And the prisoner laughed, leaping for bitter joy, waving his arms that were tied and covered with blood-stained wrappings.
“He will die,” he said, “he will pass from earth into hell, the rope about his neck, as a ragamuffin, a robber, a rascal: he will die, God is just.”
“He shall not die,” said the bailiff. “After ten years, murder may not be punished in the soil of Flanders. Ulenspiegel committed a bad action, but through filial love: Ulenspiegel will not be prosecuted for this deed.”
“Long live the law!” cried the people. “Lang leven de Wet.”
The bells of Notre Dame rang for the dead. And the prisoner gnashed his teeth, drooped his head, and wept his first tear.
And he had his hand cut off, and his tongue pierced with a hot iron, and he was burned alive by a slow fire before the doorway of the Townhall.
At the point of death he yelled:
“The king shall not have my gold; I lied.... Evil tigers, I will come back to bite you.”
And Toria cried:
“He pays, he pays! They writhe and twist, the arms and the legs that ran to murder: it smokes, the murderer’s body; his white hair, hyæna’s hair, burns on his pale face. He pays! He pays!”