Another day, Egmont being athirst had stopped in front of the inn In ’t bondt verken, the Piebald Pig—kept by a woman of Courtrai, a pretty piece, called Musekin, the Little Mouse.
The Count, rising up in his stirrups, cried out:
“Bring me to drink!”
Ulenspiegel, who was in Musekin’s service, came up to the Count holding a pewter tankard in one hand and in the other a flask of red wine.
The Count, seeing him:
“Are you there,” said he, “ill-omened raven?”
“Monseigneur,” answered Ulenspiegel, “if my omens are black, ’tis because they are ill washen; but will you tell me which is the redder, the wine that goes down the throat or the blood that leaps out of the neck? That is what my lantern asked.”
The Count made no answer, but paid and departed.