“Ulenspiegel the Beggarman dead!” he cried. “Praise be to God! Be quick there, peasant, and dig a grave, and take his clothes off before you bury him.”
“No,” said Nele, getting up from the ground. “No, you shall not take his clothes, he would be cold there in the cold earth.”
“Quick!” cried the curé, addressing himself again to the peasant with the shovel.
“You may bury him,” said Nele, all in tears. “I give you leave; for this sand is full of lime, so that his body will keep for ever whole and beautiful, the body of my beloved.”
And half mad with anguish as she was, Nele bent over the body of Ulenspiegel, kissing him through her tears.
Now the burgomaster, the aldermen, and even the peasant had compassion on the girl, but not so the curé, who ceased not to cry out most joyfully: “The great Beggarman is dead! God be praised!”
Then the peasant dug the grave, and Ulenspiegel was placed therein, and covered all over with sand.
And over the grave the curé said the prayers for the dead, and the others knelt all round. Suddenly there was a great commotion in the sand, and Ulenspiegel arose, sneezing and shaking the sand from his hair, and he seized the curé by the throat.
“Inquisitor!” he cried. “I was asleep, and you buried me alive! Where is Nele? Have you buried her also? Who are you?”
The curé began to cry out in terror: