Ulenspiegel then came up, and taking Pompilius round the body, carried him off on his shoulders followed by the crowd of devout men and women.
“Alas!” said the poor ringer, whispering in his ear, “I shall die of itch, my son.”
“Keep stiff,” answered Ulenspiegel; “do you forget that you are a wooden saint?”
He ran on at full speed and set down Pompilius before the provost who was currying himself with his nails till the blood came.
“Bellringer,” said the provost, “have you scratched yourself like us?”
“No, Messire,” answered Pompilius.
“Have you spoken or moved?”
“No, Messire,” replied Pompilius.
“Then,” said the provost, “you shall have your fifteen ducats. Now go and scratch yourself.”