The wind blew soft, the sun shone warm; Lamme in his fever was securely tied on his bed, so that in his witless spasms of leaping he might not jump over the side of the ship; and deeming himself still in his galley, he said:
“This fire is bright to-day. Soon it will rain ortolans. Wife, spread snares in our orchard. Thou art lovely thus, with thy sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Thy arm is white, I would fain bite it, bite with my lips that are teeth of live velvet. Whose is this lovely flesh, whose those lovely breasts showing beneath thy white jacket of fine linen? Mine, my sweet treasure. Who will make the fricassee of cock’s comb and chickens’ rumps? Not too much nutmeg, it brings on fever. White sauce, thyme, and laurel: where are the yolks of eggs?”
Then making a sign for Ulenspiegel to bring his ear close to his mouth, he said to him in a low voice:
“Presently it will rain venison; I shall keep thee four ortolans more than the others. Thou art the captain; betray me not.”
Then hearing the sea beat softly on the ship’s side:
“The soup is boiling, my son; the soup is boiling, but how slow is this fire to heat up!”
As soon as he recovered his wits, he said, speaking of the monk:
“Where is he? doth he grow in grease?”
Seeing him then, he put out his tongue at him and said:
“The great work is being accomplished; I am content.”