The next day, which was the day of the execution, the neighbours,
out of pity for their suffering, came and shut up Soetkin and Nele
and Ulenspiegel in Katheline's cottage. For they could not bear that
they should see the terrible sight of the burning. Yet it had been
forgotten that the far-off cries of the tormented one would reach
the cottage, and that those within would be able to see through the
windows the flames of the fire.
Katheline, meanwhile, went wandering through the town, wagging her
head and crying out continually:
"Make a hole! Make a hole! My soul wants to get out!"
At nine of the clock Claes was led out of his prison. He was dressed in
a shirt only, and his hands were tied behind his back. In accordance
with the sentence that had been passed upon him, the pile was set up
in the rue Notre Dame, with a stake in the midst, just in front of the
hoarding of the Town Hall. When they arrived there the executioner
and his assistants had not yet completed the work of stacking the
wood. Claes stood patiently in the midst of his tormentors watching
while the work was finished, and all the time the provost on his horse,
with the officers of the tribunal and the nine foot-soldiers that had
been summoned from Bruges, had the greatest difficulty in keeping
order among the people. For they murmured one to another, saying
that it was cruelty thus to do to death unjustly a man like Claes,
a poor man and already old in years, and one that was so gentle,
so forgiving, and such a good and steady workman.
Suddenly they all fell upon their knees and began to pray, for the
bells of Notre Dame were heard tolling for the dead.
Katheline also was among the crowd, right in the front, mad as she
was. Fixing her eye on Claes and the pile of wood, she wagged her
head and cried continually:
"Fire! Fire! Dig a hole! My soul wants to get out!"
When Nele and Soetkin heard the sound of the tolling they crossed
themselves. But Ulenspiegel did not cross himself, saying that he
would never pray to God after the same fashion as those hangmen. But
he ran about the cottage, trying to force open the doors or jump from
the windows. But they were shut and fastened well.
Suddenly Soetkin hid her face in her apron.
"The smoke!" she cried.
And in very fact, the three mourners could see, mounting high to
heaven, a great eddy of smoke; all black it was, the smoke of the
funeral pile whereon was Claes, tied to a stake, the smoke of that
fire which the executioner had just set burning in the name of the
Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Claes looked around for Soetkin or Ulenspiegel. But not seeing them
anywhere in the crowd he felt happier and more at ease, thinking that
they would not know how he suffered. And all the time there was a
silence like death, except for the sound of Claes' voice praying, and
the crackling of the wood, the murmuring of men, the weeping of the
women, the voice of Katheline as she cried: "Put out the fire! Make
a hole! My soul wants to get out!" and over all, the bells of Notre
Dame tolling for the dead.
Suddenly Soetkin's face went as white as snow, and her body trembled
all over. She did not utter a sound, but pointed to the sky with her
finger. For there a long, straight flame of fire had risen above the
pyre, and now was leaping high above the roofs of the lower houses. It
was a flame of pain and cruelty to Claes, for following the caprice
of the breeze, it preyed upon his legs, or touched his head so that
it smoked, licking and singeing his hair.
Ulenspiegel took Soetkin in his arms and tried to tear her away from
the window. Then they heard a sharp cry, the cry which came from Claes
when one side of his body was burnt by the dancing flames. But then
he was silent again, weeping to himself. And his breast was all wet
with his tears.
Thereafter Soetkin and Ulenspiegel heard a great noise as of many
voices. This was the townsfolk, their wives and their children,
who now began to cry and shout out all together:
"He was not sentenced to be burnt by a slow fire, but by a quick
fire! Executioner, stir up the faggots!"
The executioner did so. But the fire did not flame up quick enough
to please the mob.
"Kill him!" they shouted. "Put him out of his misery!" And they began
to throw missiles at the provost.