Soon there were no little savages left except one very small fellow in the corner.
“Spare me, great champion,” he called in a shrill, high voice. “If you give me my life there is not a place to which you will go but I will be with you. I will be a good servant to you.”
“No man ever asked for his life but I granted it,” said Dermot.
He sat down on a bench and looked about him. “Have you any food?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said the small chief, for he was the leader of the small men. “We never have food except the people the king sends us to eat. If you will go out and walk forty paces to your right, you will come to the king’s bakery. There you should be able to get some loaves.”
Dermot followed directions and found the king’s baker just closing up for the night.
“Give me two loaves of bread,” demanded Dermot.
The baker let out a scream of rage. “Ruffian,” he yelled. “Do you dare ask me for bread after the way you treated our soldiers today? Get out of here this minute.”
The little man was dancing with rage. Dermot let out a roar of laughter. He picked up the baker and held him at arms’ length. “You are a nimble dancer,” he said. “I shall give you a place to dance.”
Opening the oven, now cool enough so that it would not injure him, Dermot put the baker inside and shut the door. He helped himself to what bread he wanted while the baker kept up an excited dancing, accompanied by a steady pounding on the oven door.