
"The werwolf is caught! He is caught, the murderer! Blessed be
Ulenspiegel! Long live our brother Ulenspiegel!--Lange leve onzen
broeder Ulenspiegel." And it was like a popular rising. And when the
crowd passed in front of the bailiff's house, he came out, hearing
the noise, and said to Ulenspiegel:

"You are the conqueror; all praise to you!"

"It was the ashes of Claes that beat upon my heart," said Ulenspiegel.

Then the bailiff said:

"Half the murderer's fortune shall be yours."

"Let it be given to his victims," answered Ulenspiegel.

Now Lamme and Nele were there too--Nele laughing and crying with joy
and kissing her lover; Lamme jumping heavily and striking his belly
while he cried out at the same time:

"Brave, trusty, and true! My comrade, my well-beloved! You cannot
match him anywhere, you other men of the flat country."

But the fisherfolk laughed and made mock of Lamme.






XXVI


The great bell, the Borgstorm, rang out on the morrow to summon to
the Vierschare the aldermen and the clerks of the court. There they
sat on four banks of turf under the noble lime-tree which was called
the Tree of Justice. And round about stood the common people. When
he was examined the fishmonger would confess nothing. All he did was
to repeat continually:

"I am poor and old, have mercy upon me."

But the people howled at him, saying:

"You are an old wolf, destroyer of children; have no pity, sir judges."

"Let him pay! Let him pay!" cried Toria.

But the fishmonger entreated again most piteously:

"I am poor. Leave me alone."

Then, since he would not say anything of his own free will, he was
condemned to be tortured until he should confess how he had committed
the murders, whence he came, and where he had hidden the remains of
the victims and their money.

So now he was brought to the torture chamber, and on his feet were
put the iron shoes of torture, and the bailiff asked him how it
was that Satan had inspired him with designs so black and crimes so
abominable. Then at last he made answer:

"Satan is myself, my essential nature. Even as a child, ugly as I was
and unskilled in all bodily exercises, I was regarded as a simpleton
by every one and was continually being beaten. Neither girl nor boy
had any pity for me, and as I grew up no woman would have anything
to do with me, not even for payment. So I conceived a hatred for
the whole human race, and for this reason I betrayed the man Claes
who was beloved by all. Thereafter I was attracted more than ever by
the idea of living like a wolf, and I dreamed of tearing flesh with
my teeth. And I killed two wolves in the woods of Raveschoet and
Maldeghem, and I sewed together their two skins as a covering. And
by day and by night I wandered along the sand-dunes, and especially
on Saturdays--the day of the market at Bruges."

Then the bailiff said:

"Repent and pray to God."

But the fishmonger blasphemed, saying:

"It is God himself who willed me to be as I am. I did all in spite
of myself, led on by the will of nature. Evil tigers that you are,
you will punish me unjustly."

But he was condemned to die the death, and Toria cried aloud:
"Justice is done. He shall pay the penalty."

And all the people cried:

"Lang leve de Heeren van de wet!--Long live the Officers of the Law!"

The next morning at early dawn, as they were bringing him to the
place of punishment, he saw Ulenspiegel standing near the pile and
he pointed his finger at him, crying:

"There is a man who ought to die no less than I. For ten years ago
it was that he threw me into the Damme canal because I had denounced
his father. But in that I had acted as a loyal subject to His Most
Catholic Majesty."

And the bells of Notre Dame tolled for the dead.

"For you also the bells are tolling," said he to Ulenspiegel. "You
will be hanged. For you have committed murder."

"Is this true?" demanded the bailiff.

Ulenspiegel answered:

"I threw into the water the man who denounced Claes and was the cause
of his death. The ashes of my father beat upon my heart."

And the women that were in the crowd said to him:

"Why confess it, Ulenspiegel? No one saw the deed. But now you also
will die the death."

And the prisoner laughed aloud, leaping in the air with a bitter joy.

"He will die," he said. "He will leave this earth for hell. He will
die. God is just."

"He shall not die," said the bailiff, "for after the lapse of ten
years no murderer can lawfully be brought to punishment in the land
of Flanders. Ulenspiegel did a wicked act, but it was done for love
of his father: and for such a deed as that Ulenspiegel shall not be
summoned to trial."

"Long live the law!" cried the crowd. "Lang leve de wet!"

And the bells of Notre Dame tolled for the dead. And the prisoner
ground his teeth and hung his head, and now for the first time he let
fall a tear. And his hand was cut off and his tongue pierced with a
red-hot iron, and he was burned alive in a slow fire in front of the
Town Hall.

And Toria cried out:

"He is paying the penalty! He is paying the penalty! See how
they writhe--those arms and those legs which helped him to his
murdering! See how it smokes, the body of this brute! Burning is the
hair of him, all pallid like the hair of a hyena, and burning is his
pallid face. He pays! He pays!"

And the fishmonger died, howling like a wolf.

And the bells of Notre Dame tolled for the dead.

And once more did Lamme and Ulenspiegel ride away on their donkeys. And
Nele stayed behind in sorrow with Katheline, who never stopped her
ceaseless refrain:

"Put out the fire! My head is burning! Come back, come back to me,
Hanske, my pet."






XXVII


Ulenspiegel and Lamme had come to Heyst-on-the-Dunes, and behold a
fleet of fishing-boats that were come hither from Ostend and from
Blankenberghe and Knokke. Filled they were with men-at-arms, the
followers of the Beggarmen of Zeeland, who carried on their hats a
silver crescent with this inscription: "Serve rather the Turk than
the Pope."

Ulenspiegel is glad; he whistles like the lark and from every
side there comes to answer him the warlike cockcrow. And Lamme and
Ulenspiegel go aboard one of the ships and are carried to Emden and
thence to Wieringen, where their ship is hemmed in by the ice. For
by now it is the month of February.

Now all around the ship there was to be seen the most joyous sight
imaginable: men all clad in velvet, sledging and skating on the ice;
and women skating too, with skirts and jackets broidered with pearl
and gold, blue and scarlet. And the boys and girls came and went
hither and thither, laughing and following one another in line,
or two by two in couples, singing the song of love upon the ice,
and running to eat and drink at the stalls decorated with flags,
where one could buy all kinds of brandy-wine and oranges and figs and
eggs and hot vegetables with heete-koeken--pancakes, that is, with
vegetables flavoured with vinegar. And all around them the sailing
sledges made the ice to resound under the press of their sharp runners.

Lamme, who was still searching everywhere for his wife, wandered
about on his skates like the rest of that happy crowd, but he kept
falling down time and again.

Ulenspiegel, meanwhile, to satisfy his hunger and thirst, was wont to
resort to a little tavern on the quay where the prices were not high,
and where he used to have many a talk with the old lady who kept it.

One Sunday about nine o'clock he went to the inn and asked them to
give him some dinner. A charming-looking young woman came forward to
serve him.

"Dear me," he cried, "you rejuvenated hostess! Where-ever are those
old wrinkles of yours gone to? And your mouth has found all its teeth
again, and they are white with the whiteness of youth itself! And
your lips are red like cherries! Is it for me this smile of yours so
sweet and roguish?"

"Nay, nay," she said. "But what can I get you?"

"Yourself," he said.

The woman answered:

"That would be too big a meal for a lean little man like you. Will
not some other kind of meat do for you?"

When Ulenspiegel made no answer:

"What have you done," she said, "with that handsome, well-set-up,
but rather corpulent gentleman I have so often seen in your company?"

"Do you mean Lamme?" queried Ulenspiegel.

"Yes. What have you done with him?" she repeated.

"He is busy eating," answered Ulenspiegel, "eating anything he can set
his teeth upon--hard-boiled eggs from the street stalls, smoked eels
and salted fish: and all this, forsooth, to help him find his wife. But
why are you not she, my sweet? Would you like fifty florins? Would
you like a collar of gold?"

But she crossed herself, saying:

"I am not to be bought, nor yet taken."

"Do you love no one?" said Ulenspiegel.

"I love you as my neighbour; but above all I love Our Lord and
Our Lady, they that command me to live an honest life. Hard indeed
and oftentimes burdensome are the duties that are laid on us poor
women. Nevertheless God gives us his aid. Yet some there are who
succumb to temptation. But this fat friend of yours, come, tell me,
is he well and happy?"

Ulenspiegel answered:

"He is gay when he is eating, but sad and pensive when he is empty. I
will get him to come and see you."

"Do not do that," she said; "he would weep and so should I."

"Have you ever seen his wife?" asked Ulenspiegel.

"She sinned with him once," the woman answered, "and was condemned
therefor to a cruel punishment. She knows that he goes a-seafaring in
the cause of the heretics, and this is a cruel thought for a Christian
heart. But protect him, I pray you, if he is attacked, and nurse him
if he is wounded: his wife ordered me thus to entreat you."

"Lamme is my brother and my friend," answered Ulenspiegel.

"Ah!" she said. "But why will you not return to the bosom of our Holy
Mother Church?"

"She eats up her children," answered Ulenspiegel. And he departed.

But one morning in March, while still the cold winds of winter kept
the ice frozen, so that the ship of the Beggarmen could not make away,
Ulenspiegel came again to the tavern. And the pretty baesine said to
him (and there was great emotion and sorrow in her voice):

"Poor Lamme! Poor Ulenspiegel!"

