“Who is that ringing?” asked Ulenspiegel.
Lansaem replied:
“My eldest boy; the youngest is running through the village knocking at the doors and crying that the wolf is taken. Praise be to thee!”
“The ashes beat upon my heart,” replied Ulenspiegel.
Suddenly the weer-wolf spake and said:
“Have pity upon me, pity, Ulenspiegel.”
“The wolf talks,” said they, crossing themselves. “He is a devil and he knows Ulenspiegel’s name already.”
“Have pity, pity,” said the voice, “bid the bell be quiet; it is ringing for the dead; pity, I am no wolf. My wrists are pierced by the engine; I am old and I bleed; pity! What is this shrill boy’s voice awaking the village? Pity!”
“I heard thy voice of old,” said Ulenspiegel, vehemently. “Thou art the fishmonger, the murderer of Claes, the vampire of the poor little young girls. Men and women, have no fear. ’Tis the demon, he through whom Soetkin died for grief and pain.”
And holding him by the neck beneath the chin with one hand, with the other he drew his cutlass.