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.