"Why do you pity us so?" he asked her.

"Alas! alas!" she cried. "Why will you not believe in the Mass? And
you did, you would go straight to Paradise without a doubt, and I
might be able to save you in this life also."

Seeing her go to the door and listen there attentively, Ulenspiegel
said to her:

"Is it the snow that you hear falling?"

"No," she said.

"What then?"

"It is death that comes like a thief in the night."

"Death," exclaimed Ulenspiegel. "I do not understand you. Come back
and tell me."

"They are there," she said.

"Who are?"

"Who?" she said. "Why, the soldiers of Simonen Bol, who are about to
come in the name of the Duke and throw themselves upon you all. And
if they treat you well while you are here, it is only as men treat
the oxen they mean to kill. Oh why," she cried all in tears, "why
did I not know all this before, so that I could have warned you!"

"You must not cry," said Ulenspiegel, "and you must stay where
you are!"

"Do not betray me," she said.

Ulenspiegel went out of the house, ran as fast as he could, and went
round to all the booths and taverns in the place, whispering to the
sailors and soldiers these words: "The Spaniards are coming."

At that they ran every one to the ship, and prepared with all the
haste they knew whatever things were necessary for battle. Then they
waited for the evening. While they were waiting thus, Ulenspiegel
said to Lamme:

"Do you see that pretty-looking woman on the quay there, in a black
dress embroidered with scarlet?"

"It's all one to me," answered Lamme. "I am cold and I want to go
to sleep."

And he threw his great cloak around his head, and became like a man
who was deaf.

But presently Ulenspiegel recognized the woman and cried out to her
from the vessel:

"Would you like to come with us?"

"Even to the death," she answered, "but I cannot...."

Then she came nearer to the ship.

"Take this ointment," she said. "It is for you and that fat friend
of yours who goes to sleep when he ought to be awake."

And she withdrew herself, crying:

"Lamme! Lamme! May God keep you from harm and bring you back safe."

And she uncovered her face.

"My wife! My wife!" cried Lamme.

And he would have jumped down to her.

"Your faithful wife!" she said, running the while as fast as ever
she could.

Lamme would have leaped down from the deck on to the ice, but he was
restrained by a soldier who caught him by his cloak, and the provost
addressed him, saying:

"You will be hanged if you leave the ship."

Yet again did Lamme try to throw himself down, but an old Beggarman
held him back, telling him that the ice was damp and that he would get
his feet wet. And Lamme sat down on the deck weeping and crying ever:

"My wife! My wife! Let me go and find my wife!"

"You will see her again," said Ulenspiegel. "She loves you, but she
loves God more."

"Mad devil-woman that she is!" cried Lamme. "If she loves God more
than her husband, why does she show herself to me so sweet and so
desirable? And if she loves me, why does she leave me?"

"Can you see clearly to the bottom of a deep well?" demanded
Ulenspiegel.

In the meanwhile the followers of Simonen Bol had appeared on the
scene with a large force of artillery. They shot at the ship, which
promptly repaid them in similar coin. And the bullets broke up the
ice all around. And towards evening a warm rain began to fall, and the
west wind blew from the Atlantic, and the sea grew angry beneath its
covering of ice, and the ice was broken into huge blocks which could
be seen rising and falling to hurl themselves one against the other,
not without danger to the ship, which, nevertheless, as dawn began
to dissipate the clouds of night, opened its sails like a bird of
freedom and sailed out towards the open sea.

There they were joined by the fleet of Messire de Lumey de la Marche,
Admiral of Holland and Zeeland; and on that day the ship of Messire
Très-Long captured a vessel from Biscay that carried a cargo of
mercury, gunpowder, wine, and spices. And the vessel was cleaned to
its marrow, emptied of its men and its booty, even as the bone of
an ox is cleaned by the teeth of a lion. And the Beggarmen took La
Brièle, a strong naval base, well called the Garden of Liberty.






XXVIII


It was at the beginning of May. The sky was clear, the ship sailed
proudly on the billows, and Ulenspiegel sang this song:


        The ashes beat on my heart,
        The murderers are come;
        With daggers have they struck at us,
        Fiercely, with fire and sword have they struck at us,
        They have bribed us most vilely and spied on us,
        Where are love and fidelity now?
        In exchange for those sweetest of virtues,
        Betrayal and fraud have they heaped on us.
        Yet may they that have murdered be murdered themselves!
        Beat, beat, drum of war!

        Long live the Beggarmen! Loud beat the drum!
        La Brièle has fallen,
        Flushing too, the key to the Scheldt!
        God is good, for Camp-veere is taken,
        Taken the place where the guns of all Zeeland were stored!
        Now cannon-balls, powder, and bullets are ours,
        Bullets of iron, bullets of brass.
        God is with us--against us, then, who?

        The drum! Beat the drum of glory and war!
        Long live the Beggarmen! Beat the drum!


And again Ulenspiegel lifted up his voice and sang:


        O Duke! Hark to the voice of the People,
        Murmuring so strong in the distance,
        Like the sea that swells in the season of tempest!
        Enough of silver and gold and of blood,
        Of ruins enough! Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
        The sword is drawn.

        Duke! Duke of Alba, Duke of Blood,
        Behold the stalls and the shops, they are closed.
        Brewers and bakers, grocers and butchers,
        Refuse one and all to do business for nothing.
        When you pass who'll salute you?
        None. Do you feel, then, the pestilent mist
        Of hate and scorn closing around you?

        For the fair land of Flanders,
        The gay land of Brabant,
        Now are sad as a churchyard.
        And where once in the days of our liberty
        Sounded the violas, screamed the fifes and the bagpipes,
        Now there is silence and death.
        Beat the drum, the drum of war.

        And now, 'stead of all the glad faces
        Of those that drank and made love to the sound of sweet singing,
        Now is naught but pale faces
        Of they that await in dumb resignation
        The blade of the sword of injustice.
        Beat the drum, the drum of war.

        O land of our fathers, suffering, belovèd,
        Bow not your head 'neath the foot of the murderer!
        And you, busy bees, fling yourselves now
        In swarms 'gainst the hornets of Spain.
        And you bodies of women and girls
        That are buried alive
        Cry to Christ: Vengeance!

        Wander by night in the fields, poor souls,
        Cry to God!
        Every arm now trembles to strike.
        The sword is drawn.
        Duke, we will tear out your entrails,
        Yea, we will whip you in the face!
        Beat the drum. The sword is drawn.
        Beat the drum. Long live the Beggarmen!


And all the sailors and soldiers on the ship of Ulenspiegel, and
they also that were on the ships near by, took up the refrain and
sang out also:


        The sword is drawn. Long live the Beggarmen!


And the sound of their voices was like the growl of the thunder
of deliverance.






XXIX


It was the month of January, the cruel month that freezes the calf in
the womb of the cow. Snow had fallen over all the land, and then frozen
hard. The boys went out to snare with bird-lime the sparrows that
came to seek what nourishment they could find on the hardened snow;
and whatever they took they brought back to their cottages. Against
the grey, bright sky the skeletons of the trees detached themselves
in motionless outline, and their branches were covered as it were
with cushions of snow, and the roofs of the cottages likewise, and
the tops of the walls where showed the footprints of the cats who
themselves went out hunting for sparrows in the snow. Far and wide
the fields were hidden under that wonderful white fleece which warms
the earth against the bitter cold of winter. The smoke of houses and
cottages showed black as it mounted heavenwards, and over everything
there brooded a great stillness.

And Katheline and Nele lived alone in their cottage, and Katheline
wagged her head, crying continually:

"Hans, my heart is yours. But you must give back those seven hundred
caroluses. Put out the fire! My head is burning! Alas! Where are your
kisses cold as snow?" And she stood watching at the window.

Suddenly a horseman rode past at the gallop, crying:

"Here comes the bailiff, the high bailiff of Damme!"

And he went on to the Town Hall, crying out all the time, so as to
gather together the burghers and the aldermen. And thereafter in
the silence that ensued Nele could hear two blasts of a trumpet,
and straightway all the people of Damme came running to their doors
thinking that it must be no less a personage than His Royal Majesty
himself whose arrival was announced by such a fanfare. And Katheline
also went to her door with Nele, and in the distance she could see a
troop of splendid horsemen riding all together, and at their head a
magnificent figure in a cloak of black velvet edged with sable. And
she knew him at once for the high bailiff of Damme.

Now behind him there rode a company of youthful Lords clad in long
cloaks, and they rode along gaily, and their coats were adorned with
buttons and trimmings of gold, and their hats with long ostrich plumes
waving gaily in the wind. And they seemed one and all to be good
comrades and friends of the high bailiff; and conspicuous among them
was a thin-faced gentleman dressed in green velvet and gold trimmings,
and like the others his cloak was of black velvet and his hat also
was adorned with black plumes. And his nose was like a vulture's beak,
his mouth compressed and thin, and his beard was red and his face pale,
and very proud was his bearing.

While the company of gentlemen was passing before the cottage,
Katheline suddenly ran forward and leapt at the bridle of the pale
horseman, and cried out, mad with joy as it seemed:

"Hans! My beloved, I knew you would come back! Oh, you are beautiful
like this, all clad in velvet and gold, shining like a sun against
the snow! Have you brought me those seven hundred caroluses? Shall
I hear you again crying like the sea-eagle?"

The high bailiff brought the cavalcade to a stand, and the pale
gentleman said:

"What does this beggar-woman want with me?"

But Katheline, still holding the horse by the bridle, made answer:
"You must be dreaming, Hans. Wake up from your dream! I have cried
for you so long. O nights of love, my beloved! O kisses of snow,
O body of ice! See, this is your child!"

And she pointed to Nele, who was gazing at the man with terror,
for now he had raised his whip as though he were about to strike at
Katheline. But Katheline still continued her entreaties, weeping all
the time:

"Ah! Do you not remember? Have pity on your servant! Take her with
you whithersoever you will! Put out the fire! Hans, have pity!"

"Get out of the way!" he said. And he urged on his steed so quickly
that Katheline was forced to loose hold of the bridle, and she fell
on to the road, and the horse went over her, leaving a bleeding wound
upon her forehead. Then the bailiff inquired of the pale horseman as
to whether he knew aught of the woman.

"I know her not," was the answer. "She is out of her wits, doubtless."

But by this time Nele had helped up Katheline from the ground. "If
this woman is mad," she said, "at least, my Lord, I am not. And I am
ready to die here and now of this snow that I am eating"--and here
Nele took and ate of the snow with her fingers--"if this horseman has
not had knowledge of my mother, and if he has not forced her to lend
him money, nay, all the money that she had, and if it was not he that
killed the dog which belonged to Claes, so that he might take from
the wall of the well those seven hundred caroluses which belonged to
the poor man that is dead."

"Hans, my pet," sobbed Katheline, "give me the kiss of peace. Time
was when you killed your friend because you were jealous, by the
dike.... You loved me well in those days."

"Who is that man she speaks of?" demanded the bailiff.

"I know not," said the pale horseman. "The talk of this beggar-woman
is no concern of ours. Let us move on."

But by now a crowd of people had collected, workpeople of the town,
and they all began to take Katheline's part, crying: "Justice! Justice,
my Lord Bailiff! Justice!"

And the bailiff said to Nele: "Who is the one that was killed? Speak
the truth in God's name."

Then Nele said her say, pointing the while at the pale horseman:

"This is the man who came every Saturday to the keet to visit my
mother, and to take her money from her. He killed one of his own
friends, Hilbert by name, in the field of Servaes Van der Vichte;
and this he did not from any love of Katheline, as she in her innocent
folly believes, but rather that he might get hold of her seven hundred
caroluses and keep them all for himself."

"You lie," said the pale horseman.

"Oh no!" said Nele. "For it is you that caused the death of Soetkin;
you that reduced her orphan son to misery; you--nobleman that you
are--who came to us, common people, and the first time you came you
brought money to my mother, so that ever afterwards you might take
her money from her! And you it is that introduced into our house that
friend of yours to whom you would have given me in marriage; but,
as you know, I would have none of him. What did he do, your friend
Hilbert, that time I tore his eyes with my finger-nails?"

"Nele is naughty," said Katheline. "You must not pay any attention
to her, Hans, my pet. She is angry because Hilbert tried to take her
by force; but Hilbert cannot do so any more. The worms have eaten
him. And Hilbert was ugly, Hans, my pet. It is you alone that are
beautiful, and Nele, she is naughty."

Now the bailiff ordered the women to go about their business, but
Katheline would not budge from where she stood. They were obliged,
therefore, to take her into the cottage by force. And all the people
that were there assembled began to cry out:

"Justice, my Lord! Justice!"

At this moment the sergeants of the commune came upon the scene,
attracted by the noise, and the bailiff, bidding them wait, addressed
himself to the Lords and nobles in the following manner:

"My Lords and Gentlemen,--Notwithstanding all those privileges which
protect the illustrious order of the nobility of Flanders, I find
myself constrained to arrest Joos Damman on account of the accusations
which have been brought against him. And I therefore order him to
be confined to prison until such time as he can be brought to trial
according to the laws and ordinances of the Empire. Hand me, then,
your sword, Sir Joos!"

At this command Joos Damman was seen to hesitate, but all the people
cried out as with one voice:

"Justice, my Lord! Justice! Let him deliver up his sword!"

And he was obliged to do so in spite of himself; and when he had
dismounted from his horse he was conducted by the sergeants to the
prison of the commune.

Nevertheless he was not confined in one of the dungeons, but was placed
in a room with barred windows, where, for a payment of money, he was
made not too uncomfortable. For he was provided with a fire, a good
bed, and some good food, half of which, however, went to the gaoler.






XXX


On the morrow there came a soft wind blowing from Brabant. The snow
began to melt and the meadows were all flooded.

And the bell that is called Borgstorm summoned the judges to the
tribunal of the Vierschare. And they sat under the penthouse, because
the grassy banks where they were accustomed to sit were too damp. And
round about the tribunal stood the people of the town.

Joos Damman was brought before the judges. He was not in bonds, and he
still wore the dress of a nobleman. Katheline was also brought there,
but her hands were tied in front of her, and she wore a grey dress,
the dress of a prisoner.

On being examined, Joos Damman pleaded guilty to the charge of having
killed his friend Hilbert with a sword in single combat; and this he
confessed willingly because, as he said, he was protected by the law
of Flanders, which made a murderer safe from conviction after the
space of ten years.

Then the bailiff asked him if he was a sorcerer.

"No," replied Damman.

"Prove it," said the bailiff.

"That I will do at the right time and in the proper place," said Joos
Damman, "but not now."

Then the bailiff began to question Katheline. She, however, paid no
attention to his questions, but kept her eyes fixed on Hans, saying:

"You are my green master. Beautiful you are as the Sun himself. Put
out the fire, my pet!"

Then Nele spoke on Katheline's behalf.

"She can tell you naught, my Lord, that you do not know already. She
is not a sorceress. She is only out of her mind."

Then the bailiff said his say:

"A sorcerer, I would remind you, is one who knowingly employs a
devilish art, or devilish arts, for the attainment of a certain
object. Well, these two persons, the man and the woman, I find to
be sorcerers both in intention and in fact; the man because, as
the evidence states, he gave to this woman the balm of the Witches'
Sabbath, and made his visage like unto Lucifer so as to obtain money
from her and the satisfaction of his wanton desires. And the woman also
I find to be a sorceress because she submitted herself to the man,
taking him for a devil and abandoning herself to his will. I ask,
therefore, if the gentlemen of the tribunal are agreed that it is a
case where the prisoners should both be sent to the torture?"

The aldermen did not answer, but showed clearly enough that such was
not their desire, so far at any rate as Katheline was concerned.

Then the bailiff spake again:

"Like you I am moved with pity and compassion for the woman, but mad
as she undoubtedly is and obedient in all things to the devil, is it
not probable that at the behest of her leman she might have committed
the most horrible crimes and abominations, as do all those who resign
themselves to the devil's will? No. Since Joos Damman has refused
to acknowledge any crime save that of murder, and since Katheline
has not told us anything at all, it is clear that by the laws of the
Empire we are bound to proceed in the manner I have indicated."

And the aldermen gave sentence to the effect that the two prisoners
were to be committed to torture on the following Friday, which was
the day but one following.

And Nele cried out for mercy upon Katheline, and the people joined
with her in supplication, but all in vain. And the prisoners were
taken back into the gaol.

There, by order of the tribunal, the keeper of the gaol was ordered
to provide a couple of guards for each prisoner, and these guards
were commanded to beat them whenever they looked like going off to
sleep. Now the two guards that were allotted to Katheline suffered her
to sleep during the night; but they that were assigned to Joos Damman
beat him unmercifully every time that he closed his eyes or even hung
his head down. And neither of the prisoners was given anything to
eat through all that Wednesday, and through all the night and day
which followed. But on the Thursday evening they were given food
and drink--meat, that is to say, which had been soaked in salt and
saltpetre, and water which had been salted in a similar fashion. And
this was the beginning of their torture. And in the morning, crying out
with thirst, they were led by the sergeants into the chamber of doom.

There they were set opposite to one another, bound as they were,
each to a separate bench which itself was covered with knotted cords
that hurt them grievously. And they were both made to drink a glass
of water saturated with salt and saltpetre.

Joos Damman began to fall off to sleep where he was, but the sergeants
soon beat him awake again. And Katheline said:

"Do not beat him, kind sirs. He has committed but a single crime,
when he killed Hilbert--and that was done for love's sake. Oh, but I
am thirsty! And you also are thirsty, Hans, my beloved! Pray give him
something to drink first of all. Water! Water! My body is burning me
up. But spare him. I will die for him. Water!"

Joos said to her:

"Ugly old witch that you are, go and die for all I care! Throw her
into the fire, my Lords! Oh, but I am thirsty!"

Meanwhile the clerks of the court were busy writing down every word
that was being said. And the bailiff asked him:

"Have you nothing to confess?"

"I have nothing more to say," replied Damman. "You know all that
there is to know."

"Forasmuch as he persists in his denials," said the bailiff, "let him
remain where he is until he shall have made a complete avowal of his
crimes. Let him neither eat nor drink nor go to sleep."

