Nele and Soetkin being come back from Bruges, Claes, in his kitchen, seated on the floor after the fashion of tailors, was putting buttons on an old pair of breeches. Nele was close by him tarring on against the stork Titus Bibulus Schnouffius who, dashing at the bird and retreating by turns, was yelping in the shrillest voice. The stork standing on one foot, looking at him gravely and pensively, withdrew her long neck into the feathers on her breast. Titus Bibulus Schnouffius, seeing her so pacific, yelped more and more terribly. But all of a sudden the bird, tired and sick of this music, lashed out her bill like an arrow on the back of the dog, who fled yelling:
“Help, help!”
Claes laughed, Nele, too, and Soetkin never ceased looking into the street, seeking if she could not see Ulenspiegel coming.
Suddenly she said:
“Here is the provost and four constables. It cannot surely be us they want. There are two of them turning behind the cottage.”
Claes lifted his nose from his task.
“And two that are stopping in front,” went on Soetkin.
Claes got up.
“Who are they going to arrest in this street?” said she. “Jesus God! my husband, they are coming in here.”
Claes leaped from the kitchen into the garden, followed by Nele.