They began to laugh again, and made sport of him; but the one who had sung the song repeated it to him, and laughing and singing they continued on their way. "Also _gesehen_," said the beaten one, as he raised himself up with some difficulty; "_gesehen_ rhymes with _stehen_. Now then, Little Glass-Man, we will speak a word together." He went back to the hut, took his hat and stick, and bade farewell to the inmates of the hut, and started on his way back to the Tannenbuehl. He walked on slowly and thoughtfully, for he had a line to make up; finally as he came into the neighborhood of the Tannenbuehl, and the pines grew taller and thicker, he had completed the verse, and in his joy made a leap into the air. Just then appeared a man of giant size, who held in his hand a pole as long as a ship's mast. Peter's courage failed him as he saw this giant walking along very slowly near him; for, thought he, that is none other than Dutch Michel. But the giant remained silent, and Peter occasionally took a half-frightened look at him. He was fully a head taller than the largest man Peter had ever seen; his face was neither young nor old, and yet full of lines; he wore a linen jacket, and the enormous boots drawn over the leather breeches, Peter recognized from the legend he had heard the night before. "Peter Munk, what are you doing in the Tannenbuehl?" inquired the King of the Wood, in a deep threatening voice. "Good morning, neighbor," replied Peter, with an effort to hide his uneasiness: "I was going back home through the Tannenbuehl." "Peter Munk," returned the giant, darting a piercing look at him, "your way does not lie through this grove." "Well, no, not directly," said Peter; "but it is warm to-day, and I thought it would be cooler up here." "Don't tell a lie. Charcoal Pete!" cried Dutch Michel, in a voice of thunder, "or I will beat you to the ground with my pole. Do you think I didn't hear you pleading with the Little Glass-Man?" continued he more gently. "Come, come, that was a foolish thing to do, and it is fortunate that you did not know that verse; he is a niggard, the little churl, and doesn't give much, and those to whom he does give don't enjoy life very much. Peter, you are a poor simpleton, and it grieves me to the soul to see such a lively, handsome fellow, who might do something in the world, burning charcoal. While others are throwing about great thalers or ducats, you can hardly raise a sixpence: 'tis a miserable life." "That's all true, and you are right; it is a miserable life." "Well, I shouldn't mind giving you a lift," continued the terrible Michel. "I have already helped many a brave fellow out of his misery, so you would not be the first. Speak up, now; how many hundred thalers do you want to start with?"