"Don Philip," said he, "come and salute me."
The Infante, without budging, looked at him with his timid eyes in which there was no affection.
"Is it thou," asked the Emperor, "that hast burned this little beast in this fire?"
"If thou wert cruel enough to do it, be brave enough to confess it."
His Majesty plucked the lemon out of his hands and flung it on the ground, and he was about to beat his son melting away with fright, when the archbishop, stopping him, whispered in his ear:
"His Highness will be a great burner of heretics one day."
The Emperor smiled, and the two men went away, leaving the Infante alone with his monkey.
But there were others that were no monkeys and died in the flames.
November had come, the month of hail in which coughing folk give themselves up wholehearted to the music of phlegm. In this month also the small boys descend in bands on the turnip fields, pilfering what they can from them, to the great rage of the peasants, who vainly run after them with sticks and forks.
Now one evening, as Ulenspiegel was coming back from a marauding foray, he heard close by, in a corner of the hedge, a sound of groaning. Stooping down, he saw a dog lying upon some stones.
"Hey," said he, "miserable beastie, what dost thou there so late?"
Caressing the dog, he felt his back wet, thought that someone had tried to drown him, and took him up in his arms to warm him.
"I bring a wounded patient, what shall I do to him?"
Ulenspiegel set the dog down upon the table. Claes, Soetkin, and himself then saw by the light of the lamp a little red Luxembourg spaniel hurt on the back. Soetkin sponged the wounds, covered them with ointment, and bound them up with linen. Ulenspiegel took the little beast into his bed, though Soetkin wanted to have him in her own, fearing, as she said, lest Ulenspiegel, who tumbled about in bed like a devil in a holy water pot, should hurt the dog as he slept.
But Ulenspiegel had his own way, and tended him so well that after six days the patient ran about like his fellows full of doggish tricks.
And the school-meester christened him Titus Bibulus Schnouffius: Titus in memory of a certain good Emperor of Rome, who took pains to gather in lost dogs; Bibulus because the dog loved bruinbier with the love of a true tosspot, and Schnouffius because sniff-sniffing everywhere he was always thrusting his nose into rat-holes and mole holes.