“Stop, stop, stop,” cried the hungry shepherds, “we want our cakes.” And giving chase, they seized four or five dozen of the cakes, throwing their money into the carts, in payment.
Then they bound up Forgier’s bleeding face; and made merry over their meal, laughing at the proud cake-bakers who had lost a day’s trade by their insolence.
As for the bakers, they drove furiously, straight to the palace of their king, Picrochole, and dashed, disheveled and breathless, into the throne room.
“Your Majesty,” they cried, “we have been set upon by the shepherds of old King Grangousier,—our heads broken, our coats torn, our cakes stolen, our trade ruined, and Marquet nearly killed.” And with that, two of them brought in Marquet himself, groaning horribly.
Now, Picrochole was as proud and passionate as any cake-baker of them all.
“What!” he roared, turning purple in the face. “Killing our subjects! Spoiling our trade! Well, we’ll teach them to eat our cakes indeed! Marshals, sound the call to arms. Get out the cannon, double cannon, serpentines. Every vassal, rich and poor, noble and peasant, to arms! And all in the square by the hour of noon. For to-day we teach Grangousier’s scoundrels to eat our cakes!”
Then there was a bustle indeed. By noon the great square was swarming with soldiers,—glittering officers, solid infantry, dashing cavalry, bold cannoneers, all gathered under the royal standard. Around the edges were the common people, without uniforms, but armed with pikes and broadswords and eager to be at the fighting. In the center of things was Marquet, fully recovered, and the cake-bakers around him, all very important-looking and armed up to their eyes. The cannon shone in the sun; the royal standard waved; the officers dashed to and fro; and all the people cheered.