“This,” said he, “is a thing miraculous, to fish meadow fish out of the air. But it has disappeared, bone and all. What is greedier than dry sand? A barren woman and a famished stomach.”
Suddenly he felt a halberd point prick him in the seat. And he heard an ensign say:
“Do pilgrims disdain a leg of mutton for the nonce?”
Ulenspiegel saw, spitted on the blade of the halberd, a big knuckle bone. Taking it he said:
“I will make a marrow flute of it to sing thy praises, compassionate halberdier. And yet,” said he, eating at the knuckle bone, “what is a meal without dessert, what is a knuckle bone, however succulent, if after it the pilgrim doth not behold a tartlet displaying its blessed face?”
Saying this he put up his hand to his face, for two tartlets coming from the group of girls had flattened themselves out, one on his eye, the other on his cheek. And the girls laughed and Ulenspiegel answered:
“All thanks, sweet damsels, who give me accolades of sweetmeats.”
But the tartlets had fallen to the ground.
Suddenly the drums beat, the fifes squealed, and the soldiers resumed their march.
Messire de Beauvoir bade Ulenspiegel come down from his tree and march beside the troop from which he would fain have been a hundred leagues, for from the talk of some sour-faced troopers he scented that they were suspicious of him, that they would before long seize him for a spy, would search him and hang him if they found his letters.