And Brondé wondered, as he travelled homeward, whether he really were Brondé, and really had a mother living in a brown cottage by the edge of a forest. And the more he wondered, the faster he walked; until, at length, he walked so fast that no horse could pass him by.
Now, when his mother, who was looking out from her little window at the house-top, saw this big fellow coming at such a rate, she ran down to fasten the door. She was too late, however, for he was already in the room, and searching for something on the top shelf of the cupboard.
“Ah, here it is!” said he,—“the little blue honey-pot. Now it is certain I am Brondé. For though there might be a brown cottage like this, it would not have a cupboard like this, and a little blue honey-pot on the top shelf.”
When the good dame reached the bottom of the stairs, she was terribly frightened to see such a powerful man in possession of her room and her honey-pot.
“Pardon me,” said he, “but I have travelled long, and am very hungry.”
The dame, seeing she could do no other, brought her oatmeal cakes and all her pans of milk, and then, by way of passing the time, asked if there were any news.
“O, great news!” said he; “the giant is dead.”
“Alas!” said the good woman, beginning to weep, “where, then, is my little son?”
Then Brondé laughed, and cried out,—
“I am your little son!”