At this they began to laugh and mock at him; but at last the singer consented to repeat the words, after which they went on, laughing and singing, upon their way.
“‘Seen,’ then,” said poor Peter, as he got up, feeling quite sore, “‘seen’ with ‘green.’ Now, Mr. Glass-man, we will have another word together.”
He went back to the hut, fetched his hat and long staff, and bidding his hosts farewell, took his way homeward towards the “Pine-thicket.” He went along slowly and thoughtfully, for he still had to compose his verse; but as he began to enter the “thicket,” and the trees grew higher and thicker about him, he thought he had found it, and leapt into the air for joy. At that very moment a gigantic man in a raftsman’s dress, and with a staff as long as a mast in his hand, stepped from behind the trees. Peter Munk’s knees shook beneath him as he saw this apparition walking slowly by his side, for he thought to himself: “This is no other than Dutch Michael.” The dreadful being never said a word, and from time to time Peter shot a terrified glance up at him. He was a good head taller than any one he had ever seen; his face was no longer young, neither was it old, yet it was deeply seamed and wrinkled; he wore a linen jerkin, and Peter easily recognised the huge boots he had heard of in the story, which were drawn up over his leather breeches.
“Peter Munk,” said the King of the Forest at last, in a deep, hollow voice, “what art thou doing here in the ‘Pine-thicket’?”
“Good morrow, countryman,” answered Peter, who wished to appear undismayed, though he was trembling all over; “I am going homewards through the ‘Pine-thicket.’”
“Peter Munk,” rejoined the other, with a dreadful, piercing glance at him, “thy way home does not lie through this wood.”
“Well, perhaps not exactly,” stammered the youth, “but it is a hot day, and I thought it would be cooler here.”
“No lies, thou Coal-Peter!” thundered Dutch Michael, “or I will fell thee to the earth with my staff. Dost think I did not see thee creep begging to yon little man?” he added more quietly. “Go to! that was a silly trick, and it is a good thing thou didst not know the charm. The little fellow is a niggard, and gives but scantily, and he to whom he gives is never merry all his life long. Peter, thou art a poor wight, and from my soul I pity thee; such a fine, jolly lad as thou, that mightest make something of thy life—and thou art to spend it in charcoal-burning! Where others can shake heavy thalers and ducats out of their sleeves, thou canst scarce spare a beggarly sixpence. ’Tis a wretched life!”
—“Thou art right, it is indeed—a wretched life!”
—“Well, I will not be hard on thee,” the terrible Michael went on; “I have helped many a good fellow in his need—thou wouldst not be the first. Tell me, then, how many hundred thalers mightest thou want to begin with?”