And right curiously did they watch him, naked or almost naked as he was, and trying to stiffen his resolution against the heat of the fire.
Meanwhile Queen Marie was stricken with a great thirst, lying there alone on her bed of childbirth. And seeing the half of a melon on a plate, she dragged herself out of bed, and took hold of the melon and ate it all. But thereafter the cold substance of the melon made her to sweat and to shiver, and she lay upon the floor unable to move.
“Alas!” she cried, “would that there were some one to carry me back into bed that I might get warm again!”
Then it was that she heard the cry of the poor sculptor:
“Cut off my feet! Cut off my feet!”
“Ah!” said the Queen, “is that some dog or other baying at my death?”
It was at this very moment that the sculptor, seeing around him none but the faces of Spaniards, his enemies, bethought him of Flanders, the land of valorous men, and he crossed his arms on his breast, and dragging the long chain behind him, walked straight towards the outer circle of the straw and the flaming torches. And standing upright there, still with his arms crossed:
“This,” cried he, “this is how the men of Flanders can die in the face of the tyrants of Spain. Cut off their feet—not mine—that they may be able no more to run into the way of crime. Flanders for ever! Flanders for ever!”
And the ladies clapped their hands, crying him mercy for the sake of his proud look.
And he died.