It was a black night, save where the clouds--coursing in the sky like stags before the keen north wind--were parted here and there so as to disclose the glittering face of some star. By the remnants of the pile strode a sergeant of the commune, up and down, keeping guard. Soetkin and Ulenspiegel heard his steps as they resounded on the hardened ground, and together with that sound there came the cry of a raven, calling his fellows, doubtless; for from far away there came the sound of other caws in answer. As Soetkin and Ulenspiegel approached the pile the raven swooped down upon the shoulder of Claes, and they could hear its beak pecking upon the body. And soon the other ravens followed. Ulenspiegel would have thrown himself upon the pile and beaten them off had not the sergeant come up and prevented him. "Are you a sorcerer," cried the man, "that comes hither for the hands of the dead as a talisman, and yet do you not know that the hands of a man that has been burnt to death possess no power of invisibility, but only hands of one who has been hanged--such as you yourself will be one of these days?" "Sir," Ulenspiegel replied, "I am no sorcerer, but the orphaned son of the man tied to this stake here. And this woman is the dead man's widow. We only wish to kiss him once again, and to take away a few of his ashes in his memory. Give us leave, sir, pray, for you are certainly no foreign soldier, but a son of this land." "Very well," said the sergeant. So the orphan and the widow made their way over the charred wood and approached the body. Weeping, they both kissed the face of Claes. Then Ulenspiegel found the place where the heart had been, a great hole hollowed out by the flames, and therefrom he took a few ashes. Then Soetkin and he knelt down and said a prayer, and when the sky began to turn pale in the dawn they were still kneeling there together. But the sergeant drove them off, for he was afraid that he would be punished for his kindness. When they were home again Soetkin took a piece of red silk, and a piece of black silk, and she made a little bag to contain the ashes. And on the little bag she sewed two ribbons so that Ulenspiegel could always carry it suspended round his neck. And she gave it to him with these words: "These ashes are the heart of my husband. This red ribbon is his blood. This black one is our sorrow. Always upon your breast let them lie, and call down thereby the fire of vengeance upon his torturers." "Amen," said Ulenspiegel. And the widow embraced her orphan, and the sun rose. XLIV In that year, being the fifty-eighth year of the century, Katheline came into Soetkin's house and spake as follows: