Late in the spring, when the grazing down in the valley is pretty well exhausted, farmers in Switzerland are wont to drive their cows up to the mountain pastures, which by this time are all covered with luxuriant grass and gemmed with dainty wild-flowers. The day set for the departure of the cattle is always a gala day. The people, dressed in their Sunday best, assemble in the villages through which the herds must pass, to exchange merry jests with the herdsmen, bid them God speed, and admire the fat sleek cows, wearing around their necks bells of different sizes and varying tones.

The head herdsman proudly walks in front of his cattle, wearing a bunch of gay ribbons or of fresh flowers in his hat or cap. His blue cloth coat, with its short sleeves, sets off a dazzlingly white shirt of coarse linen, and his costume is completed by knee-breeches, thick woolen stockings, and shoes whose soles are elaborately studded with bright nails. This man carries a bag full of salt, and an umbrella slung across his back; and from time to time, as he strides joyfully ahead of the herd, he offers a handful of salt to the foremost cows. Leaning on his stout staff, he sturdily climbs the mountain, giving vent to those long-drawn musical cries known as “huchÉes” or “jodels,” according to the section of the country in which they are heard.

Close behind the herdsman comes the bull, with a ring in his nose, or a fine cow, the queen and leader of the cattle. Conscious of the honour of wearing the largest and deepest-toned bell, this animal steps proudly along, tossing a shapely head decked with bunches of bright flowers on either horn, and between them rests the milking-stool, a sign of particular distinction.

Cow after cow slowly files past, greeted by calls and loving pats from proud owners, and amid the tinkling of bells, the trample of hoofs, the lowing of kine, and the cheers of the people sound the resonant cracks of the herdsmen’s whips, which they snap incessantly to show their proficiency in that greatly admired branch of their calling.

The sight of such a herd going up the mountain invariably reminds the old people of happy summers long gone by, and while sitting on the benches in front of their stone or wooden houses at twilight, they entertain the younger generation with reminiscences of the joyful past, and a regretful sigh always heaves their aged breasts when they finally mention the Golden Age of Switzerland.

According to tradition, this was the time when none of the mountains—not even the highest—were ever veiled in cold mists, or covered with ice and snow. Neither were there any barren and rocky heights such as we see now. Luxuriant grass grew all the way up the steepest slopes, carpeting even the topmost ridges, and the climate was so genial that cattle dotted the hillside pastures during nine or ten months of the year. The cows were then far larger and fatter than any we see now, and their milk was so abundant that they were milked thrice a day into huge ponds, or tanks, where the herdsmen went about in skiffs to do the skimming.

One of these men is said to have once lost his balance and fallen head first into a lacteal lake, but although his mourning companions diligently sought for his corpse, and even dredged that huge natural milkpan, they could find no trace of him. When churning-day came round, however, and the big vats of thick cream were poured into a churn as large and tall as a castle tower, the dead man was suddenly discovered imbedded like a fly in the thick cream. The dairymen and milkmaids then mournfully laid his corpse to rest in a huge cave, lined with honeycombs so tall and massive that none was smaller than the city gates.

Such was the prosperity of all the farmers in the Cantons of Vaud and Valais, that their men used goat cheeses (tommes) instead of quoits for their daily games, and on Sundays played bowls with huge balls of the sweetest, hardest, yellowest butter that has ever been made. The fruit trees were as productive as the pastures; the grapes, for instance, being so large and juicy that faucets had to be inserted in each grape to draw off the juice, while the pears were so fine and heavy that their stems had to be severed by means of a double hand-saw when came time to pick them.

The Golden Age of the Alps did not last long, however, for the unparalleled prosperity the people enjoyed filled their hearts with such inordinate pride that they became very insolent, and thereby called down the wrath of heaven upon their guilty heads. The brutality and avarice which they displayed was punished by earthquakes, storms, and landslides, which ruined their finest pastures, and by sudden and unwelcome changes in the temperature. Dense fogs swept over the mountains, and there were long and heavy snow-falls which swathed the mountains in a permanent casing of ice and snow. The summer season became far briefer than in the past, and fields and pastures much less productive. Cattle and fruit therefore soon dwindled down to their present comparatively small proportions, and unlimited plenty no longer reigned in the land.

In the Golden Age the country boasted of a few very large but quite benevolent giants. They roamed about at will, striding over mountains and forests, which seemed to them no larger than mole hills and tiny shrubs. The best known of these giants was Gargantua, renowned alike for his athletic proportions and for his childlike spirit. He was so huge that when he sat down to rest upon Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, or some other large mountain, his legs hung down on either side until his feet rested comfortably in the valleys. Sometimes, when indulging in a brief noonday nap, he used one of these peaks as pillow for his huge and sleepy head. His thick white beard and hair, falling around him on all sides, then gave these heights somewhat the same aspect they have now, with their fields of snow and rivers of ice. The sunken orbits of the giant’s eyes and his wide-open mouth looked like valleys and crevasses, while his nostrils could be mistaken for deep and dark caves, and his ruddy cheeks for great patches of red rock peeping out among the snows.

When the weather was warm, Gargantua’s breath seemed like the mist hovering on the mountain tops; but when the temperature fell, it rapidly congealed, spreading like a dense fog all over the country. His gentlest snores are said to have sounded like the distant rumble of thunder, or the crash of avalanches; and when he stretched himself after a siesta, the whole country was shaken as by a violent earthquake.

Once, while the giant lay asleep, his head resting against a mountain, a large flock of sheep scrambled up over his prostrate form, and began to thread their way through his tangled hair and beard in quest of pasture. Awakened by a slight tickling sensation, the giant half opened his sleepy eyes. The sight of a host of little white creatures crawling around in his beard so angered him, that he took them up one by one between his thumb and index, and crushed and threw them away, thinking they were vermin.

During another nap a large herd of cows strayed into the giant’s wide-open mouth, which they mistook for a cave. Their presence there, however, occasioned a prodigious coughing-fit, in the course of which the cows were ejected with such force that they flew through miles of space and landed in another country!

As simple and innocent as he was large, Gargantua delighted in playing in the dirt. To amuse himself, he hollowed out the RhÔne valley, and scooped out a basin for the Lake of Geneva. There the marks of his fingers can still be seen, for having no other tools he freely used those nature provides, flinging handfuls of earth and stones on either side of him, or into a rude basket made of wattled pine-trees which he carried on his back.

At one time Gargantua elected to build a fine sand-heap, and carried load after load of dirt and stones to a point southeast of the present city of Geneva. There he dumped them one after another, and as the heap increased in size after each basketful, he gleefully cried: “Ça lÈve, Ça lÈve!” (It is rising, it is rising!) This cry was overheard by the people in the neighbourhood, who ever after used it as a name for that mountain, changing the orthography to SalÈve.

Gargantua sometimes threw huge rocks around him in sport, or in petulant fits of anger, punched holes in and through the mountains, and dug out fistfuls of earth here and there to fashion his mud pies. He also liked to make gullies for the streams which trickled down the mountains. Once, while scratching out the Illiez valley he forgot the burden on his back and stooped to drink from the RhÔne, which seemed to him like a mere rill. By some mischance, however, he stubbed his big toe against the rocks of St. Triphon, and fell sprawling along the valley, spilling part of the dirt out of his basket. The simple fellow, amazed at this accident, picked himself up gravely and uttered the local substitute for “My goodness!” (Eh Monteh!). This exclamation was thereafter used by the natives to designate a mound of earth now covered with oak forests and known as Monthey.

In his wrath at having tripped and broken the straps fastening his basket to his back, Gargantua gave his burden an ill-tempered kick, which sent it flying some distance further on, where it dumped the rest of its contents. This heap of dirt formed the picturesque eminence on whose wooded heights the ruined tower of Duin now stands.

A similar accident occurring when the giant once tried to quench his thirst in the Sarine, is the alleged origin of the hill upon which rises the church of ChÂteau d’Oex. On another occasion, resting one foot upon the top of the Berra and the other upon the Gibloux, Gargantua bent down and took a draught from the Sarine, which drained it so dry that not a drop of water flowed along its bed for three whole days. During that time one legend claims that the giant laid the foundation for the bridge at Pont-la-Ville, near Fribourg, but another ascribes that construction to his Satanic Majesty in person.

Gargantua’s feet were so large that one of his sandals could serve as bridge over the RhÔne or Sarine, and his hands so strong that he tore great gaps in the Jura mountains to enable those two streams to make their way to the sea.

A mountain giant who roamed about in the mist, but never came down into the valleys, was known as PathÔ. He delighted in terrifying the people in the lowlands by sudden wild cries, or by playfully rolling stones down upon them, their cattle, houses, or pastures.

Many of the Swiss giants were supposed to dwell in caves, or castles, on the tallest mountains, hidden from the eyes of men by ever-shifting clouds. To commemorate this superstition, Schiller wrote a charming ballad, telling how the daughter of one of these giants once strayed down into the valley, where, for the first time in her life, she beheld a farmer ploughing his field. In her delight and wonder, she bundled man, horses, and plough into her apron, and quickly carried them home, where she proudly exhibited her new playthings to her father. The giant, who wished the puny human race no ill, immediately bade his little daughter carry the frightened peasant and kicking team back to the place where she had found them, gravely warning her never to meddle again with the people in the valley, whose diligent toil supplied giants as well as mortals with their daily bread.

The monks who lived in the old abbey at Romainmotier, in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, once built a bridge over the rushing waters of the Orbe, to enable the throngs of pilgrims to reach a wonder-working image of the Virgin near Vallorbes. But as these monks were very eager to enrich their monastery, they also placed a toll-gate across the bridge, and would allow none to pass without paying a certain sum.

One night, the bridge-keeper was startled out of his peaceful slumbers by the rhythmic sound of rapid hoof-beats on the hard road, and he sprang to his window just in time to find himself face to face with a panting, foam-flecked steed, upon which sat a girl clad in garments apparently no whiter than her anguished face. In breathless tones the maiden bade the keeper open wide the gate and let her pass, for her beloved mother was dangerously ill, and she wanted to plead for her recovery at the foot of the miraculous image.

The gate-keeper listened unmoved to this passionate entreaty, and instead of opening the gate, held it shut tight while sternly demanding his toll. In vain the girl repeated she had forgotten to bring any money, and implored him to let her pass, promising to bring him the required amount on the morrow; he would not listen to anything she said.

Seeing it was useless to parley any longer with such an unfeeling man, yet determined to save her mother at any price, the brave girl urged her steed to the very edge of the bridge, and suddenly leaped over the low parapet into the rushing tide. For a few moments the horrified gate-keeper saw horse and rider struggling bravely to reach the opposite shore, but all at once their strength gave way, and they were swept into a whirlpool in the middle of the stream. A moment later he saw them dashed against sharp rocks, and vanish beneath the foaming waters which were soon tinged red with blood.

The gate-keeper stole back to his couch, trembling in every limb, but told no one of the girl’s visit or of her frightful death. At midnight on the anniversary of the tragedy, the conscience-stricken man was however again roused by a loud clatter of hoofs. Torn from his bed by invisible hands, he found himself on the bridge, face to face with the same unhappy maid, whose snowy garments were now all stained with blood. Still impelled by a force he could not resist, the gate-keeper suddenly dropped down on his hands and knees before her, and felt her spring lightly upon his back. A second later he was galloping wildly toward the shrine of the miraculous Virgin.

There the maiden dismounted and fervently prayed for her sick mother; then rising hastily from her knees, she again sprang upon her human steed, whom she urged on over the stony road by lashing him with a long wet reed. At the bridge, the spectre maiden vanished over the parapet, and the terrified gate-keeper straightened up once more, only in time to hear the gurgling cry of a drowning person rising above the roaring and splashing of the swollen stream.

This spectral apparition visited this man every year, and so shattered his nerves that he fell ill and died of fright. But before he breathed his last, he humbly confessed to one of the monks his cruel treatment of the girl, her pitiful end, and his awful punishment.

In memory of this event, an image of a man on all fours, and ridden by a beautiful maiden, was placed in the convent church, where it was long exhibited to pilgrims and tourists, to whom the above story is invariably told.

South of Romainmotier, on the road from Vallorbes to Lausanne, stands the small and very ancient town of La Sarraz, with its quaint castle. We are told that a statue was excavated there lately, which once stood in the chapel, and represented a knight, on whose cheeks and shoulder-blades clung loathsome toads. The recovery of that peculiar statue recalled the olden tale of a young knight of La Sarraz, who, having won great distinction in warfare, aspired to the hand of a Count’s daughter.

Although the maiden was far above him in station, her father consented to their union, provided the bridegroom gave her a castle and three hundred cows as wedding gift, or morgengabe. This condition filled the knight’s heart with hopeless sorrow, for he could boast no property except his trusty sword, his stout suit of mail, and his fiery battle-horse.

His parents, perceiving his dejection, questioned him tenderly, and when they learned the cause of his sorrow, they joyfully exclaimed that he need not despair, for they would give him castle and cattle, which was all they had in the world. They confidently added that they knew their son would never let them want in their old age, even if they did bestow everything upon him, reserving naught for themselves.

The selfish son gladly accepted this proffered sacrifice, but when the marriage ceremony had been completed, and he and his wife were comfortably settled in their new home, he begrudged his old parents the little they required, and instigated by his wife, turned them out of the house one cold and stormy night.

After closing the door upon them, to shut off the sound of their pitiful sobs and heartbreaking reproaches, the knight of La Sarraz strode back into the hall of his castle, where a huge beaker of strong beer and a fine game-pie were awaiting him near a good fire. Settling himself down comfortably in a big armchair, the knight removed the crusty cover of the pie. But no sooner had he done so than he started back in horror, for two live toads sprang straight out of it to his cheeks, where they buried their claws so deep that no one could remove them. Every effort was made to kill these animals or drive them away, but all in vain. The knight, in despair, finally sent for the neighbouring priest, thinking that his prayers might accomplish what force and skill had failed to effect.

No sooner did the priest behold the live toads imbedded in the knight’s cheeks, however, than he exclaimed this must be a visitation from heaven, and bade him confess what grievous sin he had committed. But when the knight acknowledged that he had unmercifully driven his aged parents out of the house they had given him, the priest made a frightened sign of the cross, and bade him apply to the bishop, as he could not give absolution for so heinous a sin.

The bishop, equally shocked and horrified at the knight’s confession, referred him to the Pope, who, seeing the man’s plight, bade him return to his native land, find his aged parents, atone for his past cruelty by treating them kindly as long as they lived, and assured him that when he had obtained their forgiveness, the toads would certainly depart from his face.

The knight of La Sarraz therefore journeyed home again, and after a long and conscientious search discovered the dead bodies of his old father and mother lying side by side in an abandoned hermitage. At the pitiful sight of their wasted corpses, he fell on his knees, while tears of bitter repentance flowed in torrents down his cheeks. These tears effected what no other agent had been able to accomplish, for the toads suddenly loosened their hold, and sprang from the knight’s cheeks, down to his shoulders, where they again burrowed and clung fast.

As long as the knight of La Sarraz lived, he bore these awful living reminders of his sin, but as he kept them carefully hidden from sight, no one suspected the tortures he endured for more than twenty years. It is this sin and its awful punishment which was commemorated by the odd statue in the chapel of La Sarraz.

In the tenth century, when all the western part of Switzerland formed part of the kingdom of Burgundy, good Queen Bertha rode through the land, visiting every castle, farm, and hamlet, and taking a kindly interest in the affairs of rich and poor.

Wherever she went, she encouraged high and low to be good and virtuous, setting them a shining example of industry by spinning diligently from morning until night. Such was her skill in handling the distaff, that she twirled it even while riding her snow-white palfrey from place to place. Those days were so peaceful and happy, that the time “when Queen Bertha span,” is still regarded in Switzerland as a synonym for the Golden Age. Of course, the memory of so virtuous a ruler has been kept green in the minds of the people, who have also carefully preserved her saddle with its hole for her distaff. This relic can still be seen in Payerne, where the virtuous Queen lies buried beside her husband and son.

Statues, pictures, and poems perpetuate Queen Bertha’s fame, and people still relate anecdotes about her. One of these affirms that the queen, seeing a shepherd girl spin while tending her flock, was so delighted with her industry that she bestowed upon her a rich reward. The court ladies, wishing to secure similar benefits, presented themselves on the morrow, distaff in hand, before their royal mistress. Observing them for a moment in silence, the queen then archly remarked: “Ah, ladies! the peasant girl, like Jacob, received the blessing because she came first, but you, like Esau, have come too late!”

Queen Bertha was so good and charitable, that she was particularly loved by the poor, who claim that her spirit still haunts that region. Every year, towards Christmas time, she is said to wander through the villages after nightfall, peering in at every window to ascertain whether the women and girls have spun all their flax. Those who have been careful and diligent, and can show empty distaffs and skeins of fine, smooth thread, are rewarded by magic gifts. These consist of skeins which never end, or handfuls of leaves, twigs, shavings, or coal, which, if carefully put away, turn into gold before morning. But the maidens who have been careless or lazy are sure to be punished by sleepless nights, troubled dreams, tangled skeins, and numerous other petty mishaps.

We are told that Queen Bertha built the castle of Vufflens for a faithful servant who had become insane. As it was not safe to let him go abroad, the good Queen carefully selected this lovely spot so that the poor man could constantly feast his eyes upon the magnificent view of the lake, with Mont Blanc in the distance.

It is said that a thunderbolt put a sudden and merciful end to this madman’s life. Then, as Queen Bertha was about to leave the country to join her married daughter in Lombardy, she bestowed the castle upon Grimoald, a brother of the deceased, believing him to be good and honourable too, although he was really a base-hearted wretch whom every one feared.

Grimoald had not deemed it necessary to marry until then, but, wishing to have an heir for his new castle, he soon brought home a reluctant bride, forced by a stern father to accept his hand. He treated his wife, Ermance, moderately well until the birth of her first child. But when he heard that this babe was a girl, instead of the boy he desired, he flew into a towering rage, and vowed it should be confined in one of the corner turrets of the castle, to remain there with its nurse until he had an heir. Poor Ermance pleaded in vain for an occasional glimpse, or even for news, of her child. Then, she began a series of pilgrimages, and fasted and prayed without ceasing, hoping that Providence would give her a son. To her intense sorrow, however, she gave birth to daughters only, who as soon as they came into the world were consigned to separate towers, their cruel father reiterating ever more emphatically the remarks he had made at the advent of his first child.

When the fourth daughter came, the poor mother, clasping her passionately in her arms, begged permission to share her imprisonment and be her nurse. Grimoald, whose wrath by this time knew no bounds, then angrily said:

“Since you can give me nothing but daughters, you may go! But remember, I shall keep you in prison for ever. Every one shall believe you are dead, and I will take another wife, who, I hope, will not be such a fool as you!”

Striding out of his wife’s room, Grimoald then made all his arrangements. By his orders, the babe was carried to the turret, and Ermance covered with a sheet as if she were dead. Then a coffin was brought into the room by servants, who fancied their mistress had died of grief at losing her fourth child too. But during the night, Raymond, Grimoald’s trusted henchman, put some stones into this coffin, nailed down the lid, and secretly conveyed his mistress to the fourth tower, which, like all the rest, then communicated with his own dwelling by secret passageways.

Years now passed by, during which Ermance devoted all her thoughts to her last child, for her husband had made Raymond tell her that the other little girls were all dead. From a narrow window high up in the wall, she caught a glimpse of her funeral procession; but although she often saw her husband ride in and out of the castle yard, she never beheld a woman beside him, for now that his cruelty was known, no one would consent to marry him.

Although confined within the narrow limits of a little tower room, Ermance’s youngest daughter throve like a flower, and became so pretty and attractive that she won the heart of her grim jailer. Before she was thirteen, Raymond could refuse her nothing, and when he fell ill, he sent his adopted son and daughter to wait upon her and her mother. In the company of these charming young people,—to whom mother and daughter felt equally attracted,—the prisoners spent many happy hours, and heard many tidings of the outside world.

In the meantime Grimoald was failing fast, and Raymond rushed into the tower one night to summon his mistress and her daughter to his master’s death-bed. On entering her husband’s chamber, Ermance was somewhat surprised to behold there Raymond’s adopted children with two other beautiful girls. But she almost died of joy, when Grimoald faintly informed her that these three maidens were the children for whom she had mourned so long. Then, after begging and obtaining her forgiveness for all he had made her endure, Grimoald told her that Raymond’s adopted son, the child of an elder brother, was to inherit the castle of Vufflens, where, however, she and her daughters might dwell as long as they pleased.

Neither Ermance nor her daughters could mourn greatly for a husband and father who had treated them so cruelly, and after he was laid to rest, they openly rejoiced to find themselves free to go wherever they pleased. The four girls, especially, were in a state of rapturous delight over everything they heard and saw; for, until then, their world had consisted of narrow turret chambers, with as much of the country as they could perceive from loop-hole windows.

In time, three of these maidens, who were noted for their great beauty, married the lords of Blonay, ChÂtelard, and La Sarraz, whose castles still exist to-day, while the fourth became the wife of Artus, the new and gallant young lord of Vufflens. Unlike his uncle, this knight treated his wife and children with the utmost consideration, and the corner turrets were never again used as prisons for innocent babes.

In journeying on eastward along the northern shore of the Lake of Geneva, one soon comes to a dense forest of pine and hickory, very near Clarens, where stands the famous overhanging “Scex que Plliau,” or Raining Rock, of which the following romantic legend is told:

The son of a rich lord, whose castle was at Montreux, once fell desperately in love with Joliette, the daughter of a neighbouring mountaineer. All went well until the young man’s father heard of this love affair, and peremptorily bade his son part for ever from the maiden who was too far beneath him in station ever to become his wife.

The young lover, unwilling to give up his beloved, yet not daring to see her openly, now began to roam about the country, ostensibly in quest of game, but in reality in hope of encountering by chance the fair Joliette. One day, the good fairies who watch over all true lovers of that region, brought both young people to a charming and secluded spot in the forest, and while they sat there under an overhanging rock, exchanging vows and confidences, the hours sped by unmarked.

They were still lingering there, hand in hand, listening to the soughing of the wind in the pines, and the ripple of the waters over the stony bed of Clarens Bay, when they were suddenly startled out of their love dream by the angry voice of the young man’s father. Terrified beyond measure by this unwelcome interruption, Joliette fled for protection to the arms of her lover, who, clasping her close to his heart, gazed defiantly at his sire.

The baron of Chaulin, however, like all mediÆval fathers, expected his son to obey him implicitly; so when he beheld this attitude, he angrily bade his followers hurl the disobedient lovers over the rocks into the ravine at their feet! But, before this fierce order could be carried out, Albert sprang in front of Joliette with drawn sword, swearing he would have the life blood of any one who dared to lay a finger upon his betrothed.

His resolute bearing checked for a moment the advance of the baron’s followers, who had tried to execute their master’s order. While they stood there motionless, silently awaiting further directions, a fairy voice was suddenly heard, bidding the young people marry without fear, promising them her protection, and upbraiding the hard-hearted father for opposing their union. This speech, which somewhat encouraged the lovers, further exasperated the baron. He furiously bade his men seek for the witch and hang her on the nearest tree, adding that his son should marry Joliette when water dripped through the rock above them, but not before!

To emphasise this statement, the baron savagely kicked the stone with his mailed heel, and he was about to pour forth more abuse, when he suddenly beheld the rock turn damp and saw the first drop of water form and fall. All now gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the overhanging rock, to which clung countless big drops which fell one after another, with a gentle splash, while new ones formed above in their stead.

“The rock is raining, the rock is raining!” the baron’s followers gasped; and then, seized with superstitious terror, they turned and fled, leaving their master alone with the lovers.

“Yes,” cried the fairy’s voice, “the rock is raining, and unless the baron of Chaulin breaks his word for the first time in his life, you young people can now marry without further delay.”

Awed by this phenomenon, or too honourable to disregard his oath, the baron not only consented to the young people’s union, but gave them such a grand wedding that all Montreux feasted and danced for a whole week.

Since then, water has constantly trickled from the overhanging Raining Rock, down on the moss and the shiny-leaved water plants beneath it; and the delicate fronds of the ferns, growing in every cranny, perpetually rise and fall with dainty grace as the huge drops fall down upon them, and glancing off, slowly roll from stone to stone until they find their way into the Lake of Geneva.

North of Clarens, on the boundary of the cantons of Vaud and Fribourg, is the mighty Dent de Jaman, which can best be crossed by means of the “col,” or pass, of the same name.

A peasant who had never left his native valley in the southern part of the canton of Fribourg, once decided that it might be well to see a little of the world, and after talking a long while of his plans, he bade his friends and relatives an impressive farewell and set out. Armed with his mountain staff, he slowly climbed the rough path leading to the Col de Jaman. Tramping sturdily on, he soon came to the boundary line between his own canton and that of Vaud. Never yet had he ventured so far from home, and everything seemed so strange that he kept looking around and behind him, marvelling at the view, which grew more and more extended with every step.

As it was one of those bright days when every object is perceptible for miles around, there was plenty to see, and as he had never travelled, he was quite unprepared for the sight which greeted his eyes when he reached the top of the pass. He therefore stood still there, in open-mouthed wonder, his gaze fixed upon the wonderful Lake of Geneva, whose waters were of the exact tint of the sky overhead.

After staring thus for some time, the sturdy peasant heaved a great sigh, turned slowly on his hobnailed heel, and wended his way home again, along the very path which he had just trod.

When he reached his native village once more, the people all crowded around him, asking why he had come back so soon, and what had induced him to give up his long-cherished plan to see the world on the other side of the mountain?

The peasant, whose intellect was none of the keenest, listened stolidly to all their questions, then, scratching his curly head, slowly explained that on reaching the top of the pass he had discovered it would be useless and rather unsafe to venture any farther, as a big piece of the sky had just dropped down into the valley on the other side of the mountain!

A simple mountaineer, whose greatest ambition was to own a horse, worked and saved with the utmost diligence until he had amassed a sum sufficient to purchase a colt. Thinking it would be very delightful to watch the gradual development of this animal into the coveted steed, the good man tied up his savings in a corner of his handkerchief, and taking his sharpest-pointed staff set out long before day-break for Aigle, where he knew a large horse and cattle fair was held.

After a long, fatiguing tramp down the steep Ormond mountains, the sturdy mountaineer reached the valley, and entering the town of Aigle, proceeded to examine every horse and foal on the market, with the laudable aim of securing the best animal he could for his money. Pricing them one after another, he found, to his intense dismay, that his savings were not sufficient to pay for the smallest colt offered for sale there, and that he would have to return home without having made the desired purchase.

A charlatan, who had slyly watched him for some time, now stepped up to him, and before long drew from the unsophisticated mountaineer a detailed account of his long cherished hopes and of his present bitter disappointment. After listening with feigned sympathy to the whole story, the charlatan suggested that if the peasant’s means would not permit his buying a foal, he ought to purchase a mare’s egg; adding that a cow could hatch it, and suckle the foal until it was old enough to eat grass.

The peasant, delighted with this suggestion, promptly expressed a fervent desire to buy a mare’s egg if such a treasure could only be secured. Assuring him there would be no difficulty about that, the charlatan led the peasant to another part of the town, and after threading his way amid countless bags and baskets of fruit and vegetables exposed for sale, he finally stopped before a cart in which lay a huge yellow squash.

“There is a fine mare’s egg!” cried the charlatan to the peasant, making a sign to his accomplice, the proprietor of both squash and cart. The mountaineer, who had never seen a squash in his life, stared at it in awe and wonder, and after asking countless questions and doing considerable chaffering, he decided to purchase it. To carry it home safely, he then tied it up in his huge handkerchief, which he hung on the end of his stick over his shoulder.

He was so elated by his purchase, and by the potations he had indulged in with his friend, the charlatan, while closing the bargain, that he set out for home trolling a merry song. Climbing higher and higher, he revelled in joyful anticipations of his wife’s surprise, and of the time when the huge egg he carried would be safely hatched and a pretty foal would come at his call.

While walking near the edge of a precipice, glancing from time to time down its steep sides covered with jagged rocks and stunted bushes, the knots in the handkerchief, loosened by the weight of the squash, suddenly came undone, and the startled peasant beheld his precious purchase bounding from rock to rock down the precipitous slope! As he stood there, motionless in utter despair, the squash dashed with such force against a sharp stone that it flew into pieces which scattered far and wide.

At the same moment, a brown hare, hiding in a bush near by, sprang in terror from its cover and darted down the mountain. The peasant, thinking this was the desired colt, accidentally released from the shattered egg, loudly called: “Coltie, Coltie, come here!” and wrung his hands in helpless grief when he saw the fleet brown creature disappear.

After vainly watching for hours for its return, the peasant sorrowfully went home, and spent the evening relating his various adventures to his wife. And, as long as he lived, he talked of the remarkable horse which he would have had, had not the fleet-footed colt run away as soon as hatched from the mare’s egg bought on the market-place at Aigle.

The mountains around Ormont were once remarkably rich in game of all kinds, and the favourite haunts of large herds of chamois. Tradition claims that these animals were herded on the high pastures by countless dwarfs, the servants of the august Spirit of the Alps. Chamois-hunters who slew too many of these deer, or who ventured high up the mountains and along the dizzy precipices where they were supposed to be safe from human reach, were sure to be punished for their temerity. Either the Spirit of the Alps appeared to them in person (as in Schiller’s poem of the Chamois Hunter), bidding them begone in awe-inspiring tones, or dwarfs uttered similar warnings. When some rash mortal ventured to disobey these orders, the gnomes slyly laid bits of treacherous ice under his feet, or deftly loosed the rocks on which he trod, thus making him lose his precarious foothold and fall into some abyss, where he was dashed to pieces.

The chamois-hunters of the region not only delighted in this venturesome sport, but prided themselves upon constantly adding new victims to their hunting record, which was always kept with scrupulous care. Some of these men, wandering up to almost inaccessible heights, are said to have encountered there dainty, mist-like Alpine fairies, who guided them safely over dangerous places, watched over their slumbers when they rested exhausted at the edge of frightful precipices, and often whispered wonderful dream tales into their drowsy ears.

Both dwarfs and fairies are also reported to have revealed to their favourites the places where the finest rock crystals could be found, to have delivered into their keeping long-concealed treasures, or to have bestowed upon them magic bullets which never missed their aim, or cheeses made of chamois milk, which became whole again after every meal, provided a small piece was left “for manners.”

As the chamois are the shyest of game, and their brown coats are not easily distinguishable at a distance from the rocks, hunters often carry spy-glasses to locate their quarry. We are told that one of these men, discovering that the chamois were sure to see him and scamper away before he could lay down his glass and take good aim, once decided that it would be of great assistance to him if he could only see and shoot around the corner of any rock behind which he chose to hide. After much cogitation, therefore, this particular hunter bent his gun and spy-glass so they formed sharp angles. Thanks to this clever device, he easily discovered and killed his prey!

Another sportsman once set out with his pack of dogs to hunt hares. He had not gone very far before seven fine specimens, starting from covert, darted away. The hounds eagerly pursued six of them, but the hunter concentrated all his attention upon the seventh and last, which was also the finest. This hare, however, was as sly as it was large and fleet-footed, and knowing the man’s unerring aim, began to run around and around a haycock. Such was the speed with which the hare ran, that the hunter’s eyes could not follow it, and even the animal’s shadow failed to keep up with it. The sportsman, seeing he would never bag this fine hare unless he too resorted to stratagem, quickly bent the barrel of his gun until it almost formed a hoop. Then, taking quick aim, he sent after the speeding hare a bullet which laid it low in its circular track around the haycock.

In olden times Wotan reigned alone in the canton of Vaud, to which he is said to have given his local name Vaudai. As long as he was sole master of the country, Wotan proved on the whole an amiable and benevolent ruler; but the gradual introduction of Christianity so soured his temper and made him behave so badly, that the Christians finally identified him with the Evil One himself.

The new religion was so very distasteful to Wotan, that he hated both sight and sound of it, and hoping to avoid coming in contact with it, retreated far up into the mountains and took up his abode on the summit of the Diablerets. There, he vented his rage by sending dense fogs and violent storms down into the valleys, and by producing great snow-storms so that the melting drifts should cause all the rivers to overflow.

Brooding over his wrongs one day, Wotan determined to make a last and mighty effort to exterminate Christianity in the RhÔne valley by drowning all the inhabitants. He therefore called up a fearful storm, and at his command the river began to boil and rise and overflow. Riding on the crest of a huge wave, Wotan himself swept down the valley, while the waters rose higher and higher, threatening to wash away everything along their path. But all Wotan’s magic proved powerless when he came in sight of St. Maurice, where the Christians had set up a huge cross. Before this holy emblem the waters suddenly cowed, crept back into their wonted place, and flowed peacefully on within their long-appointed limits.

Baffled and discouraged, Wotan again retreated to the Diablerets, where he is said to beguile the monotony of his sojourn by holding monster witch-dances on certain nights of the year. All the spirits, witches, and sorcerers of the neighbourhood then betake themselves on their broomstick-steeds to the Diablerets, to indulge in mad revelry. They circle around so wildly in their sabbatical dances that the motion raises a wind which sweeps down the mountain on all sides, while the sounds of their cries, hisses, and flying footsteps can often be heard far down the valley.

The souls of all those who have done wrong while on earth are also supposed to haunt the topmost ridges of the Diablerets, where they play endless games of ninepins with the demons and their master. This belief is so general that in speaking of a dead sinner the natives generally say, “Oh, he has gone to join the demons on the Diablerets!” instead of stating that he has gone to Hades to receive due punishment for his crimes. Besides, one of the peaks of that mountain is called the Devil’s Ninepin; and when a great clatter is heard on the glacier, the people whisper in awestruck tones that the spirits are evidently engaged in their infernal game. When stones come clattering down on the pastures, the shepherds think they are some of the spirits’ missiles which have strayed out of bounds, and they seek to ward off the nearer approach of evil by repeated and fervent signs of the cross.

