“Alas, alas! cruel torment! evil hour!”
“What ails thee?” said the devil.
“Sire,” said Smetse, “nothing ails me but the great sorrow which I have at seeing how harsh God has been towards you, leaving you to bear in hell the malady whereof you died. Ah, ’tis a most pitiful sight to see so great a king as you consumed by these lice and eaten up with these abscesses.”
“I care nothing for thy pity,” answered the king.
“Sire,” said Smetse further, “deign to think no evil of my words. I have never been taught fine ways of speech; but notwithstanding this I make bold to sympathize with your illustrious sufferings, and this the more in that I myself have known and suffered your ill, and you can still see, Sire, the terrible marks on my skin.” And Smetse, uncovering his breast, showed the marks of the wounds which he had received from the traitor Spanish when he sailed the seas with the men of Zeeland.
“But,” said the devil-king, “thou seemest well enough cured, smith! Wast thou verily as sick as I?”
“Like you, Sire,” said Smetse, “I was nothing but a heap of living filth; like you I was fetid, rank, and offensive, and every one fled from me as they fled from you; like you I was eaten up with lice; but what could not be done for you by the most illustrious doctor Olias of Madrid, a humble carpenter did for me.”
At these words the devil-king cocked his ear. “In what place,” said he, “does this carpenter dwell, and what is his name?”
“He dwells,” said Smetse, “in the heavens, and his name is Master St. Joseph.”
“And did this great saint appear to thee by especial miracle?”