But Gilline, huddled in her corner, her eyes starting out of her head, her teeth out of her mouth, could not speak, and clasped her viol tightly to her.
And the seven still were murmuring: “’Tis van te beven de klinkaert!” in measure.
The Stevenyne, pointing to the candles she had in her mouth, made signs that she would hold her tongue likewise. The catchpolls promised the same.
Ulenspiegel continued his discourse:
“Ye are here,” said he, “in our power; the night has fallen, we are near the Lys where you drown easily if you are thrust in. The gates of Courtrai are closed. If the night watch have heard the uproar, they will never budge, being too lazy and thinking it is simply good Flemish folk who as they drink are singing merrily to the sound of pots and flasks. Wherefore stay ye still, both men and girls, before your masters.”
Then, speaking to the seven:
“Are you going to Peteghem to find the Beggars?”
“We made ready for this at the news of thy coming.”
“From thence ye will go to the sea?”
“Aye,” said they.