At that, the little princess, at his side, blushed a very rosy blush and hung her head, so that they could not see her tears.
“I swore death to this fellow, if ever he came again into my power,” hissed the King. “And death it shall be! Ho, my trusty guards! Arm yourselves with ropes and heavy chains and run to the harbor, in search of the lost prisoner. We shall have to give him a taste of death, death, death!”
Whereupon all the soldiers, all the courtiers, all the nobles of the land, armed themselves, clattering, growling, thundering. And down to the wharves of the harbor they swept, leaving the gilded dining room deserted. Even the King himself left his half eaten eggs, and forgot to clap the cover on his dish of honey—and ran off, with his crown toppling over one ear and his royal robes dragging in the mud, all the way from the palace door to the planks of the piers. Only the little Princess Clem was left, in terror and in tears. She wept, poor thing—and made a sorry mixture of her tears in a pitcher of cream.
Out from the shore, in a hundred boats, dashed the King and his cohorts. Out and around they spun, circling the peaceful pumpkin. Then closer and closer—and always pushing closer.
“Heigh, wretch!” cried the King, who stood, straight and tall, in the bow of the royal barge. “You are captured and you cannot escape. You are surrounded by a thousand warriors, all armed with ropes and heavy chains. You are a prisoner again, and death shall be your punishment! Rush in, brave boatmen, and seize this dog of a Peterkin!”
So in sped the boats, crashing against the sides of the poor Pumperkin. Then up with ladders—up with the men, climbing the steep, bulging sides of Peterkin’s house. Then, one peek through the ceiling window and—what a cry went up!
For Peterkin was gone!
Nothing could be found of him, no matter how hard they searched—in every nook, behind the chairs, under the bed and everywhere. He was gone!