The three preachers stretched out their hands over Ulenspiegel’s head with no devoutness.
Remarking that they were lean men, and yet had fine paunches, he got up again, pretended to fall, and striking his forehead against the tall preacher’s belly, he heard therein a gay clink and tinkle of money.
Then drawing himself up and drawing his bragmart:
“My goodly fathers,” said he, “it is chilly weather and I am lightly clad; you are clad overly much. Give me your wool that I may cut myself a cloak out of it. I am a Beggar. Long live the Beggars!”
The tall preacher replied:
“My Beggar-cock, you carry your comb too high; we shall cut it for you.”
“Cut it!” said Ulenspiegel, drawing back, “but Steel-wind shall blow for you before ever it blows for the prince. Beggar I am; long live the Beggars!”
The three preachers, dumbfounded, said one to another:
“Whence does he know this news? We are betrayed! Slay! Long live the Mass!”
And they drew from under their hose fine bragmarts, well sharpened.