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“But at your age you ought not to carry such a heavy load,” said Lisbeth.

“Yes, if I was not forced by poverty to serve as a messenger,” answered he. “Alas, a rich lady like you does not know how poverty pinches, and how refreshing a drink of water would be on such a hot day.”

On hearing this Lisbeth rushed into the house, took a pitcher from the shelf and filled it with water; but when she returned with it, and had come within a few feet of the man, she saw how miserable he appeared as he sat on the sack, and, remembering that her husband was not at home, she set the pitcher of water to one side, got a goblet and filled it with wine, laid a slice of rye bread on top of it, and brought it out to the old man. “There; a sip of wine, at your age, will do you more good than water,” said she. “But don’t drink it so hastily, and eat your bread with it.”

The little man looked at her in astonishment, while tears gathered in his eyes. He drank the wine and then said: “I have grown old, but I have seen few people who were so merciful, and who knew how to make gifts as handsomely and heartily as you do, Frau Lisbeth. And for this your life on earth shall be a happy one; such a heart will not remain without a reward.”

“No, and she shall have her reward on the spot!” shouted a terrible voice; and as they turned, there stood Peter with an angry face.

“So you were pouring out my best wine for beggars, and giving my own goblet to the lips of a vagrant? There, take your reward!”

Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged his forgiveness; but the heart of stone felt no pity; he turned the whip he held in his hand, and struck such a blow with the butt of it on her beautiful forehead, that she sank lifeless into the arms of the old man. When Peter saw this, he seemed to regret it on the instant, he bent down to see if there was still life in her, but the little man said to him in a well-known voice: “Don’t trouble yourself. Charcoal Peter! It was the sweetest and loveliest flower in the Black Forest; but you have destroyed it, and it will never bloom again.”

The blood left Peter’s cheeks, as he said: “It is you then, Herr Schatzhauser? Well, what is done, is done, and must have come to pass. I hope, however, that you won’t charge me with being her murderer before the magistrate.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed the Little Glass-Man, “how would it console me to bring your mortal frame to the gallows? It is not earthly judges whom you have to fear, but other and severer ones, for you have sold your soul to the evil one.”

“And if I have sold my heart,” shrieked Peter, “you and your miserable treasures are to blame for it! You, malicious spirit, have led me to perdition, driven me to seek help of another, and you are answerable for it all.”

But hardly had Peter said this, when the Little Glass-Man swelled and grew, and became both tall and broad, while his eyes were as large as soup plates, and his mouth was like a heated oven from which flames darted forth. Peter threw himself on his knees, and his marble heart did not prevent his limbs from trembling like an aspen tree. The Spirit of the Forest seized him by the neck with the talons of a hawk, and whirled him about as a whirlwind sweeps up the dead leaves, and then threw him to the ground with such force that all his ribs cracked. “Earth-worm!” cried he, in a voice like a roll of thunder, “I could dash you to pieces if I chose, for you have insulted the Master of the Forest. But for this dead woman’s sake, who has given me food and drink, you shall have an eight days’ reprieve. If you don’t mend your ways by that time, I will come and grind your limbs to powder, and you shall die in all your sins!”