These words flashed like lightning through Peter’s ear, and hastily starting up, he rushed out of the house, thinking he was mistaken in what he had heard, ran after the three fellows and seized, suddenly and rudely, the singer by the arm, crying at the same time, ‘Stop, friend, what was it you rhymed with “place”? Do me the favour to tell me what you were singing.’
‘What possesses you, fellow?’ replied the Schwarzwälder. ‘I may sing what I like; let go my arm, or——’
‘No, you shall tell me what you were singing,’ shouted Peter, almost beside himself, clutching him more tightly at the same time. When the other two saw this, they were not long in falling foul upon poor Peter with their large fists, and belabouring him till the pain made him release the third, and he sank exhausted upon his knees.
‘Now you have your due,’ said they, laughing; ‘and mark you, madcap, never again stop people like us upon the highway.’
‘Woe is me!’ replied Peter with a sigh, ‘I shall certainly recollect it. But now that I have had the blows, you will oblige me by telling me plainly what he was singing.’ To this they laughed again and mocked him; but the one who had sung repeated the song to him, after which they went away laughing and singing.
‘“Face,”’ then said the poor belaboured Peter as he got up slowly, ‘will rhyme with “place”; now, Little Glass Man, I will have another word with you.’ He went into the hut, took his hat and long stick, bade farewell to the inmates, and commenced his way back to the Tannenbühl. Being under the necessity of inventing a verse, he proceeded slowly and thoughtfully on his way; at length, when he was already within the precincts of the Tannenbühl, and the trees became higher and closer, he found his verse, and for joy cut a caper in the air. All at once he saw coming from behind the trees a gigantic man dressed like a raftsman, who held in his hand a pole as large as the mast of a ship. Peter Munk’s knees almost gave way under him, when he saw him slowly striding by his side, thinking he was no other than the Dutchman Michel. Still the terrible figure kept silence, and Peter cast a side glance at him from time to time. He was full a head taller than the biggest man Peter had even seen; his face expressed neither youth nor old age, but was full of furrows and wrinkles; he wore a jacket of linen, and the enormous boots being drawn above his leather breeches, were well known to Peter from hearsay.
‘What are you doing in the Tannenbühl, Peter Munk?’ asked the wood king at length, in a deep, roaring voice.
‘Good morning, countryman,’ replied Peter, wishing to show himself undaunted, but trembling violently all the while.
‘Peter Munk,’ replied Michel, casting a piercing, terrible glance at him, ‘your way does not lie through this grove.’
‘True, it does not exactly,’ said Peter, ‘but being a hot day, I thought it would be cooler here.’