“My husband! My poor husband!”
Nele and Ulenspiegel watched by her until morning.
LXXII
On the morrow, the Borgstorm summoned with loud peals the judges to the court of the Vierschare.
When they were seated on the four benches, about the tree of justice, they interrogated Claes afresh and asked him if he wished to recant his errors.
Claes raised his hand towards heaven:
“Christ, my Lord, seeth me from on high,” said he, “I looked upon his sun when my boy Ulenspiegel was born. Where is he now, the runagate? Soetkin, my gentle goodwife, wilt thou be brave against ill fortune?”
Then looking at the linden tree, he said, cursing it:
“Storm winds and drought! make all the trees of the land of our father die as they stand rather than see freedom of conscience condemned to death under their shade. Where art thou, my son Ulenspiegel? I was hard to thee. Messieurs, have pity upon me and judge me as Our Compassionate Lord would judge me.”