Renelde hoped she had got rid of him , when one day he stopped at the door , his duck-gun under his arm and his game-bag on his shoulder . This time Renelde was spinning not hemp , but flax . ` What are you spinning ? ' he asked in a rough voice . ` My wedding shift , my lord . ' ` You are going to be married , then ? ' ` Yes , my lord , by your leave . ' For at that time no peasant could marry without the leave of his master . ' I will give you leave on one condition . Do you see those tall nettles that grow on the tombs in the churchyard ? Go and gather them , and spin them into two fine shifts . One shall be your bridal shift , and the other shall be my shroud . For you shall be married the day that I am laid in my grave . ' And the Count turned away with a mocking laugh . Renelde trembled . Never in all Locquignol had such a thing been heard of as the spinning of nettles . And besides , the Count seemed made of iron and was very proud of his strength , often boasting that he should live to be a hundred . Every evening , when his work was done , Guilbert came to visit his future bride . This evening he came as usual , and Renelde told him what Burchard had said . ` Would you like me to watch for the Wolf , and split his skull with a blow from my axe ? '
` No , ' replied Renelde , ` there must be no blood XXXXX my bridal bouquet .
For besides by in of on that to under with