“Ah!” she said, “why do ye not return to the bosom of our Mother Holy Church?”
“She devours her children,” answered Ulenspiegel.
And he went his way.
One morning in March, since the wind, that was blowing sharp and cutting, ceased not to thicken the ice, and Très-Long’s ship could not leave, the sailors and the soldiers of the vessel were holding feasting and revel on sledges and on skates.
Ulenspiegel was at the inn, and the pretty woman said to him, all woeful and as if bereft of her wits:
“Poor Lamme! poor Ulenspiegel!”
“Why do you lament?” asked he.
“Alas! Alas!” said she, “why do ye not believe in the mass. Ye would go to paradise, without a doubt, and I could save you in this life.”
Seeing her go to the door and listen attentively, Ulenspiegel said to her:
“It is not the snow falling that you are listening to?”