“To-night,” said Wasteele; “but stay in the forge and do not be afraid of my workmen. They are of the Reformed faith like yourselves.”
“That is well,” said Lamme.
By night, the curfew having rung and the doors being shut, Wasteele, making Ulenspiegel and Lamme help him, going down and bringing up from his cellar heavy bundles of weapons:
“Here,” he said, “are twenty arquebuses to mend, thirty lance heads to furbish, and lead for fifteen hundred bullets to melt down; you shall help me with it.”
“With all my hands,” said Ulenspiegel, “and why have I not four to serve you?”
“Lamme will help us,” said Wasteele.
“Aye,” replied Lamme, piteously, and falling with drowsiness through excess of drink and food.
“You shall melt the lead,” said Ulenspiegel.
“I will melt the lead,” said Lamme.
Lamme, melting his lead and running his bullets, kept looking with a savage eye at the smitte Wasteele who was driving him to keep awake when he was dropping with sleep. He ran his bullets with a wordless fury, having a great longing to pour the molten lead on the head of Wasteele the smith. But he controlled himself. Towards midnight, his rage getting the better of him at the same time as excess of fatigue, he addressed him thus in a hissing voice, while the smitte Wasteele with Ulenspiegel was patiently furbishing musket barrels, muskets, and lance heads: