“We ourselves,” he taunted, “will drive the carts to King Picrochole.” And with that two of the soldiers, climbing up treacherously from behind, threw Ulrich down into the dust. The next moment the poor cook heard the carts rumbling off through the gate. He scrambled up and shouted as loud as he could, but for reply there were only the sneering jibes of the captain and his men, as they closed the gates behind them.
So Ulrich turned sadly, and limped back down the road to the palace. It was twilight when he got there, but Grangousier was still watching from the terrace. Ulrich snatched off his cap with its dusty willow twig, and told his story. As he went on, all the jolly curves and dimples in the good giant’s face changed to stern, straight lines.
“The curs!” he cried. “Perhaps they will understand our cannon better than our cakes.” And he peered anxiously down the road toward Paris. “If only Gargantua would come!” he sighed.
Meanwhile Gargantua had left Paris, listening to Forgier’s story on the road. “My good old father!” he cried hotly. “To think that they should dare abuse his peaceful country! Well, Forgier, we pass the Ford of Vede, and we may as well look in on Earl Swashbuckler on our way.”
The young giant spurred ahead
And with that the young giant spurred ahead so furiously that the ground for miles around rocked with the hoof beats of his great mare. Straight ahead over hill and dale lay the castle at the Ford of Vede. Gargantua cleared the distance like a cyclone till he could see the castle towers. Then reining in his steed, he measured their height and breadth with his practised eye. Turning to the roadside, he pulled up a pine tree as sturdy and as straight as a bar of iron, and held it upright like a lance.
“Hail, cake-bakers of Lerné!” he cried grimly, and rode on to the castle.
But there was not a man to be seen. For at the jar of Gargantua’s coming, every plunderer of them all had hidden himself safely inside.