On the way to Chamounix, far above the road, you can perceive the entrance of the famous stalactite Grotte de Balme, the supposed abode of all the fairies of that region. These creatures resembled human maidens, except that they were dark of skin and had no heels to their feet. Clad in long rippling hair, which fell all around them like a garment, the fairies of Balme often sought to lure young shepherds and hunters into their retreat. Sometimes, too, they met these men on lonely mountain paths, where they tried to win their affections by gifts of rare Alpine flowers, of fine rock crystals, of lumps of gold and silver, or by teaching them the use of the healing herbs and showing them how to discover hidden treasures. The youths who refused the fairies’ advances encountered such resentment that they were sure to meet shortly afterwards with some fatal accident. Those who ventured on the Diablerets, or the Oldenhorn, for instance, were suddenly pushed over the rocks into abysses and crevasses, from whence they never escaped alive.

But the young men who received the fairies’ overtures graciously were very well treated, and a few of them were even taken up to the grotto, where they feasted on choice game, and quaffed fiery wine as long as they obeyed their fairy wives. If, however, they proved untrustworthy, or tried to pry into the fairies’ secrets, they were ignominiously dismissed; and while some of them managed to return home, the majority never prospered again, and as a rule came to an untimely end.

Before the RhÔne enters the Lake of Geneva, and not very far from Noville, there are low banks and a few picturesque little islands, all covered with lush grass, and bordered with rustling reeds and shiny-leaved water-plants of all kinds.

These marshy places, with their dense luxuriant vegetation, are said to be the favourite haunts of fairies and nixies of all kinds, and especially of a local water-nymph known as Fenetta. All the river sprites timidly avoid the glance of man; so it is only now and then that some sharp-eyed native catches the gleam of a white hand gently parting the tall reeds, or discerns a slender figure, garbed in trailing white robes all dripping with water, and wearing a wreath of water-lilies upon her rippling golden hair.

The water-nymphs betray their presence only by a slight rustle among the reeds, by an almost inaudible whisper, or by a long-drawn trembling sigh. But at dawn and twilight their breath is so cold and clammy, that whenever it happens to strike a mortal, cold shivers begin to creep up and down his spine, his finger-nails turn blue, and before long his teeth chatter noisily. Then, if the victim looks behind him, he is pretty sure to descry somewhere among the reeds on the bank a mist-like trail, which is the flutter of the water-nymph’s white veil.

Although the river-sprites are lovely in appearance, none of the people care to see them, for those whose eyes have rested upon them have invariably died within a year. For that reason, the banks of the stream are generally deserted after sunset, the hour when the fairies are wont to sally forth to disport themselves in the cool waters of the limpid river, to tread the measures of their noiseless but fantastic dances along the shore, or to flit from one water-lily to another, gently opening their waxen petals with cool and dainty fingers.

Even in broad daylight it is well to shun these marshy places, and those who do venture there should always warn the nymphs of their approach by whistling, singing, or making some other marked sound. Such signals enable the fairies to scurry out of sight before the visitor draws near; and when he reaches the bank, waving reeds and grasses are the only sign of an unseen presence.

It is said that a coquettish maiden from Noville once bade her lover go and get her some water-lilies, although she knew the hour had struck when the water-sprites had left their retreat. The young man, who had frequently declared he did not believe there were any water-nymphs, cheerfully departed to do her bidding. Running down to the river’s edge, he hastily unfastened his skiff, and with long and vigorous strokes rowed out to the place where the water-lilies softly rose and fell on the rippling waters in the midst of their broad green leaves.

The last golden gleams had just died out in the west, gray shadows had replaced the flush on the snow mountains, and a cool evening breeze was sweeping gently over the river. The young man, who had laboured under the burning sun all day, revelled in the freshness all around him, and although he caught glimpses of vapoury white here and there along the shore, he thought they were trails of mist, and smiled to himself because superstitious mortals mistook them for the flutter of the nymphs’ gossamer veils.

He was just bending over the edge of the boat to reach the largest and finest lily, when he felt an icy breath on his neck, and turning around with a start, dimly perceived Fenetta’s lovely form, and noticed that she was sadly and gently motioning to him to depart. As she vanished, he suddenly felt cold chills running all over him, and looking downward perceived that his sunburned hands seemed strangely wan and pale. With chattering teeth and failing strength he now rowed back to the shore; but although he grew colder and colder every minute, and felt as if the chill had gone to his very heart, he picked up the lilies to carry them to his beloved.

Reaching her door with faltering steps, he swooned on the threshold, scattering the lilies at the feet of the maiden, who came out to welcome him with merry words and arch smiles. At first she fancied he had merely tripped, but seeing he did not immediately rise, she stooped over him barely in time to catch his last sigh and a faint whisper of “Fenetta! Fenetta!”

The sudden death of this stalwart young lover proved such a shock to the maiden of Noville, that she lost her reason and began to wander along the river-bank among the reeds, constantly murmuring “Fenetta! Fenetta!”

The nymph, in pity for her sorrow, must have appeared to her too; for one evening she came home with dripping garments and shivering from head to foot. After a few days’ illness, the girl gently passed away, still whispering the water-nymph’s name; and since then youths and maidens have carefully avoided this fatal spot after sundown.

In the valley of Conthey, noted for its picturesque situation as well as for its wines, there once dwelt a tailor who made fun of his wife because she firmly believed in witches, ghosts, and spirits of all kinds, and even maintained that a helpful sprite assisted her when she had more work on hand than she could easily accomplish.

The tailor, who had been freely tasting the vintage of some of his neighbours, once mockingly remarked, while sitting cross-legged upon his bench, that he wished her familiar spirit would appear and take him on a nightly journey through the Valais, for he would like to see the famous witches and demons about which he had heard so many tales.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a grinning, mischievous dwarf, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, suddenly darted out of a corner, saying, “Your wish shall be granted!” At the same moment the tailor felt a clawlike hand close over his coat-collar, and was whisked through the air to Monthey. There, he and the dwarf alighted on the banks of the Viege, while the clocks were solemnly tolling the midnight hour, and quickly mounted a coal-black ram which came rushing out of the churchyard to meet them. The dwarf, who had jerked the tailor on the ram’s back, roughly bade him hold fast, whispering that their fleet-footed steed was the spectral ram of Monthey, which ranged noisily through the land on certain days in the year.

They now sped on so fast that the tailor felt the wind whistle through his hair, and he almost fainted with terror when his guide pointed out the huge Ivy Snake, which was mounting guard over all the gold of heathendom, spread out on a barren heath. The snake no sooner perceived them than it rushed towards them, hissing loudly and breathing fire and brimstone from its gaping mouth. A timely kick, administered by the dwarf, fortunately urged the black ram on to such speed, that the Ivy Snake could not overtake them however fast it pursued.

At St. Maurice the ram paused for a moment near the monastery fish-pond, where a dead trout suddenly rose to the surface of the water.

