When Gluck’s brothers came home, they beat him black and blue, because the mug was gone.  But when he told them about the King of the Golden River they quarrelled all night, as to which should go to get the gold.  At last, Hans, who was the stronger, got the better of Schwartz, and started off.  The priest would not give such a bad man any holy water, so he stole a bottleful.  Then he took a basket of bread and wine, and began to climb the mountain.

He climbed fast, and soon came to the end of the first hill.  But there he found a great glacier, a hill of ice, which he had never seen before.  It was horrible to cross,—­the ice was slippery, great gulfs yawned before him, and noises like groans and shrieks came from under his feet.  He lost his basket of bread and wine, and was quite faint with fear and exhaustion when his feet touched firm ground again.

Next he came to a hill of hot, red rock, without a bit of grass to ease the feet, or a particle of shade.  After an hour’s climb he was so thirsty that he felt that he must drink.  He looked at the flask of water.  “Three drops are enough,” he thought; “I will just cool my lips.”  He was lifting the flask to his lips when he saw something beside him in the path.  It was a small dog, and it seemed to be dying of thirst.  Its tongue was out, its legs were lifeless, and a swarm of black ants were crawling about its lips.  It looked piteously at the bottle which Hans held.  Hans raised the bottle, drank, kicked at the animal, and passed on.

A strange black shadow came across the blue sky.

Another hour Hans climbed; the rocks grew hotter and the way steeper every moment.  At last he could bear it no longer; he must drink.  The bottle was half empty, but he decided to drink half of what was left.  As he lifted it, something moved in the path beside him.  It was a child, lying nearly dead of thirst on the rock, its eyes closed, its lips burning, its breath coming in gasps.  Hans looked at it, drank, and passed on.

A dark cloud came over the sun, and long shadows crept up the mountain-side.

It grew very steep now, and the air weighed like lead on Hans’s forehead, but the Golden River was very near.  Hans stopped a moment to breathe, then started to climb the last height.

As he clambered on, he saw an old, old man lying in the path.  His eyes were sunken, and his face deadly pale.

“Water!” he said; “water!”

“I have none for you,” said Hans; “you have had your share of life.”  He strode over the old man’s body and climbed on.

A flash of blue lightning dazzled him for an instant, and then the heavens were dark.

At last Hans stood on the brink of the cataract of the Golden River.  The sound of its roaring filled the air.  He drew the flask from his side and hurled it into the torrent.  As he did so, an icy chill shot through him; he shrieked and fell.  And the river rose and flowed over