Ulenspiegel sat down on the road, his legs out in front of him, murmuring prayers on a rosary, as beggars do. And he had his bonnet between his knees.
When the three preachers passed by, he held out his bonnet to them, but they put nothing in.
Then rising, Ulenspiegel said piteously:
“Good sirs, refuse not a patard to a poor workman, a porter who lately cracked his loins falling into a mine. They are hard folk in this country, and they would give me nothing to relieve my wretched plight. Alas! give me a patard, and I will pray for you. And God will keep Your Magnanimities in joy throughout all their lives.”
“My son,” said one of the preachers, a fine robust fellow, “there will be no joy more for us in this world so long as the Pope and the Inquisition reign therein.”
Ulenspiegel sighed also, saying:
“Alas! what are you saying, my masters! Speak low, if it please Your Graces. But give me a patard.”
“My son,” replied a preacher who had a warrior-like face, “we others, poor martyrs, we have no patards beyond what we need to sustain life on our journey.”
Ulenspiegel threw himself on his knees.
“Bless me,” said he.