“I stood beside a little hut, Just where the pine-trees grow, Peeped in for my beloved, But her face she would not show.” The words rushed through Peter’s ears like lightning; but like lightning they were gone again. He jumped up, ran from the cottage, pursued the three men, and seized the singer roughly by the arm. “Stop, friend,” he cried, “what did you rhyme with ‘grow’? Be good enough, please, to tell me what you were singing.” “What’s that to you, fellow?” replied the Black Forester. “I can sing what I like, I suppose? Let go my arm, or----” “No, no,” screamed Peter, clinging all the tighter to him, “I will not let you go until you have told me what you were singing.” But the singer’s two companions fell upon Peter and gave him such a drubbing he was forced to let go the singer’s clothing, and fell fainting to his knees. “Now you have your deserts,” they said, laughing, “and perhaps you will know better another time than to molest honest folk on an open road.” “I will certainly remember not to do so any more,” replied Charcoal Peter with a sigh, “but now that you have given me a good beating be so good as to tell me slowly and clearly the words of the song.” They laughed at him and mocked him, but the singer repeated the words to him and then, laughing and singing, the three young men went on their way. Peter raised himself painfully to his feet. “Ah,” he said, “so ‘show’ rhymes with ‘grow.’ Very well, Master Glass-man, we will have a word to say to each other by-and-by.” He went back to the cottage, took leave of his host, and with his staff in his hand set out once more for the clump of black pine-trees. He walked slowly, for he had to compose a last line to the verse, and although he now had a word to rhyme he found it a difficult matter to make up the whole line. But by the time he was close to the place and the pines began to grow taller and thicker, he had his line quite complete, and so overjoyed was he that he made a bound forward and nearly bounded up against a huge giant of a man, dressed as a raftsman, and carrying a pole in his hand the size of a ship’s mast, who stepped suddenly from out of the clump of pine-trees. Peter Munk’s knees shook with fright as he saw the giant taking slow steps alongside of him, in order to accommodate himself to Peter’s pace. “Without doubt it is Dutch Michael,” thought he, but the huge figure paced silently on. Peter glanced sideways at him from time to time. He was certainly taller than the tallest man he had ever seen, his face was neither young nor old, but was covered with lines and creases innumerable. He wore a linen vest and the enormous boots which were drawn up over his leather breeches Peter recognised at once from the old man’s story. “Peter Munk, what are you doing in this clump of black pines?” he asked at length in deep threatening tones.