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.”