“Seven for thee ... strong fellows, butchers ... I’m going away ... too well known in town.... When I am gone, ’tis van te beven de klinkaert ... smash everything ...”
“Aye,” said Ulenspiegel, getting up and fetching him a kick.
The baes struck him in his turn. And Ulenspiegel said to him:
“You hit thick and fast, my belly boy.”
“As hail,” said the baes, seizing Lamme’s purse lightly and giving it to Ulenspiegel.
“Rogue,” said he, “pay for me to drink now that you have been restored to your property.”
“Thou shalt drink, scandalous rascal,” replied Ulenspiegel.
“See how impudent he is,” said the Stevenyne.
“As insolent as thou art lovely, darling,” answered Ulenspiegel.
Now the Stevenyne was full sixty years old, and had a face like a medlar, but all yellowed with bile and anger. In the middle of it was a nose like an owl’s beak. Her eyes were the eyes of a flinty-hearted miser. Two long dog-tusks jutted from her fleshless mouth. And she had a great port-wine stain on her left cheek.