“Ho, there, bakers!” called Gargantua. “Come out, as you value your miserable lives.”
There was no reply, only a furious burst of cannon balls from the towers. Up into Gargantua’s eyes they flew,—over his head and shoulders in a vicious shower. But they struck the giant as harmlessly as so many grape seeds.
“Stop your pesky shot-guns!” cried Gargantua, annoyed. “Listen to me.”
But the cannon balls came faster and thicker than ever. Gargantua brushed them from his eyes, raised his great tree in a fury, and rode full tilt against the castle.
There was a shock and a crash. The towers shuddered and splashed, stone after stone, into the water beyond. As for Earl Swashbuckler and his bakers, there was not one of them left for Gargantua’s great eyes to spy out.
The young giant turned with a sorry shrug of his shoulders, and rode toward his father’s palace. It was nearly midnight when he got there, but Grangousier was still on the terrace, watching through the shadows for his big son to come looming up against the moon.
“My boy!” cried Grangousier gladly, and went lumbering down to meet him.
“Father!” shouted Gargantua. But when he heard how Ulrich Gallet had fared, his big eyes blazed. “They shall soon learn,” he cried, “how to treat your servants, sire. Call out the army. Send them post haste along the road to Rock Clermond, and leave the rest to me!” And Gargantua sprang again to his horse’s back.
“Not so fast! Not so fast, my son!” said Grangousier. “Get your sword. Get your lance. Refresh yourself with supper. Even then you will soon overtake the army.”
Gargantua yielded. He himself sounded the war alarm, and watched the soldiers scramble, musket in hand, to their ranks.