“Michielkin! Michielkin, the dead man! Lord have pity upon us!”
The seventeen came at the noise to look at the spectacle and were affrighted to see in the light of the clear moon how like was the image of Michielkin, the poor deceased.
And the ghost waved his bleeding feet.
It was his same full round visage, but pale through death, threatening, livid, and eaten under the chin by worms.
The ghost, still waving his bleeding feet, said to Spelle, who was groaning, lying flat on his back:
“Spelle, Provost Spelle, awake!”
But Spelle never moved.
“Spelle,” said the ghost again, “Provost Spelle, awake or I fetch thee down with me into the mouth of gaping hell.”
Spelle got up, and with his hair straight up for terror, cried lamentably:
“Michielkin! Michielkin, have pity!”