The three afflicted ones saw indeed in the sky a great whirl of smoke, all black. It was the smoke of the pyre on which was Claes bound to a stake, and which the executioner had just set fire to in three places in the name of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. Claes looked about him, and not perceiving Soetkin and Ulenspiegel in the crowd, he was glad, thinking they would not behold him suffering.
No other sound was to be heard but the voice of Claes praying, the wood crackling, men growling, women weeping, Katheline saying:—“Take away the fire, make a hole: the soul would fain escape.”—and the bells of Notre Dame tolling for the dead.
Suddenly Soetkin became white as snow, shuddered in all her body without weeping, and pointed with her finger to the sky. A long narrow flame had just spouted up from the pyre and rose at moments above the roofs of the low houses. It was cruelly tormenting to Claes, for according to the whims of the wind it gnawed at his legs, touched his beard and made it frizzle and smoke, licked at his hair and burned it.
Ulenspiegel held Soetkin in his arms and would have dragged her away from the window. They heard a piercing cry, it came from Claes whose body was burning on one side only. But he held his tongue and wept, and his breast was all wet with his tears.
Then Soetkin and Ulenspiegel heard a great noise of voices. This was the citizens, women and children, crying out:
“Claes was not condemned to burn by a slow fire, but by a great one. Executioner, make the pyre burn up!”
The executioner did so, but the fire did not catch quickly enough.
“Strangle him,” they cried.
And they cast stones at the provost.
“The flame! The great flame!” cried Soetkin.