The man replied:
“Blessed are they that are kind to the wandering travelling man.”
On the outer sill of the cottage window there was crumbled bread that Soetkin kept for the birds of the neighbourhood. Here they came in the winter to find their food. The man caught up these crumbs and ate them.
“You are hungry and thirsty,” said Claes.
The man replied:
“Since I was stripped by robbers a week past, I have lived only on carrots from the fields and roots in the woods.”
“It is then,” said Claes, “time to indulge in feasting. And here,” said he, opening the cupboard, “here is a full bowlful of peas, eggs, black puddings, hams, sausage of Ghent, waterzoey: hotchpotch of fish. Below, in the cellar, sleeps Louvain wine, made in the manner of the wines of Burgundy, red and clear as a ruby; it asks but the awakening of glasses. Come, now, let us put a faggot on the fire. Do you hear the black puddings sizzling on the grid? ’Tis the song of good feeding.”
Claes, turning them over, said to the man:
“Have you not seen my boy Ulenspiegel?”
“Nay,” he answered.