“This is ruin to us, this ill wind. Last night the sea was still, but after sunrise it got up suddenly into fury. We shall not be able to go a-fishing.”
Ulenspiegel was glad, assured thus of having help during the night if there should be need.
At Heyst he went to the curé, and gave him the letter from the bailiff. The curé said to him:
“Thou art bold: yet know that no man passes alone at night, by the dunes, on Saturday without being bitten and left dead on the sand. The workmen on the dykes and others go there only in bands. Night is falling. Dost thou hear the weer-wolf howling in his valley? Will he come again as he did this last night, to cry terribly in the graveyard the whole night long? God be with thee, my son, but go not thither.”
And the curé crossed himself.
“The ashes beat upon my heart,” answered Ulenspiegel.
The curé said:
“Since thou hast so stout a mind, I will help thee.”
“Master curé,” said Ulenspiegel, “you would do a great boon to me and to the poor desolated country by going to the house of Toria, the mother of the slain girl, and to her two brothers likewise to tell them that the wolf is close at hand, and that I mean to await and kill him.”
The curé said: