Claes, when they came back to their cottage, said to his wife:
“Goodwife, it is exceeding harsh, for a few mad words, to condemn so young a lad to so heavy a penalty in this fashion.”
“Thou art weeping, my husband,” said Soetkin. “Thou dost love him more than thou showest, for thou art breaking into man’s sobs, which be lion’s tears.”
But he made no answer.
Nele had gone to hide in the barn that none might see that she also wept for Ulenspiegel. A long way off she followed Soetkin and Claes and the townsfolk; when she saw her friend disappearing alone, she ran to him and leaping on his neck:
“You will be finding many beautiful dames over there,” said she.
“Beautiful,” replied Ulenspiegel, “I cannot tell; but fresh as you, no, for the sun has roasted them all.”
Long they went their way together: Ulenspiegel was pensive and now and then would say:
“I’ll make them pay their masses for the dead.”
“What masses, and who will pay?” asked Nele.