"The Holy Father deigned to address me again: 'Ulenspiegel,' said he, 'thou dost look upon my dog; he was seized with a rheum and other maladies through gnawing the bones of heretics that had been broken for them. Cure him, my son; thou wilt have much good thereby.'"
"Pour out," answered Ulenspiegel. Continuing his tale: "I purged the dog," said he, "by the aid of a wonder-working draught concocted by myself. He made water through this for three days and three nights without ceasing, and was cured."
"Jesus God en Maria!" said the old woman; "let me kiss thee, glorious pilgrim, who hast seen the Pope and mayst also cure my dog."
But Ulenspiegel, recking little of the old woman's kisses, said to her: "Those who have touched with their lips the holy slipper may not within a space of two years receive the kisses of any woman. First give me for supper some goodly carbonadoes, a black pudding or so, and a sufficiency of beer, and I shall make your dog's voice so clear that he will be able to chant the aves in e la in the rood-loft of the great church."
"May it be true what thou sayest," whined the old woman, "and I shall give thee a florin."
"I shall accomplish it," said Ulenspiegel, "but only after supper."
She served him all he had asked for. He ate and drank his fill, and he would even have embraced the old woman for gratitude of his jaw, had it not been for what he had said to her.
While he was eating, the old dog put his paws on his knee to have a bone. Ulenspiegel gave him several; then he said to his hostess:
"If a man had eaten in your inn and not paid, what would you do?"
"I would have his best garment off that robber," answered the old woman.
"'Tis well," replied Ulenspiegel; then he took the dog under his arm and went into the stable. There he shut him up along with a bone, took the dead dog's skin out of his satchel, and coming back to the old woman, he asked her if she had said she would have his best garment off the man who would refuse to pay for his meal.
"Well, then, your dog dined with me and did not pay: so I have, following your own rede, taken his best and his only coat."
And he showed her the skin of the dead dog.
"Ah!" said the old woman, weeping, "it is cruel of thee, master doctor. Poor old dog! he was my child to me, a poor widow. Why didst thou take from me the only friend I had in the world? I have no more now to do but to die."