Thine age is many hundred years—this land
Is all thine own, wherever pine-trees stand;
By Sunday-children only art thou seen.”
Then the little Glass-man came forth, looking, not genial and friendly as before, but sad and gloomy; he wore a coat all of black glass, and a long mourning-band fluttered from his hat. Peter knew full well for whom he was mourning.
“What wilt thou of me, Peter Munk?” he asked in a hollow voice.
“I have yet one wish left, Master Treasure-keeper,” said Peter, with downcast eyes.
“Can hearts of stone still wish?” asked the other. “Thou hast all that thy wicked mind can require, and it can hardly be that I may fulfil any wish of thine.”
“Yet you promised me three wishes, and I still have one left.”
“But I can deny it, if it is a foolish one,” said the wood-spirit. “However, let be; I will hear what it is.”
“Then take away this dead stone, and give me back my living heart,” said Peter.