Just as the old man reached Lisbeth he stumbled and almost fell beneath the weight of his sack. “Have pity, dear lady, and give me a drink of water,” he gasped, “I can go no further, I am completely exhausted.” “You are too old to carry such a heavy weight,” said Lisbeth. “True,” replied the old man, “but it is on account of my poverty that I am forced to go round as a carrier, otherwise I should not be able to earn a livelihood. But a rich lady like yourself knows nothing of the pinch of poverty or how good a cool draught of fresh water seems on such a hot day.” On hearing this Lisbeth hurried into the house, took a pitcher from the shelf and filled it with water, and when she turned to hand it to the old man and saw how wretched and tired out he looked as he sat upon his sack, she felt so much pity for him, that she could not resist giving him more substantial help. So she set the water aside and filled a cup with red wine and gave it to him with a large slice of rye bread. “This will do you more good than water, seeing that you are so old,” she said, “but be careful, do not drink so hastily, take a morsel of bread with the wine.” [Illustration: _THE COLD HEART_ _“She saw a little old man coming along.”_ (_p. 258_)] The old man looked at her with tears in his eyes--“I am very old,” he said, “but in all my life I have seen few so pitiful as you or whose gifts were given with such gracious kindness. But such a kind heart will not go unrewarded.” “No, indeed, and the reward she shall have at once,” cried a terrible voice, and when they turned, there stood Peter with a face purple with rage. “And so you give my best wine to beggars, and serve it in my own cup, too. Now you shall have your reward.” Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged for forgiveness, but his heart of stone knew no pity; he turned the whip he was carrying round and struck her forehead with the ebony handle with so much force that she sank back lifeless into the arms of the old man. Immediately he began to regret what he had done and stooped to see if she were yet alive. But the little old man spoke in well-known tones: “Do not trouble, Charcoal Peter, she was the sweetest and loveliest flower in the whole of the Black Forest; now that you have trodden it under foot it will never bloom again.” Every drop of blood forsook Peter’s cheeks--“So it is you,” he said. “Well, what is done, is done. I trust you will not give me up to the hand of the law for this murder.” “Miserable wretch!” replied the little Glass-man. “What satisfaction should I have in giving your mortal body to the hangman? It is no earthly court of justice you have to fear, but another and a more awful one, for you have sold your soul to the evil one.”