“I do not know about their being beautiful,” he replied, “but fresh like thee—no. For they are all parched with the sun.”
They walked a long way side by side, and Ulenspiegel seemed thoughtful, muttering from time to time:
“I’ll make ’em pay—I’ll make ’em pay for their Masses for the dead!”
“What Masses are those you speak of?” Nele inquired. “And who is to pay for them?”
Ulenspiegel answered:
“All the deans, curés, clerks, beadles and the rest, both superior and inferior, who feed us with their trash. See now, if I had happened to be a strong working man they would have robbed me of the value of three years’ labour by making me thus to go on this pilgrimage. But as things are, it is the poor Claes who pays. Ah, but they shall give me back my three years a hundredfold, and with their own money I myself will sing for them their Masses for the dead!”
“Alas, Tyl!” said Nele, “be prudent, or they will have you burnt alive.”
“I am fireproof,” answered Ulenspiegel.
And they parted from one another, she all in tears, he heart-broken and angry.