He returned to the cottage, took his hat and long stick, bade farewell to the cottagers, and strode away in the direction of the pine-grove. Becoming engrossed in thought, he slackened his speed, for it had occurred to him that, now he had found a rhyme, he must complete the verse. At length, approaching the Pine-grove, and reaching the part where the trees grow taller and denser, he completed the missing line, and his delight caused him to bound into the air. At the same moment there stepped from behind a pine a gigantic man, dressed as a raftsman, and with a pole as big as a ship's mast in his hand. Peter Munk sank in terror to his knees, as he saw the stranger striding slowly towards him. He felt that this could be none other than Dutch Michael. No sound came from the terrible apparition, while Peter stole fearful glances at him every now and then. He towered a full head above the tallest man whom Peter had ever seen; his features were not youthful in appearance, neither did he look old, though his face was a mass of wrinkles and furrows. He wore a linen jerkin, and his huge boots, which were drawn up well over his leather knee-breeches, were exactly as they had been described to Peter. "Peter Munk! what are you doing in the Pine-grove?" asked the lord of the forest, at last, in deep, threatening tones. "Good morning, countryman," answered Peter, trying to conceal his terror, but trembling violently all the same. "I am going home through the Pine-grove." "Peter Munk," rejoined the other, surveying him with a terrible penetrating look. "Your way lies not through this glade." "You are quite right," said Peter, "but it is so hot to-day, and I thought it would be cooler here." "Utter no falsehoods, Charcoal-Peter!" thundered Dutch Michael; "or I will strike you to earth with my staff! Do you think that I have not seen you begging of that pigmy yonder?" And he continued in more gentle tones: "Go to! Go to! that was a silly thing to do, and well it was for you that you did not know the incantation. He is a niggard, that little fellow, and gives but little; and those to whom he gives have not enough wherewith to enjoy themselves. Peter, you are a poor simpleton, and my heart grieves for you; such a brave and handsome fellow as you are, one who should make his mark in the world, and yet but a charcoal-burner! While others can throw away whole armsful of thalers and ducats, you have but a few farthings to spend;--'tis a wretched existence." "True! true! You are right! 'Tis a miserable life!" "Well, it is no fault of mine," pursued the terrible Michael; "I have already rescued many a brave fellow from misery, and you would not be the first. Tell me: how many hundred thalers do you want to begin with?"