The Legend of Ulenspiegel Volume Ii Part 61

"The admiral's son is detained at the Ecoutete's: we must deliver him."

Going into the house of the Ecoutete, they see the son they sought in the company of a big monk with a n.o.ble belly, who was preaching wrathfully to him, fain to make him return to the bosom of our Mother Holy Church. But the lad would by no means consent thereto. He departed with Ulenspiegel. Meanwhile Lamme, seizing the monk by the cowl, made him walk before him in the streets of Antwerp, saying:

"Thou art worth a hundred florins ransom: pack up and march on. Why dost thou hang back? Hast thou lead in thy sandals? March, bag of lard, victual press, soup belly!"

"I march, Master Beggar, I march; but saving the respect due to your arquebuse, you are as big in the belly as myself, a paunchy, vasty fellow."

Then Lamme, pus.h.i.+ng him on:

"Dost thou dare indeed, foul monk," said he, "to liken thy cloistral, useless, lazy grease to my Fleming fat honourably sustained and fed by toils, fatigues, and battles? Run, or I shall make thee go like a dog, and that with the spur at the end of my boot-sole."

But the monk could not run, and he was all out of breath, and Lamme the same. And so they came to the s.h.i.+p.

XXI

Having taken Rammekens, Gertruydenberg, Alckmaer, the Beggars came back to Flus.h.i.+ng.

Nele, now hale and cured, was waiting for Ulenspiegel at the harbour.

"Thyl," said she, "my love, Thyl, art thou not wounded?"

Ulenspiegel sang:

"My standards 'Live' as motto bear, Live ever in a suns.h.i.+ne land; My skin the first is buff well tanned My second skin is forged of steel."

"Alas!" said Lamme, dragging a leg, "the bullets, grenades, chain shot rain around him; he feels but the wind of them. Thou art without doubt a spirit, Ulenspiegel, and thou, too, Nele, for I behold thee ever brisk and young."

"Why dost thou drag thy leg?" asked Nele of Lamme.

"I am no spirit and never will be," said he. "And so I took an axe stroke in the thigh--how round and white my wife's was!--see, I am bleeding. Alas! why have I her not here to tend me!"

But Nele, angry, replied:

"What need hast thou of a wife forsworn?"

"Say naught ill of her," replied Lamme.

"Here," said Nele, "here is balsam; I was keeping it for Ulenspiegel; put it upon the wound."

Lamme, having dressed his wound, was joyous, for the balsam put an end to the keen anguish; and they went up again to the s.h.i.+p all three.

Seeing the monk who was walking to and fro there with his hands bound:

"Who is that one?" she said. "I have seen him already and I think I know him."

"He is worth a hundred florins ransom," replied Lamme.

XXII

That day aboard the fleet there was a feast. In spite of the sharp December wind, despite the rain, despite the snow, all the Beggars of the fleet were on the decks of the s.h.i.+ps. The silver crescents gleamed lurid upon the bonnets of Zealand.

And Ulenspiegel sang:

"Leyden is delivered: the b.l.o.o.d.y duke leaves the Low Countries: Ring out, ye bells reechoing: Chimes, fling your songs into the air: Clink, ye gla.s.ses and bottles, clink.

"When the mastiff slinks away from blows, His tail between his legs, With bloodshot eye He turns upon the cudgels.

"And his torn jaw s.h.i.+vers and pants He has gone, the b.l.o.o.d.y duke; Clink bottle and gla.s.s. Long live the Beggar!

"Fain would he bite himself, The cudgels broke his teeth.

Hanging his puff-jowled head He thinks of the days of murder and l.u.s.t.

He is gone, the b.l.o.o.d.y duke: Then beat upon the drum of glory, Then beat upon the drum of war!

Long live the Beggar!

"He cries to the devil: 'I will sell thee My doggish soul for one hour of might.'

'Thy soul it is no more to me,'

Said the devil, 'than a herring is.'

The teeth meet no longer now.

They must avoid hard morsels.

He hath gone, the b.l.o.o.d.y duke: Long live the Beggar!

"The little street dogs, crooklegged, one-eyed, full of mange, That live or die on rubbish heaps.

Heave up their leg one by one On him that killed for love of slaughter.-- Long live the Beggar.

"He loved not women, nor friends, Nor gayness, nor sun, nor his master, Nothing but Death, his betrothed, Who broke his legs As prelude to the betrothal, For she loves not men hale and whole; Beat upon the drum of joy, Long live the Beggar!

"And the little street dogs, crooklegged, Limping, one-eyed, full of mange, Heave their leg up once again In a hot and salty fas.h.i.+on.

And with them greyhounds and mastiffs, Dogs of Hungary, of Brabant, Of Namur and Luxembourg, Long live the Beggar!

"And, miserably, with foaming mouth, He goes to die beside his master, Who fetches him a sounding kick, For not biting enough.

"In h.e.l.l he weddeth Death.

She calleth him 'My Duke'; He calleth her 'My Inquisition.'

Long live the Beggar!

"Ring out ye bells reechoing: Chimes, fling your songs into the air; Clink, gla.s.ses and bottles, clink: Long live the Beggar!"