"So be it," said Joos Damman. "And I will amuse myself by watching
the sufferings of this old witch here."

And Katheline answered him, saying:

"Cold arms, warm heart, Hans, my beloved! I am thirsty, my head
is burning!"

The clerk of the court wrote down what she said, and the bailiff
asked her:

"Woman, have you nothing to say in your own defence?"

But Katheline only gazed at Joos Damman, and said very amorously:

"It is the hour of the sea-eagle, Hans, my pet. They say that you will
give me back the seven hundred caroluses. Put out the fire! Put out
the fire!" Then she began to cry out most horribly: "Water! Water! My
head is burning! God and His angels are eating apples in heaven!"

And she lost consciousness.

Thereupon the bailiff ordered her to be released from the bench of
torture; which was done, and thereafter she was seen to stagger to
and fro because of her feet, which were all swollen from the cords
that had been bound too tight.

"Give her to drink," said the bailiff.

And they gave her some fresh water which she swallowed greedily,
holding the goblet between her teeth as a dog holds a bone and refusing
to let it go. Then they gave her more water, and this she would have
carried over to Joos Damman had not the torturer wrested the goblet
from her hand. And she fell down asleep, like a piece of lead.

But Joos Damman cried out in his fury:

"I also am thirsty and sleepy. Why do you give her to drink? Why do
you let her fall asleep?"

"She is a woman," answered the bailiff. "And she is weak and out of
her mind."

"Her madness is only pretence," said Joos Damman. "She is a witch. I
want to drink, and I want to sleep."

And he closed his eyes, but his tormentors struck him in the face.

"Give me a knife," he cried, "that I may cut these varlets in
pieces. I am a nobleman; no one has ever struck me in the face
before! Water! Let me sleep. I am innocent. It is not I that took
the seven hundred caroluses, it was Hilbert. Water! I have never
committed any sorceries nor any incantations. I am innocent. Leave
me alone and give me something to drink."

But the bailiff only asked him how he had passed the time after he
left Katheline.

"I do not know Katheline at all," he said, "therefore I never left
her. You have asked me an unfair question, and I am not bound to
answer it. Give me something to drink. Let me go to sleep. I tell
you it was Hilbert who was responsible for everything."

"Take him away," said the bailiff, "put him back into his prison. But
see that he has nothing to drink, and that he does not fall asleep
until he has admitted his sorceries and incantations."

And now Damman suffered the most cruel torture of all, and he cried
out continually in his prison: "Water! Water!" And so loudly did he
cry that the people outside could hear him, nevertheless they felt
no pity for him. And when he began to fall off to sleep the guards
struck him in the face, and he cried out again, like a tiger:

"I am a nobleman, and I will kill you, you varlets! I will go to the
King our master. Water!"

But he would confess nothing at all, and they left him where he was.






XXXI


It was the month of May. The Tree of Justice was green again. Green
also were those grassy banks where the judges were wont to seat
themselves. Nele was summoned to give evidence, for it was the day
on which the judgment was to be promulgated. And the people--men and
women--of Damme, stood around the open space of the court, and the
sun shone brightly.

Katheline and Joos Damman were now brought before the tribunal, and
Damman appeared more pale than ever because of the torture he had
suffered, the many nights he had passed without sleep or anything to
drink. As for Katheline, she could scarcely support herself on her
tottering legs, and she pointed to the sun continually, and cried out:
"Put out the fire! My head is burning!" And she gazed at Joos Damman
with tender love. And he looked back at her with hate and despite. And
his friends, the Lords and gentlemen who had been summoned to Damme,
were all present there before the tribunal as witnesses.

Then the bailiff spoke as follows:

"The girl Nele here, who is protecting her mother Katheline with
such great and brave affection, has found sewn into the pocket of
Katheline's Sunday dress a letter signed by Joos Damman. And I myself,
when I was inspecting the dead body of Hilbert Ryvish, which was dug up
in the field near Katheline's cottage, found thereon a second letter,
addressed to him and signed by the said Joos Damman, the accused now
present before you. Is it your pleasure that these letters be now
read to you?"

"Read them, read them!" cried the crowd. "Nele is a brave girl! Read
the letters! Katheline is no witch!"

And the clerk of the court read out as follows:


    "To Hilbert, son of William Ryvish, knight, Joos Damman,
    knight, Greeting.

    "Most excellent friend, let me advise you to lose no more of
    your money in gambling, dicing, and other foolishness of that
    kind. I will tell you a way of making money safe and sound. My
    plan is that we should disguise ourselves as devils, such as are
    beloved by women and girls, and then choose out for ourselves
    all the pretty ones, leaving alone all such as are ugly or poor;
    for we will make them pay for their pleasure. Do you know that
    when I was in Germany I acquired by this means as much as five
    thousand rixdaelders, and all within the space of six months? For
    a woman will give her last denier to the man she loves. When,
    therefore, such an one is willing to receive you in the night,
    the thing is to announce your coming by crying like a night-bird,
    so it may seem that you are really and truly a devil; and if you
    want to make your countenance appear devilish you must rub it
    all over with phosphorus, for phosphorus burns when it is damp,
    and the smell of it is horrible; and the women mistake it for the
    odour of hell itself. And if anything gets in your way, be it man,
    woman, or beast, kill it.

    "Before long we will go together to one Katheline, a handsome
    woman I know. And she has a daughter--a child of mine forsooth,
    if indeed Katheline has proved faithful to me. And she is a right
    comely lass, and I give her to you, for these bastards are nothing
    to me. And you must know that I have already had from the mother
    a sum of three and twenty caroluses. This money all belonged to
    her. But somewhere, unless I am a dunce, she keeps secreted the
    fortune of Claes, that heretic, you remember, who was burned
    alive at Damme--seven hundred caroluses in all, and liable to
    confiscation. But the good King Philip, who has burned so many
    of his subjects for the sake of their inheritance, cannot lay
    his claw upon this, and assuredly it will weigh heavier in my
    purse than ever it would in his. Katheline will tell me where it
    is hidden, and we will share it between us. Fortune favours the
    young, as His Sacred Majesty Charles V was never tired of saying,
    and he was a past master in all the arts of love and war."


Here the clerk of the court stopped reading and said:

"Such is the letter, and it is signed Joos Damman."

And the people cried out:

"To the death with the murderer! To the death with the sorcerer!"

But the bailiff ordered them to keep silence so that judgment might be
passed on the prisoners with every form of freedom and legality. After
that he addressed himself again to the aldermen.

"Now I will read to you the second letter, which is the letter Nele
found sewn into the pocket of Katheline's Sunday gown. These are the
terms of it:


    "Sweet witch, here is the recipe of a mixture which was sent to
    me by the wife of Lucifer himself. By the aid of this mixture
    it is possible to be transported to the sun, the moon, and the
    stars, and you can hold converse with the elemental spirits who
    carry the prayers of men to God, and can traverse the cities,
    towns, rivers, and fields of all the world. Mix equal parts of
    the following: stramonium, solanum, somniferum, henbane, opium,
    fresh ends of hemp, belladonna, and thorn-apple. Then drink. If
    it is your wish we will go this very night to the Sabbath of the
    Spirits. But you must love me more, and not be cold to me like
    you were the other night, refusing to give me even ten florins,
    and denying that you had got them! For I know very well you have
    a treasure in your hiding but will not tell me where. Do you not
    love me any more, my sweetheart?--Your cold devil,


    "Hanske."


"To death with the sorcerer!" cried the crowd.

The bailiff said:

"Let the two handwritings be compared."

When this had been done, and when it had been found that they were
in all respects similar, the bailiff said:

"After these proofs, Messire Joos Damman is found to be a sorcerer,
a murderer, a seducer of women, a robber of the property of the King,
and as such he must be accounted guilty of high treason against God
and man."

And the bailiff and the aldermen gave judgment on Joos Damman, and he
was condemned to be degraded from the rank of a nobleman, and to be
burned alive in the slower fire till death supervened. And he underwent
this punishment on the following day in front of the Town Hall. And
all the time he kept on crying: "Let the witch perish, it is she and
she alone who is guilty! Cursed be God! My father will avenge me!"

And the people said: "Behold how he curses and blasphemes. He is
dying the death of a dog."

On the next day, the bailiff and the aldermen gave sentence upon
Katheline. She was condemned to undergo the trial by water in the
Bruges Canal. If she floated she would be burned for a witch. If she
sank and was drowned she would be considered to have died the death
of a Christian and would be buried in the churchyard.

So on the morrow Katheline was conducted to the canal-bank, holding
a candle in her hand and walking barefoot in a shift of black
linen. Along by the trees went the long procession. In front was
the Dean of Notre Dame, chanting the prayers for the dead, and with
him were his vicars, and the beadle carrying the cross. Behind came
the bailiff of Damme, the aldermen, the clerks, the sergeants of the
commune, the provost, the executioner and his two assistants. On the
edge of the procession there followed a great crowd of women crying,
and men mourning, in pity for Katheline, who herself walked like a
lamb that allows itself to be led whither it knows not. And all the
time she kept on crying:

"Put out the fire! My head is burning! Hans, where are you?"

In the midst of the women was Nele, who kept crying also:

"Let them throw me in with her!"

But the women did not suffer her to come near to Katheline.