“There,” cried the dwarf, “one of the choristers has just died, for whenever one of them breathes his last, a dead trout appears in this pond.”

In confirmation of his words, a funeral knell began to toll, and this sound accompanied them for some time as they sped on towards the Plan NevÉ. Here, among the gray rocks and along the huge glacial stream, they beheld countless barefooted ghosts painfully threading their way. The dwarf then explained to the tailor that these spirits were condemned to carry fine sand up the mountain in sieves, but that as every grain ran out long before they reached their goal, they were obliged to begin again and again their hopeless task.

At the bottom of a neighbouring well, the dwarf next pointed out the ghost of Nero, who, in punishment for his manifold sins, was condemned to blow huge bubbles up to the surface without ever stopping to rest. In the Aucenda, near Gex, the dwarf also showed him the spirits of dishonest lawyers, who, having fished in figuratively troubled waters all their lives, were now condemned to do the same in the ice-cold stream, where they were further employed in brewing the storms and freshets which desolate that region.

Before the bewildered tailor had time to comment upon these awful sights, he was whisked away to La Soye, where a red-headed maiden told him she would give him a golden calf, provided he would kiss her thrice. Reasoning that it was far from Conthey, and that his wife could not possibly see him, the tailor pursed up his lips, and was about to bestow the first kiss, when the red-headed girl was suddenly transformed into a hideous, writhing dragon. This metamorphosis so terrified the poor tailor that he buried his heels in the flanks of the black ram, which darted away at such a rattling pace that they soon reached Sion.

There the dwarf transferred the tailor to the back of the three-legged white horse which haunts this city, and as they galloped away, the tailor saw that they were followed by a fire-breathing boar, the ram, the dragon, the red-headed girl, the ghosts of Plan NevÉ with their sieves, and the dripping lawyers. In the dim distance he could also descry Nero, still blowing huge bubbles, and the deceased chorister holding a dead trout between his teeth.

This strange procession now swept along the RhÔne valley to the Baths of Leuk, where they were joined by a mischievous sprite who rapped loudly at every door as he darted past. At Zauchet, their ranks were further increased by the wraith of a giant ox, whose horns glowed like live coals and whose tail consisted of a flaming torch.

Next they sped down the Visp valley, where a woman once refused food to Our Lord when he journeyed through the land. In punishment for this sin, the hamlet where she dwelt sank beneath the ground, and a stream now runs over the broad, flat stone which formed the altar of the village church.

Arriving at Zermatt, the dwarf and tailor exchanged their mount for a blue-haired donkey, whose loud bray, added to the snorts, groans, hisses, and cries of their ghostly train, created an awful din in the peaceful valleys through which they swept like the wind. Arriving finally at Lake Champey, the Blue Ass swam to an island, where the Devil of CorbassiÈre and a number of witches were madly treading the swift measures of an infernal dance.

The tailor, seeing this, sprang from his steed to join them; but when he offered to kiss the youngest and prettiest of the witches, the Devil of CorbassiÈre angrily flung him head first into the lake. As the witches belaboured him with their broomsticks whenever he tried to creep ashore on the island, the tailor finally struck out for the other bank, where he sank down, panting and exhausted, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he felt a small hand laid upon him, and thinking it must be one of his recent tormentors, he cried aloud in terror, “Leave me alone, you witch!”

A vigorous box on his ear made him open his eyes with a start, just in time to see his wife standing over him with upraised hand, saying, “I’ll teach you to call me a witch!”

The tailor now protested that he had done nothing of the kind; but although his wife declared that he had merely fallen asleep over his work, he knew that his spirit had journeyed all through the Valais, in company with the dwarf and the demons which haunt the land.

He was so thoroughly imbued with this belief that he never made fun of his wife’s superstitions again, and when sceptics denied the existence of ghosts, demons, or witches, he merely shook his head, for he had seen for himself that “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”

The ascension of the Fletschhorn, near the Simplon, was probably first accomplished in 1856, but tradition claims that this feat was performed long before this date by a dauntless Swiss.

He resolved to be the first to reach the top of the mountain, and with that object in view started to scale it early one fine morning. As he did not know which road to follow, he scrambled up and down the rocks, through snow and over ice, and thus was quite exhausted long before he came near the top, where jagged rocks and steep walls of ice offer only a most precarious foothold.

The mountaineer, who was an expert climber, knew it would be folly to venture any farther that day, so he sat down to rest a moment before he began the descent. While sitting there on the mountain side, trying to recover his breath, he suddenly heard a ghostly voice far above him, bidding him bring a cat, dog, and cock, as propitiatory sacrifices to the Spirit of the Mountain next time he attempted the ascent.

Refreshed by a few days’ rest and by strengthening food, the mountaineer soon set out again, taking with him the three animals the Mountain Spirit had asked for. At the first dangerous spot the dog lost his foothold and fell down a precipice; farther on even the cat’s sharp claws failed to preserve it from slipping down into the blue-green depths of a crevasse, and after some more rough climbing the cold grew so intense that the poor cock was frozen stiff!

The brave mountaineer now pressed on alone, although it was snowing hard and the wind blew sharp ice splinters into his face which almost blinded him. Presently the storm began to rage with such fury that the man had to relinquish his purpose, although he had now reached a much higher point than the first time.

On arriving home, friends and neighbours crowded around him, to hear a minute account of his adventures; but they all deemed him more than foolhardy when he declared that, in spite of all the perils encountered, he meant to try again on the next favourable day.

True to his resolve, however, the man started out again with cat, dog, and cock, which poor animals met with the same fate as their predecessors. As for the Swiss himself, he climbed higher and higher, until he came so near the summit that a last determined effort would have enabled him to reach it. But the great exertions he had made, and the rarefied atmosphere, brought on a severe headache which made him feel very weak and dizzy. Nevertheless he bravely went on until the pain in his head grew so intolerable that it seemed as if his skull would burst. He therefore relinquished his attempt, and crept slowly home, feeling his headache decrease with every downward step.

But even this last experience could not daunt our climber, who set out again a few days later, with the same strange trio of animals. This time, however, he prudently provided himself with an iron hoop, which fitting closely around his head, would prevent its bursting should he again reach a great altitude!

Thus equipped, he wended his way up the Fletschhorn, where cat, dog, and rooster soon perished, leaving the man to continue his perilous climb alone. Although the pain in his head again grew worse with every upward step, our mountaineer pressed bravely on, knowing the iron band would hold fast, and finally reached the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. His fellow-citizens, proud of this feat, bestowed upon him the Fletschalp, and honoured him as long as he lived as the most skilful Alpine climber of that part of the country.

Patches of so-called red snow are sometimes found high up on the Alps; but while scientists ascribe that peculiar colour to a microscopic fungus growth, the legend accounts for the vivid hue in a very different way.

