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: