His Majesty plucked the lemon out of his hands and flung it on the ground, and he was about to beat his son melting away with fright, when the archbishop, stopping him, whispered in his ear:
“His Highness will be a great burner of heretics one day.”
The Emperor smiled, and the two men went away, leaving the Infante alone with his monkey.
But there were others that were no monkeys and died in the flames.
XXIII
November had come, the month of hail in which coughing folk give themselves up wholehearted to the music of phlegm. In this month also the small boys descend in bands on the turnip fields, pilfering what they can from them, to the great rage of the peasants, who vainly run after them with sticks and forks.
Now one evening, as Ulenspiegel was coming back from a marauding foray, he heard close by, in a corner of the hedge, a sound of groaning. Stooping down, he saw a dog lying upon some stones.
“Hey,” said he, “miserable beastie, what dost thou there so late?”
Caressing the dog, he felt his back wet, thought that someone had tried to drown him, and took him up in his arms to warm him.