uchery in the
taverns. As to the honest man, who had warned them, Dutch Michael is
said to have sold him to a slave-dealer, for nothing more was ever
heard of him.

From that day forth Holland has been the paradise of our Black Forest
lads; the timber merchants knew nothing of this trade, and all the
while money, swearing, evil habits, drink and gambling were being
introduced by the raftsmen from Holland.

Dutch Michael, so the story goes, disappeared and was nowhere to be
found; but it is certain that he did not die. For one hundred years his
spirit has haunted the forest, and it is said that he has helped many
to become rich, at the cost of their poor souls, of which I would
rather not say any more. This much is certain, that on such stormy
nights as this he is up in the Pine-grove, where no one fells trees,
selecting the biggest pines. And my father has seen him take hold of
one, four to five feet in thickness, and snap it as one would a reed.
This is his gift to those who turn from the straight path to go to him;
at midnight they carry their timber to the water, and fare away on it
into Holland. Oh, if I were only king and lord of Holland, I would send
him to the bottom with grape-shot; for every ship, the hull of which
contains one single beam of Dutch Michael's felling, must come to
grief. And that is the reason why one hears of so many shipwrecks; how
otherwise could a fine, strong ship, as big as a church, sink in the
open sea? Every time Dutch Michael fells a pine on a stormy night in
the Black Forest, one of his old ones is sprung from the bottom of some
ship, the water rushes in, and that ship with all on board is lost.

Such is the story of Dutch Michael, and it is but the truth when people
declare that he is the author of all the evil which is committed in the
Black Forest!

"Ah! he can make you rich enough!" continued the old man,
confidentially. "But I would receive nothing at his hands, not for all
the gold in the world would I stand in the shoes of Fat Ezekiel or the
Lanky Schlurker. And it is also thought that the Dance-King is one of
his familiars."

The storm had abated during the recital of the old man's story; the
girls lit the lamps, and stole away; the men gave Peter Munk a sack
full of leaves to serve as a pillow, and left him to sleep on the
hearth, wishing him good-night as they went.

Never in his life had Charcoal-Peter dreamed so heavily as during that
night. First there appeared to