One day Claes caught a large salmon, and on the Sunday he and Soetkin
and Katheline and the little Ulenspiegel had it for their dinner. But
Katheline only ate enough to satisfy a sparrow.
"How now, mother?" said Claes. "What has happened to the air of
Flanders? Has it suddenly grown solid, so that to breathe it is as
nourishing as a plate of beef? Why, if such were the case, I suppose
you will be telling me that the rain is as good as soup, and the hail
like beans, and the snow some sort of celestial fricassee, fit cheer
for a poor traveller?"
But Katheline shook her head, and said not a word.
"Dear me," said Claes, "our mother is in the dumps it seems! What
can it be that grieves her so?"
But Katheline spake as follows, in a voice that was like a breath
of wind:
"The wicked night falls blackly. He tells of his coming from afar,
screaming like the sea-eagle. I tremble, and pray to Our Lady--all
in vain. For the Night knows neither walls nor hedges, neither doors
nor windows. Everywhere, like a spirit, he finds a way in. The ladder
creaks. The Night has entered into the loft where I am sleeping. The
Night seizes me in arms that are cold and hard as marble. His face
is frozen, and his kisses like damp snow. The whole cottage seems to
be tossed about over the earth, riding like a ship at sea...."
Claes said: "I would counsel you to go every morning to Mass, that
our Lord Christ may give you strength to chase away this phantom
from hell."
"He is so beautiful!" said Katheline.