A sharp wind came blowing in from the sea, and from the grey sky a fine
hail fell dripping into the water of the canal. Now there was a boat
moored by the side of the water, and this boat the executioner and
his assistants commandeered in the name of His Royal Majesty. Then
Katheline was ordered to step down into the boat. She obeyed at
once, and the executioner was seen standing by her side and holding
her securely. Then the provost raised the rod of justice, and the
executioner threw Katheline into the canal. For a while she struggled,
but soon sank, with one last cry: "Hans! Hans! Help!"

And the people said: "This woman was no witch."

Thereafter certain men who were there jumped into the canal and
dragged Katheline out again, senseless and rigid as one dead. And
she was taken into a tavern near by, and placed in front of a bright
fire. Nele took off her garments wringing wet as they were, meaning
to put dry ones on her. After a while she regained consciousness, and
cried out, all trembling and with her teeth chattering: "Hans! Give
me a cloak of wool!"

But Katheline could not be warmed. And on the third day she died. And
she was buried in the garden of the church.

And Nele, the orphan, went away into Holland, and dwelt at the house
of Rosa van Auweghem.






XXXII


In those days it was that the Beggarmen, among whom were Lamme and
Ulenspiegel, took the city of Gorcum by storm. And they were led
in this enterprise by one Captain Marin. This Marin had once been a
workman on the dikes, but now he bore himself with great haughtiness
and effrontery, and he signed an agreement with Gaspard Turc, the
defender of Gorcum, by which it was agreed that the city should
capitulate on condition that Turc himself, together with the monks,
citizens, and soldiers who had been shut up in the citadel, should be
allowed to pass out freely, their muskets on their shoulders and with
anything that they could carry with them--save only what belonged to
the churches, which was to remain in the hands of the victors. But in
spite of this agreement, Captain Marin, acting under an order from
Messire de Lumey, detained nineteen monks as his prisoners, while
the rest of the citizens were allowed to go free as had been promised.

And Ulenspiegel said:

"Word of a soldier, word of gold. Why has the captain been false to
his promise?"

An old Beggarman answered Ulenspiegel:

"The monks are the sons of Satan, the canker of our nation, the shame
of our country. Dogs are chained up--let the monks be also chained,
for they are the bloodhounds of the Duke. Long live the Beggarmen!"

"But," answered Ulenspiegel, "we must remember that my Lord of Orange,
the Prince of Liberty, has ordered us to respect the property and
the free conscience of all such as give themselves up into our power."

Some of the older Beggarmen replied that the admiral could not do so
in the case of the monks. "And he is master here," they added. "It
was he that took La Brièle. To prison with the monks!"

"A soldier's word is a word of gold," said Ulenspiegel. "Parole de
soldat, parole d'or. Why should we ever break our word?"

"No longer do the ashes beat upon your heart," they told him. "Hear
you not the souls of the dead that cry for vengeance?"

"The ashes beat upon my heart," said Ulenspiegel. "Parole de soldat,
c'est parole d'or."

The next day a message arrived from Messire de Lumey to the effect
that the nineteen monks were to be brought as prisoners from Gorcum
to La Brièle where the admiral was then stationed.

"They will be hanged," said Captain Marin to Ulenspiegel.

"Not as long as I am alive," said Ulenspiegel.

"My son," said Lamme, "you must not speak in this way to Messire de
Lumey. He is a stern man, and will have you hanged as well as the
monks if you are not careful."

"I shall tell him the truth," answered Ulenspiegel. "Parole de soldat,
c'est parole d'or."

"If you think that you can save them," said Marin, "I will give you
permission to go with them by ship to La Brièle. Take Rochus with
you as pilot, and your friend Lamme if you please as well."

"I will," said Ulenspiegel.

The ship was moored by the quay side, and the nineteen monks were taken
aboard. Rochus took charge of the helm, while Ulenspiegel and Lamme
placed themselves at the bow. Certain vagabond soldiers who had joined
the Beggarmen for the sake of plunder were stationed by the monks, who
now began to wax hungry. Ulenspiegel gave them food and drink. Then
the sailors began to murmur one to another, saying: "This man is a
traitor." Meanwhile the nineteen monks were seated sanctimoniously in
the midst, and they were shivering although the month was July and the
sun was shining hot and clear, and a gentle breeze filled the sails
of the ship as it glided, heavy and full-bellied, over the green waves.

Father Nicholas then began to speak, addressing himself to the pilot:

"O Rochus," he said, "are they taking us to the gallows-field?" Then,
turning his face towards Gorcum: "O city of Gorcum," he cried,
stretching out his hands, "O city of Gorcum, how many evils hast thou
still to suffer! Verily thou shalt be cursed among all the cities
of the earth, for thou hast nurtured within thy walls the seed of
heresy! O city of Gorcum! For now no longer shall the angel of the
Lord stand watch above thy gates, no longer shall he have any care
for the modesty of thy virgins, or the courage of thy men, or for
the fortunes of thy merchants! O city of Gorcum, accursed thou art
and doomed to misfortune!"

"Cursed and accursed indeed!" answered Ulenspiegel. "As accursed as is
the comb that has combed away the lice of Spain, or accursed as the
dog that has broken the chain that held him captive, or as the proud
charger that has thrown from his back the cruel cavalier! Be cursed
yourself, silly preacher that you are, who think it an evil thing to
break the rod upon the back of a tyrant, even if it be a rod of iron!"

The monk was silenced, and dropping his eyes he seemed lost in a
dream of hate and bigotry.

The next morning they arrived at La Brièle, and a messenger was sent
to advise Messire de Lumey of their coming.

As soon as he had received the news he set out to go to them on
horseback, half dressed as he was, and with him went a company of
armed men, some on foot and some on horseback. And now once again was
it given to Ulenspiegel to behold this fierce admiral dressed as he
was like some noble, proud and opulent.

"Welcome," said he, "Sir Monks. And now hold up your hands and show
me there the blood of my Lords of Egmont and Hoorn!"

One of the monks, whose name was Leonard, made answer:

"Do what you like with us. We are monks. No one will make any
objection."

"He has well spoken," said Ulenspiegel. "For having broken with
the world--that is with father, mother, brother and sister, wife and
sweetheart--a monk finds no one at the hour of God to claim anything on
his behalf. Nevertheless, your Excellency, I will do so. For Captain
Marin, when he signed the treaty for the capitulation of Gorcum,
stipulated that these monks should be free like all the others that
were taken in the citadel and were allowed to go out from it. But
in spite of this, and for no adequate reason, these monks were kept
prisoner, and now it is reported that they are to be hanged. My Lord,
I address myself to you right humbly on their behalf, for I know
that the word of a soldier is a word of gold--parole de soldat,
c'est parole d'or."

"And who are you?" asked Messire de Lumey.

"My Lord," replied Ulenspiegel, "a Fleming I am from the lovely land
of Flanders, working man, nobleman, all in one--and I go wandering
through the world, praising things beautiful and good but boldly
making fun of foolishness. And verily I will sing your praises if
you will keep the promise which was made to these men by the captain:
parole de soldat, c'est parole d'or."

But the good-for-nothing Beggarmen who were on the ship cried out
at this.

"My Lord," said they, "this man is a traitor. He has promised them
that he will save them, and he has been loading them with bread and
ham and sausages. But to us he has given nothing at all."

Then Messire de Lumey said to Ulenspiegel:

"Wandering Fleming that you are, and protector of monks, I tell you
I will have you hanged with them."

"I am not afraid," replied Ulenspiegel. "Parole de soldat, c'est
parole d'or."

The monks were led away to a barn, and Ulenspiegel with them. There
they tried to convert him with many theological arguments; but these
soon sent him to sleep.

In the meanwhile Messire de Lumey was feasting at a table covered
with meats and wines when a messenger arrived from Gorcum from
Captain Marin, bringing with him copies of those letters of William
the Silent, Prince of Orange, which ordered "all governors of cities
and other places to confer the same privileges of safety and surety
on ecclesiastics as on the rest of the people."

The messenger asked to be brought into the presence of de Lumey so
that he might put into his own hands the copies of these letters.

"Where are the originals?" inquired de Lumey.

"My master has them," said the messenger.

"And the churl sends me the copy!" said de Lumey. "Where is your
passport?"

"Here, my Lord," said the messenger.

Then Messire de Lumey began to read it aloud:

"My Lord and Master Marin Brandt commands all ministers, governors,
and officers of the Republic that they should allow to pass...." etc.

De Lumey struck the table with his fist, and tore the passport in two.

"Sang de Dieu!" he cried. "What is he doing meddling here, this
Marin? This trumpery fellow who before the taking of La Brièle had not
so much as the bone of a smoked herring to place between his teeth! He
calls himself 'My Lord' forsooth, and 'Master,' and sends to me his
'orders'! He commands and orders! You may tell your master that since
he is so much of a Captain and so much of a My Lord, ordering and
commanding so excellently well, the monks shall be hanged forthwith,
and you with them if you don't get out at once."

And he gave the man a great kick and had him removed from the room.

"Bring me to drink," he cried. "Have you ever seen anything to compare
with the effrontery of this Marin? I could spit my food out, so angry I
am. Let the monks be hanged immediately, and let the wandering Fleming
be brought hither to me as soon as he has witnessed the execution. We
will see if he still dares to tell me that I have done wrong. Blood
of God! What are these pots and glasses doing here?"

And with a great noise he brake the bowls and dishes, and no one
durst say anything to him. The servants would have cleared up the
debris but he would not allow them, but went on drinking yet more;
and growing more and more enraged he strode up and down the room,
treading the broken pieces and stamping upon them furiously.

Ulenspiegel was brought before him.

"Well?" he said. "What news of your friends the monks?"

"They have been hanged," said Ulenspiegel. "And those cowards of
executioners, whose game it is to kill for profit, have cut one of
them open to sell the fat to an apothecary. And now the word of a
soldier is gold no more. Parole de soldat n'est plus parole d'or."

Then de Lumey stamped again upon the broken dishes.

"So you defy me, do you, you good-for-nothing beast! But you also
shall be hanged, not in my barn forsooth, but in the open street,
most ignominiously, where all can see you!"

"Shame on you," cried Ulenspiegel. "Shame on us all! Parole de soldat
n'est plus parole d'or."

"Silence, Iron-pate!" said Messire de Lumey.

"Shame on you again!" cried Ulenspiegel. "Parole de soldat n'est plus
parole d'or. You ought rather to be punishing those rascals that are
merchants in human fat!"

At this Messire de Lumey rushed at Ulenspiegel and raised his hand
to strike at him.

"Strike," said Ulenspiegel. "I am in your hands. But I have no fear
at all of you. Parole de soldat n'est plus parole d'or."

Messire de Lumey drew his sword, and would certainly have killed
Ulenspiegel had not Messire Très-Long taken him by the arm, saying:

"Have mercy. He is a brave and valiant man and has committed no crime."

Then de Lumey thought better of the matter.

"Let him ask my pardon then," he said.

But Ulenspiegel stood his ground.

"Never," he said.

"At least he must admit that I was not in the wrong," cried de Lumey,
growing angry again.

Ulenspiegel answered:

"I will lick no man's boots. Parole de soldat n'est plus parole d'or."

"Tell them to put up the gallows," said de Lumey, "and let this man
be taken where he may hear the way a halter speaks."

"Yes," said Ulenspiegel, "and I will cry out there in front of all
the people, Parole de soldat n'est plus parole d'or."

The gallows was set up in the market square, and the news spread
swiftly through the city how Ulenspiegel, the brave Beggarman,
was going to be hanged. And the populace was moved with pity and
compassion, and a great crowd collected in the market square. And
Messire de Lumey came there also, being desirous himself to give the
signal for the execution.

He regarded Ulenspiegel without pity as he stood upon the scaffold,
dressed to meet his death in a single garment with his arms bound
to his sides, his hands clasped together, the cord round his neck,
and the executioner ready to do the deed.

Très-Long said:

"My Lord, pardon him now; he is no traitor, and no one has ever heard
of a man being hanged simply because he was sincere and pitiful."

And the men and women in the crowd, hearing Très-Long speak in
this wise, cried out also: "Have pity, my Lord! Mercy and pardon
for Ulenspiegel!"

"The Iron-pate has defied me," said de Lumey. "Let him admit he was
wrong and that I was in the right."

"Will you?" said Très-Long to Ulenspiegel.

"Parole de soldat n'est plus parole d'or," Ulenspiegel answered.

"Draw the cord," said de Lumey.

The executioner was about to obey when a young maid, dressed all
in white and with a wreath of flowers round her head, ran up the
steps of the scaffold like one mad, and threw herself on the neck
of Ulenspiegel.

"This man is mine," she said. "I take him for my husband."

And the people broke into applause, and the women cried aloud:

"Long live the maid, long live the maid that has saved the life
of Ulenspiegel!"

"What does this mean?" demanded Messire de Lumey.

Très-Long answered:

"You must know that by the legal usages and customs of our city any
young maid or unmarried girl has the right to save a man from hanging,
provided that she be willing to take him for her husband at the foot
of the gallows."

"God is on his side," said de Lumey. "Unloose his fetters."

Then riding up close to the scaffold he saw how the executioner
was endeavouring to prevent the maid from severing the cords which
bound Ulenspiegel, telling her at the same time that he didn't know
who would pay the price of the cords if she cut them. But the damsel
did not appear even to hear him. Seeing her so hasty in her love and
so cunning withal, the heart of de Lumey was softened within him,
and he asked the maid who she might be.

"I am Nele," she answered him, "the betrothed of Ulenspiegel, and I
am come from Flanders to seek him."

"You have done well," said de Lumey in a disdainful tone. And he
went away.

Then Très-Long approached the scaffold.

"Young Fleming," he said, "when once you are married, will you still
serve as a soldier in our ships?"

"Yes, sir," answered Ulenspiegel.

"But you, my girl, what will you do without your husband?"

Nele answered:

"If you will allow me, sir, I am fain to become a piper in his ship."

"Very well," said Très-Long.

And he gave her two florins for the wedding feast. And Lamme cried for
joy and laughed at the same time, and he gave her three other florins,
saying: "We will eat them all. And I will pay. Let us to the sign of
the Golden Comb. He is not dead, my friend. Long live the Beggarmen!"

And the people shouted assent, and they repaired to the tavern of
the Golden Comb, where a great feast was ordered, and from an upper
window Lamme threw down pennies to the people in the street below.

And Ulenspiegel said to Nele:

"Sweetest and best beloved, here we are together once again! Noel! For
she is here, flesh, heart, and soul of my sweet love. Oh, her soft
eyes and her red and lovely lips that can speak naught but words of
kindness! She has saved my life, my tender lover! And now it's you and
only you that shall play upon our ship the fife of deliverance! Do
you remember ... but no.... This is our hour of joy, and all for me
is now this face, sweet as June flowers. I am in Paradise. But why,
tell me.... You are crying!"

"They have killed her," she said. And then Nele told him all the sad
story of the death of Katheline. And gazing one at the other they
wept for love and for sorrow.

But at the feast they ate and drank, and Lamme as he looked upon them
grieved within himself, saying:

"Alas! my wife, where are you?"

And the priest came and married Nele and Ulenspiegel.

And the morning found them side by side in their bed of marriage.

And Nele's head was resting on the shoulder of Ulenspiegel. And when
the sun had awakened her he said:

"Fresh face, soft heart, we two will be the avengers of the land
of Flanders!"

She kissed him on the mouth, saying:

"Wild head, strong arms, God bless my fife and your sword."

"I will make for you a soldier's habit," said Ulenspiegel.

"Now? At once?"

"At once," he told her. "But who was that man who said that
strawberries were sweet in the early morning? Your lips are far,
far sweeter."






XXXIII


By sea, by river, in fair weather and foul, through snows of winter
and summer's heat, the ships of the Beggarmen sailed before the
breeze. Full-bellied was their canvas and white as the down of
swans--white swans of Liberty.

But to the King of Blood came the news of their conquests, and
death was already at work upon his vitals, and his body was full of
worms. And he dragged himself along the corridors of his palace at
Valladolid, and he never laughed--not even at daybreak, what time
the Sun rose to irradiate all the lands of his empire as with the
very smile of God.

But Ulenspiegel, Lamme, and Nele sang out like birds, living from
day to day, having joy to hear of many a funeral pyre put out by the
brave Beggarmen. And Tyl sang five songs, all to the glory of the
land of Flanders and to the despite of her enemies.

And it came to pass that on a day, having taken the towns of Rammeken,
Gertruydenberg, and Alckmaer, the Beggarmen returned to Flushing. And
there in the harbour they beheld a little boat moored. And in the
boat was a pretty-looking woman with golden-brown hair, brown eyes,
fresh cheeks, rounded arms, and white hands. And all at once the
woman cried out:

"Lamme! Lamme!" And then again: "Ah, but you must not approach me! I
have taken a vow before God.... Yet I love you. Ah, my dear husband!"

Nele said: "It is Calleken Huysbrechts--the fair Calleken!"

"Even so," answered the woman. "But, alas! the hour of noon has
already struck for my beauty." And she looked very sorrowful.

But now Lamme jumped down from the ship into a little skiff, which
was straightway brought alongside of the boat wherein was his wife.

"What have you been doing?" he asked her. "What has been happening
to you? Why did you leave me? And why now do you make as though you
would have none of me?"

Then Calleken told him, in a voice that oftentimes trembled with tears,
how that she had entrusted the care of her soul to a monk, one Brother
Cornelis Adriaensen, and how he had warned her against her husband
for that he was a heretic and a consorter with heretics. How also by
his eloquence he had persuaded her that a life of celibacy was most
pleasing unto God and his saints, albeit he oftentimes profaned the
holy confessional with many a penance that was most distressful to
her modesty. "Nevertheless," she ended, "I swear before God that I
remained ever faithful to you, my husband, for I loved you."

But Lamme gazed upon her sadly and reproachfully, so that Nele said
to him:

"If Calleken has been faithful as she says, it behoves her now to
leave you in very deed, as a punishment for your unkindness."

"He knows not how I love him," said Calleken.

"Is this the truth?" cried Lamme. And then seeing that it was so:
"Then come, wife," he cried, "the winter is over!"

