“Well!” said he, “dost thou bring tidings of thy friends the monks?”
“They are hanged,” said Ulenspiegel; “and a cowardly executioner, killing them for hire, opened the belly and sides of one of them after death, like a disembowelled pig, to sell the fat to an apothecary. Word of a soldier is no longer word of gold.”
De Lumey, trampling among the broken crockery:
“Thou bravest me,” said he, “four-foot rascal, but thou, too, shalt be hanged, not in a barn, but ignominiously on the open square, in the eyes of everybody.”
“Shame upon you,” said Ulenspiegel, “shame upon us: word of a soldier no longer word of gold.”
“Wilt thou hold thy tongue, mule!” said Messire de Lumey.
“Shame upon thee,” said Ulenspiegel; “word of a soldier is no more word of gold. Punish rather the rascally vendors of human fat.”
Then Messire de Lumey, rushing on him, raised his hand to strike him.
“Strike,” said Ulenspiegel; “I am thy prisoner, but I have no fear of thee; word of a soldier is no more word of gold.”
Messire de Lumey then drew his sword and would certainly have slain Ulenspiegel if Messire de Tres-Long, holding back his arm, had not said: