“A carolus!”
“No,” Ulenspiegel repeated, “although”—and this was added with a sigh—“I should rather see it in my mother’s purse than a mussel-shell!”
The dame laughed, then suddenly cried out in a loud voice:
“My bag! I have lost my little bag! Beautiful it was and rare, made of silk, and sown with fine pearls! It was hanging from my belt when we were at Damme!”
Ulenspiegel did not budge, but her attendant came up to his lady.
“Madame,” said he, “whatever else you do, be careful not to send this young robber to look for it, for so you will certainly never see it again.”
“Who will go then?” asked the lady.
“I will,” he answered, “old as I am.”
And away he went.
Midday had struck. It was very hot. The silence was profound. Ulenspiegel said not a word, but taking off his new doublet he laid it on the grass in the shade of a lime-tree, so that the dame might sit down thereon without fear of the damp. He stood close by, heaving a sigh.