“The fishmonger,” said Soetkin.
And Ulenspiegel held his peace.
However, seeing that the executioner was locking the baguettes tighter still, he cried out again:
“Pity, sirs!” he said. “Ye are breaking the widow’s fingers that she needeth to work withal. Alas! her feet! Will she never walk again now? Pity, sirs!”
“Thou shalt come to an ill end, fishmonger,” cried Soetkin.
And the bones crackled and the blood from her feet fell in little drops.
Ulenspiegel looked at all this, and trembling with anguish and with rage, he said:
“A woman’s bones, do not break them, sirs!”
“The fishmonger,” groaned Soetkin.
And her voice was low and stifled like the voice of a ghost.