“Confess,” said the bailiff.
“No,” replied Ulenspiegel.
Soetkin looked at her son and could find no strength either to cry out or to speak; only she stretched forth her arms, fluttering her bleeding hands and showing thus that they must make an end of this torment.
The executioner ran Ulenspiegel up and down yet again. And the skin of his wrists and ankles was torn still more; and the bones of his legs came out of their sockets further still; but he uttered no cry.
Soetkin wept and fluttered her bleeding hands.
“Confess the concealment,” said the bailiff, “and you shall have pardon for it.”
“The fishmonger hath need of pardon,” answered Ulenspiegel.
“Wilt thou mock thy judges?” said one of the sheriffs.
“Mock? Alas!” replied Ulenspiegel, “I but feign to mock, believe me.”
Soetkin then saw the executioner, who, at the bailiff’s order, was blowing up a brazier of red coals, and an assistant who was lighting two candles. She would fain have risen up on her murdered feet, but fell back to a sitting posture, and exclaiming: