ing. And he was scarce gone, when we heard savage
cries, and came a sorry sight, one leading a wild woman in a chain, all
rags and howling like a wolf. And when they came nigh us, she fell to
tearing her rags to threads. The man sought an alms of us, and told us
his hard case. 'Twas his wife stark raving mad; and he could not work in
the fields, and leave her in his house to fire it, nor cure her could
be without the Saintys' help, and had vowed six pounds of wax to St.
Anthony to heal her, and so was fain beg of charitable folk for the
money. And now she espied us, and flew at me with her long nails, and
I was cold with fear, so devilish showed, her face and rolling eyes and
nails like birdys talons. But he with the chain checked her sudden,
and with his whip did cruelly lash her for it, that I cried, 'Forbear!
forbear! She knoweth not what she doth;' and gave him a batz. And being
gone, said I, 'Master, of those twain I know not which is the more
pitiable.' And he laughed in my face, 'Behold thy justice, Bon Bec,'
said he. 'Thou railest on thy poor, good, within an ace of honest
master, and bestowest alms on a "vopper."' 'Vopper,' said I, 'what is
a vopper?' 'why, a trull that feigns madness. That was one of us, that
sham maniac, and wow but she did it clumsily. I blushed for her and
thee. Also gavest two batzen for a shell from Holy Land, that came
no farther than Normandy. I have culled them myself on that coast by
scores, and sold them to pilgrims true and pilgrims false, to gull flats
like thee withal.' 'What!' said I; 'that reverend man?' 'One of us!'
cried Cul de Jatte; 'one of us! In France we call them "Coquillarts,"
but here "Calmierers." Railest on me for selling a false relic now and
then, and wastest thy earnings on such as sell nought else. I tell thee,
Bon Bec,' said he, 'there is not one true relic on earth's face. The
Saints died a thousand years agone, and their bones mixed with the
dust; but the trade in relics, it is of yesterday; and there are forty
thousand tramps in Europe live by it; selling relics of forty or fifty
bodies; oh, threadbare lie! And of the true Cross enow to build Cologne
Minster. Why, then, may not poor Cul de Jatte turn his penny with the
crowd? Art but a scurvy tyrannical servant to let thy poor master from
his share of the swag with your whoreson pilgrims, palmers and friars,
black, grey, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood, and of
our art, only masters they, and