Thereafter, having given and received from all the kiss of peace:
"Come now," cried Lamme, "come, wife, with me. For now is the hour
of lawful loves!"

And together they sailed away in their little boat.

Meanwhile the soldiers, the sailors, and the ship's boys that
stood around, all waved their caps in the air and shouted: "Adieu,
brother! Adieu, Lamme! Adieu, brother--brother and friend!"

And Nele removed with the tip of her sweet finger a tear that had
settled in the corner of the eye of Ulenspiegel.

"You are sad, my love?" she asked him.

"He was good," Tyl said.

Nele sighed.

"Ah! This war--will it never end? Must we live for ever thus, in the
midst of blood and tears?"

"Let us seek the Seven," said Ulenspiegel. "The hour of deliverance
is at hand."






XXXIV


It was the season of harvest. The air was heavy, the wind warm. They
that gathered the harvest were able now to reap at their ease, under
a free sky and from a free soil, the corn they had sown.

Frise, Drenthe, Overyssel, Gueldre, Utrecht, Noord Brabant, Noord
and Zuid Holland; Walcheren, Noord and Zuid Beveland; Duiveland and
Schouwen which together make up Zeeland; the sea-bordering lands to the
north from Knokke to Helder; the isles of Texel, Vlieland, Ameland,
and Schiermonik Oog--all were being delivered from the Spanish yoke,
from the Eastern Scheldt to the Oost Ems. And Maurice, the son of
William the Silent, was continuing the war.

Ulenspiegel and Nele kept still their youthfulness, their strength
and their beauty, for the Love and the Spirit of Flanders never grow
old. And they lived happily at the Tower of Neere, waiting for that
day when, after so many cruel trials, they would be able to breathe
the breath of liberty upon their native land of Belgium.

Ulenspiegel had asked to be made governor and guardian of the
Tower. For he had, so he said, the eyes of an eagle and the ears of
a hare, and so he would be able to see at once if the Spaniard ever
dared to show himself again in the lands that had been delivered from
his yoke. Then quickly would he sound the wacharm, the alarm-bell as
we call it in our tongue.

To this request the magistrate consented, and in virtue of the good
service he had rendered, Ulenspiegel was allowed a florin every day,
two pints of beer, a ration of beans, cheese, biscuits, and three
pounds of beef weekly.

And so did Ulenspiegel and Nele live on the Tower together very
happily, having joy to see in the distance the free isles of Zeeland,
and near at hand the woods and castles and fortresses, and the armed
ships of the Beggarmen that guarded the coast.

At night they would often mount to the top of the Tower, and there
they would sit together on the flat roof, talking of many a stern
battle and telling many a tale of love, past and to come. And from
their Tower they could see the ocean, which, when the weather was hot,
furled and unfurled along the shore its shining waves, and threw them
upon the island-coasts like wraiths of fire. And among the polders
the will-o'-the-wisps would come a-dancing. And Nele was afraid of
them, for she said they were the souls of the poor dead. And true it
was that all those places where they danced had once been fields of
battle. And the will-o'-the-wisps would oftentimes spring forth from
the polders, and run along the dikes, and then return again to the
polders, as though unwilling to leave the bodies whence they had come.

One night Nele said to Ulenspiegel:

"Behold how many spirits there are in Dreiveland, and how high
they fly! Over there by the Isle of Birds they seem to crowd the
thickest. Will you come with me there one night, Tyl? We would take
with us the balm that can show us things invisible to mortal eyes."

But Ulenspiegel answered:

"If you mean the balm we took when we went to the great Sabbath of
Spring, I have no more faith or confidence in what we saw there than
in any idle dream."

"It is wrong to deny the power of charms," said Nele. "Come,
Ulenspiegel!"

"Very well," he said.

The next day Ulenspiegel arranged with the magistrate that one of
the soldiers who had clear sight and a faithful heart should take
his place at the Tower for that one evening. And away he went with
Nele towards the Isle of Birds.

They passed along by many a field and dike, till at last they saw the
sea in front of them, and in it were set many little green islands with
the waves coursing in between. And all about the grassy hills, which
soon began to lose themselves in the sand-dunes, a great quantity of
peewits were flying high and low, and sea-gulls and sea-swallows. Some
of these birds would crowd together on the surface of the sea, and
stay there quite still, so that they looked like little white islets;
and above them and about flew thousands of their fellows. The very
soil itself was full of their nests, and Ulenspiegel stooped down
to pick up one of their eggs which was lying on the road. No sooner
had he done so than a sea-gull came flapping towards him, crying out
the while most dolefully. And in answer to this summons there flew
up a hundred other sea-gulls, crying out as if in anguish, hovering
about the head of Ulenspiegel and over the neighbouring nests. But
they did not dare to approach him.

"Ulenspiegel," said Nele, "these birds are asking you to have mercy
on their eggs."

Then she began to tremble, and said:

"I am afraid. Behold, the sun is setting, the sky is pale, the stars
are awakening, it is the hour of the spirits. And look at these ruddy
exhalations which rise all about us and seem as it were to trail along
the ground. Tyl, my beloved, what monster from hell may he be who thus
in the mist begins to open his fiery mouth? And look over there towards
Philipsland. It was there that the murderer king had all those poor men
done to death, not once but twice, and all for the sake of his cruel
ambition! And there this night the will-o'-the-wisps are dancing. For
this is the night when the souls of poor men killed in battle leave
their bodies all cold in purgatory, and come to warm themselves once
again in the tepid air of earth. This is the hour when you may ask
anything you will of Christ, He who is Lord of all good wizards."

"The ashes beat upon my heart," said Ulenspiegel. "Would that He would
show me those Seven whose ashes, they say, when thrown to the winds,
would make Flanders happy again, and all the world!"

"O man without faith," said Nele. "By the power of the balm it may
be you will see them."

"Maybe," said Ulenspiegel, "if some spirit, forsooth, would come down
to visit us from that cold star." And he pointed with his finger to
the star Sirius.

No sooner had he made this gesture than a will-o'-the-wisp that
had been flying round them came and attached itself to his finger,
and the more Ulenspiegel tried to shake it off the firmer the little
wisp held on. Nele tried to free Ulenspiegel, but now she also had a
little wisp firm on the tip of her finger, and neither would it let her
go. Ulenspiegel began to flick at the wisp with his free hand, saying:

"Answer me now, are you the soul of a Beggarman or of a Spaniard? If
you are a Beggarman's you may go to Paradise, but if a Spaniard's,
return to the hell whence you came."

Nele said to him:

"Do not abuse the souls of the dead, even though they be the souls
of murderers!"

Then, making the little will-o'-the-wisp to dance at the end of
her finger:

"Wisp," she said, "gentle wisp, come tell me what news do you bring
from the land of souls? What rule do they live by down there? Do they
eat and drink, having no mouths? For you have none, my sweet! Or
wait they, perhaps, till they come to blessed Paradise ere taking
upon themselves a human form?"

"Why waste time in talking to a peevish little flame that has no ears
to hear with, no mouth wherewith to answer?" said Ulenspiegel.

But paying no attention to him, Nele went on:

"Wisp of mine, answer me now by dancing. For I am going to question
you thrice. Once in the name of God, once in the name of Our Lady,
and once in the name of the Elemental Spirits who are the messengers
between God and men."

And this she did, and three times did the elf dance in answer.

Then Nele said to Ulenspiegel:

"Take off your clothes, and I will do the same. See, here is the
silver box which holds the balm of vision."

"Be it as you wish," answered Ulenspiegel.

When they had undressed and anointed themselves with the balm of
vision, they lay down naked as they were beside one another on
the grass.

The sea-gulls screamed; the thunder growled and rumbled, and in the
darkness the lightning flashed. Between two clouds the moon scarcely
showed her crescent's golden horns; and the will-o'-the-wisps departed
from Nele and Ulenspiegel to go off dancing with their comrades in
the fields.

Suddenly a great giant hand took hold of Nele and her lover, and threw
them high in air as though they had been a child's playthings. Then
the giant caught them again, rolled them one on the other and kneaded
them between his hands, and after that he threw them into a pool of
water that lay between the hills, and last of all he dragged them out
again full of water and water-weeds. And the giant began to sing in a
voice so loud that all the sea-gulls of the islands awakened in terror:


        With eyes that squint they would discern,
        These silly, wandering insect-mortals,
        The sacred symbols none may learn,
        Safe guarded now within our portals

        Read then, flea, the mystery high,
        Read then, louse, the secret vast,
        Which to earth and air and sky
        By seven nails is anchored fast!


And now it was that Ulenspiegel and Nele discerned on the grass and
in the air and in the sky, seven tablets of bronze all strangely
luminous. And they were held there by seven flaming nails. And on
the tablets was written:


        From the dung-heap flowers arise,
        Seven are wicked, but seven are good.
        Hid in coal the diamond lies,
        Bad teacher oft makes pupil wise;
        Seven are bad, but seven are good.


And the giant walked on, followed by all the will-o'-the-wisps,
who were whispering together like grasshoppers, and saying:


        Look at him well--the Master of All,
        Before him Cæsar himself must fall.
        Pope of Popes, King of Kings,
        Fashioned of wood he is Lord of All Things.


Suddenly the lines of the giant's face suffered a change. He seemed
thinner, sadder and greater than ever. And in one hand he held a
sceptre, and in the other a sword. And his name was Pride.

And throwing Nele and Ulenspiegel to the ground, he said:

"I am God."

Then by his side there appeared a ruddy-faced girl, and she was seated
on the back of a goat, and her bosom was bare, her gown half open,
and she had a wanton eye; and her name was Luxury. After her there
came an old woman, a Jewess, who was busy all the time, scraping up
the egg-shells of the sea-gulls that lay about on the ground; and her
name was Avarice. Then a monk appeared, most greedy and gluttonous,
eating chitterlings he was, and cramming himself with sausages and
champing his jaws together without ceasing, like the sow whereon
he rode; and his name was Greed. Thereafter came Idleness, dragging
one leg after the other; wan she was and bloated, and she had a dull
eye. And Anger came chasing after Idleness with a sharp needle with
which she pricked her so that she cried aloud, and Idleness grieved
and lamented with many tears, and kept falling down on to her knees so
tired she was. Last of all came Envy, a thin figure with a head like
a viper and teeth like the teeth of a pike. And she kept biting all
the others with those cruel teeth of hers--Idleness because she had
too much leisure, Anger because she was too lively, Greed because he
was too well fed, Luxury because she was too ruddy, Avarice because
of the treasure of shells she had amassed, Pride because of his robe
of purple and his crown. And the wisps kept dancing all around, and
they spake with many voices like the voices of men, women, and girls,
and in the plaintive voices of children, and they groaned, saying:

"O Pride, father of Ambition, and you, O Anger, that are the source
of cruelty, you slew us on many a battlefield, and caused our death
in many a prison and many a torture-chamber, that you might keep
your sceptres and your crowns! And you, O Envy, that have destroyed
so many useful thoughts while yet in the germ, we are the souls of
the inventors whom you have persecuted. Avarice, you it is that have
turned the blood of the poor into gold, and we are the souls of your
victims. O Luxury, you are the friend and the sister of Murder; Nero,
Messalina, Philip King of Spain--such are your children, and you
buy virtue and you bribe corruption, and we are the souls of your
dead. And you, O Idleness, and you, Greed, you befoul the world,
but the world must be cleansed of you; we are the souls of those who
have perished at your hands."

And a voice was heard saying:


        From the dung-heap flowers arise,
        Seven are wicked, but seven are good.
        Bad teacher oft makes pupil wise.
        Now longs the wandering louse comprise
        Both coal and cinder if he could!


Then spake the wisps:

"Fire. We are Fire--the avenger of all old tears and all old pains
which the people have suffered; the avenger of all the human game
that has been hunted for pleasure by the Lords of this land; the
avenger of all battles fought to no purpose, of all the blood that
has been spilt in prison, of all the men burned at the stake and the
women and girls buried alive; the avenger of all the past of blood
and chains. The Fire--that is Us--we are the souls of the dead."

At these words the Seven were suddenly transformed into images of
wood, though they still lost nothing of their former outline; and a
voice was heard saying:

"Burn the wood, Ulenspiegel."

And Ulenspiegel turned towards the will-o'-the-wisps:

"You that are made of fire, do your office."

And the wisps thronged around the seven images, which straightway
burst into flame and were reduced to ashes.

And from the ashes there flowed a river of blood.

But out of the ashes arose now seven other figures, and the first said:

"Once I was called Pride. But now my name is Nobility."

And the rest spake after the same fashion, and Nele and Ulenspiegel
saw how Economy came forth from Avarice; Vivacity from Anger; Healthy
Appetite from Gluttony; Emulation from Envy; and from Idleness the
Dreams of poets and wise men. And Luxury, on her goat, was now
transformed into the likeness of a beautiful woman, and her name
was Love.

And all around them danced the will-o'-the-wisps most joyously. And
thereafter did Ulenspiegel and Nele begin to hear a thousand voices as
of hidden men and women, that spake with a sonorous, clicking sound,
like that of castanets, and thus sang they:


        When over the earth and over the sea
        These Seven transformed shall reign,
        Mortals lift up your heads again,
        For happy the world shall be!


And Ulenspiegel said: "These spirits are making mock of us."

And a powerful hand seized Nele by the arm, and threw her away into
the void. And the Spirits sang:


        When the North
        Shall kiss the West
        Then shall be the end of ruin.
            Find the Cincture.


"Alas!" cried Ulenspiegel. "North, West, Cincture! You speak in
riddles, Sir Spirits!"

But they went on with their singing and chattering:


        The North is the Netherland,
        Belgium is the West.
        Cincture is friendship,
        Cincture is Alliance.


"Now you are talking sense, Sir Spirits," said Ulenspiegel.

And yet again they sang:


        The Cincture, little man,
        'Twixt Holland and Belgium--
        Firm Alliance,
        And beautiful Friendship.

        Alliance of Counsel,
        Alliance of Action,
            By death
            By blood,
        Were it not
        For the Scheldt,
        Little man, for the Scheldt.


"Alas!" said Ulenspiegel, "such is our life! Tears of man and laughter
of destiny!"

And again the Spirits repeated their rune, and their voices were like
the clicking of castanets.


        Alliance by blood
        And by death
        Were it not
        For the Scheldt.


And a strong hand took hold of Ulenspiegel and threw him into the void.






XXXV


As she fell, Nele rubbed her eyes but she could see nothing save the
sun that was rising, wreathed in a golden mist. And then the tips of
the grass all golden too, in that radiance which was soon to tinge
with gold the plumage of the sea-gulls who slept as yet, but were
about to awaken.

Nele looked downwards at herself, and seeing that she was naked she
put on her clothes with all haste. Then it was that she noticed the
body of Ulenspiegel where it lay there, naked also, and him also she
covered with his clothes. He seemed to be still asleep and she gave
him a shake, but he remained quite motionless like one dead. Then was
Nele seized with fear. "Have I killed him?" she cried. "Have I killed
my love with this balm of vision? Would that I too might die! Ah,
Tyl, wake up! But he is as cold as marble!"

Ulenspiegel did not awake, and two nights passed and a day, and Nele
still watched by his side in a fever of grief and fear.

It was at the dawn of the second day of her vigil that Nele heard the
sound of a little bell in the distance, and saw presently a peasant
approaching with a shovel in his hand. Behind him came a burgomaster
with two aldermen carrying candles, and then the curé of Stavenisse
with a beadle holding a parasol over his head. It appeared that they
were going to administer the Holy Sacrament of Unction to one Jacobsen,
a brave Beggarman, who had adopted the new religion by compulsion, but
being about to die had returned to the bosom of the Holy Roman Church.

When they came opposite to Nele they found her still crying, and
they saw the body of Ulenspiegel laid out on the grass in front of
her, covered with clothes. Nele fell upon her knees in front of the
little procession.

"My girl," said the burgomaster, "what are you doing by this corpse?"

Without daring to raise her eyes, Nele made answer:

"I am praying for the soul of my beloved, he that has fallen dead as
if struck by lightning. I am alone now, and I am fain to die."

But already the curé was puffing with pleasure.

"Ulenspiegel the Beggarman dead!" he cried. "Praise be to God! Be quick
there, peasant, and dig a grave, and take his clothes off before you
bury him."

"No," said Nele, getting up from the ground. "No, you shall not take
his clothes, he would be cold there in the cold earth."

"Quick!" cried the curé, addressing himself again to the peasant with
the shovel.

"You may bury him," said Nele, all in tears. "I give you leave; for
this sand is full of lime, so that his body will keep for ever whole
and beautiful, the body of my beloved."

And half mad with anguish as she was, Nele bent over the body of
Ulenspiegel, kissing him through her tears.

Now the burgomaster, the aldermen, and even the peasant had compassion
on the girl, but not so the curé, who ceased not to cry out most
joyfully: "The great Beggarman is dead! God be praised!"

Then the peasant dug the grave, and Ulenspiegel was placed therein,
and covered all over with sand.

And over the grave the curé said the prayers for the dead, and the
others knelt all round. Suddenly there was a great commotion in the
sand, and Ulenspiegel arose, sneezing and shaking the sand from his
hair, and he seized the curé by the throat.

"Inquisitor!" he cried. "I was asleep, and you buried me alive! Where
is Nele? Have you buried her also? Who are you?"

The curé began to cry out in terror:

"The great Beggarman returns to this world! Lord God have mercy on
my soul!"

And away he fled like a stag before the hounds.

Nele came to Ulenspiegel: "Kiss me, dearest," she said.

Then Ulenspiegel looked about him once more. The two peasants had
run off like the curé, and that they might run the faster they had
thrown to the ground both shovel and parasol. As for the burgomaster
and the aldermen, they lay groaning on the grass, stopping up their
ears in their fright.

Ulenspiegel went to them and gave them a good shaking.

"Think you that they can be buried in the ground," he asked them,
"Ulenspiegel and Nele? Nele that is the heart of our Mother Flanders,
and Ulenspiegel that is her soul? She can sleep too, forsooth, but
die--never! Come, Nele."

And they twain departed, Ulenspiegel singing his sixth song. But no
man knoweth where he sang his last.







NOTE


[1] The Author's debt to such sources is especially noticeable in
chapters xii, xxiv, xxvi, xxx, and xxxii of the First Book.








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