—“Thou hast stopped the beating of my heart, perhaps, but I have it just as usual in my breast. And Ezekiel too; he told me that thou hadst taken us both in. Thou art not the fellow to be able to tear a man’s heart out of his breast like that, unnoticed and without danger. It would take a sorcerer to do that.”
“I swear to thee,” cried Michael angrily, “that thou, and Ezekiel, and all the rich folk who have made a bargain with me, have just such cold hearts as I showed thee, and your real hearts are here in my closet.”
“Dear, dear! how the lies do slip from thy tongue, to be sure!” laughed Peter. “Go and tell that tale elsewhere. Dost think I have not seen dozens of such conjuring tricks on my travels? Those hearts in thy chamber there are sham ones, made of wax. Thou art a rich fellow, I allow; but thou art no sorcerer.”
Then the giant grew enraged, and threw open the chamber door.
“Come in and read all these labels—that one yonder, see, is Peter Munk’s heart. Dost thou mark how it quivers? Can that, too, be done with wax?”
“And yet it is of wax,” answered Peter. “A real heart does not throb like that, and besides, I have mine still in my breast. Nay, thou art no sorcerer!”
“But I will prove it to thee,” cried the other, more angrily still; “thou shalt feel for thyself that it is thine own heart.”
He lifted it from the jar, tore open Peter’s jerkin, pulled the stone from his breast, and held it before him. Then taking the real heart, he breathed upon it, and put it carefully into its place—and immediately Peter felt how it beat, and could rejoice that he had it once more.