In bygone times, before the Alps had been pierced by tunnels and even before convenient roadways had been built, rough paths leading over the various passes served as means of communication between Switzerland and Italy. These were much frequented by pack-drivers with their sure-footed mules, and among other things thus imported were fiery Italian wines. Some of the muleteers who had a tendency to drink, or who were none too scrupulous to cheat their employers, used to tap the barrels and kegs on their way over the mountains, replacing the wine they had consumed by water from some mountain stream, so that the vessels were always full when they reached their destination.

The pack-drivers on the Furka Pass were, it seems, especially addicted to this species of peculation, and generally paused at the top of the pass to refresh themselves after their long and arduous climb. In their eagerness to partake of the strength-giving fluid, some of them often tapped their barrels so hastily that red wine spurted forth, and falling upon the immaculate snow gave it a blood-like tinge.

In punishment for this crime, or for so carelessly guarding their merchandise that they did not even notice when barrels leaked, many pack-drivers are now said to haunt this pass, continually treading the path they once went over. They are tormented by a thirst such as is known by the damned only, and which all the ice, snow, and running streams around there cannot quench. Their only refreshment now comes from the scattered drops remaining here and there upon the snow, or from small libations which compassionate travellers still pour out along the pass, to moisten the parched lips and throats of these unhappy spirits.

The old and picturesque city of Grandson, on the west shore of Lake NeuchÂtel, and in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, is noted in history as the place where, in 1476, fifty thousand Burgundians, under their Duke Charles the Bold, were routed with great slaughter by less than half that number of Swiss patriots. Rich and quaint specimens of the booty secured on that memorable occasion by the victors, still adorn various Swiss museums and arsenals; Soleure exhibiting the costume of Charles’s jester, while Lucerne boasts of the golden Seal of Burgundy.

Many romantic legends are told of the town and castle of Grandson, which were defended by a Bernese patriot, Brandolf of Stein, at the beginning of the Burgundian war. Such was the courage and skill of this commander, that, perceiving he could not secure the town by force, the Count of Romont, Charles’s ally, resorted to stratagem. It succeeded only too well, and the Burgundians were already masters of the town when the first alarm was given, and Stein rushed bravely into the fray at the head of his five hundred men. The Swiss, however, soon saw that the town was lost, and wishing to preserve the castle until his countrymen could send reinforcements to eject the Burgundians, Stein quickly ordered a retreat.

To make sure that the enemy would be held at bay until all his men were safe, and the castle gates duly closed, Stein himself covered their retreat; but at the last moment he was surrounded and overpowered by Romont, who, forcing him to surrender, led him away to his own quarters to await the arrival and decree of the Duke.

As soon as Charles came, he bade Romont lead Stein under the walls of the castle, and have a herald proclaim that unless the garrison surrendered immediately, Stein would be put to death. This order was executed; but the last words of the proclamation had scarcely been uttered when the prisoner sternly cried,—

“Comrades, pay no heed to these summons. You were Swiss before you became my friends; therefore be true to your country, and die rather than relinquish your trust. But if you love me, guard well my treasure and cast it into the lake rather than let it fall into the hands of our enemy.”

Before the Burgundians could recover sufficient presence of mind to silence him, this brief speech was ended, and it was clear that not a word of it had been lost, for the garrison shouted a unanimous refusal to yield when summoned to do so for the third and last time. Still, when the Swiss saw their beloved chief led away to the scaffold, hot tears poured freely down their bronzed and bearded cheeks.

Such was their respect for their master’s memory that they resisted every attack, holding out until forged papers convinced them that Bern was in the power of the Burgundians, and that they could expect no help from their distressed countrymen. These false tidings determined them to surrender the castle, provided their safety was guaranteed by Charles the Bold.

But the gates were no sooner opened than Charles, in spite of his promises, ordered most of these brave men cast into the lake or hanged, sparing only a few of those who pledged themselves to serve him faithfully. Having thus rid himself of the garrison, the Duke next proceeded to search for Stein’s treasure, but all in vain. He questioned the few survivors, but they truthfully declared they had never heard of any store of gold, silver, or precious stones. Convinced nevertheless that Stein must have owned at least one priceless jewel, Charles bitterly regretted having slain him before ascertaining the nature and place of concealment of that treasure.

Thinking that Laurent, keeper of the alarm tower, an old retainer of Stein’s, might know something about it, Charles went in quest of him, harshly threatening to pitch him into the lake, unless he immediately revealed all he knew concerning his master’s possessions. Thus constrained, Laurent reluctantly admitted that Stein, having spared the life of a Mussulman, had received from this grateful man a pyramidal diamond of fabulous value, from which hung by a slender golden chain a huge pear-shaped pearl.

The Duke, who had a passion for diamonds, immediately ordered a new and more minute search; but as the treasure was not forthcoming, he renewed his visit and threats, telling Laurent he must produce the missing jewel or die on the spot. In vain the poor man swore he had never seen the diamond since his mistress wore it on her wedding-day; the Duke refused to believe him, and angrily ordered him flung out of the window! Just then, however, a panel in the wall directly opposite Charles slipped noiselessly aside, revealing a deep niche in which stood a beautiful, stern-faced woman, gowned all in black, but wearing a dazzling diamond pendant. This woman stepped slowly forward, the panel closed behind her, and the Duke started back in terror when she threw the magnificent jewel at his feet, crying,—

“There, traitor, behold the diamond you covet; but Stein’s real treasures, his sorrowing wife and innocent daughter, will die by their own hand rather than fall into the power of such a miscreant as you!”

Then, before the Duke could recover sufficient presence of mind to speak or move, the Lady of Stein vanished behind the secret panel, and Charles could have believed himself victim of a delusion had not the jewel still sparkled at his feet.

The Lady of Stein had vanished; but the Burgundian now learned from Laurent that the two ladies were waiting, in the secret chambers of the castle, for an opportunity to escape to a convent, where both intended to take the veil, since he had broken their hearts by killing Stein.

Charles, who had an eye for beauty, promptly reasoned that the daughter of such a handsome mother must be very lovely, and he began to devise an excuse to see her. He therefore artfully informed Laurent that Romont alone was to blame for Stein’s death; adding that his dearest wish was to provide a suitable husband for Elizabeth Stein, and that, in token of regard, he would give her her father’s jewel as wedding present. Then he persuaded Laurent to carry a message to his stern mistress and induce her to come down into the great hall of the castle, where he would await her.

The Duke having departed, Laurent touched a cunningly hidden spring, and threaded his way along secret passages which led from tower to tower, down long, narrow stairs, and into a passageway opening out on the lake. In one of these recesses he found his mistress, who finally consented to appear before Charles with her seventeen-year-old daughter Elizabeth.

The moment Charles’s eyes rested upon this lovely maiden, he was seized with a mad passion, which he determined to gratify at any cost. His first move was to try and gain the good graces of both women, but in spite of all his protestations and courteous speeches, the Lady of Stein declared he must prove his innocence by punishing her husband’s murderer, adding that her daughter would either marry her father’s avenger or become a nun.

On hearing these words, Charles gave immediate orders to seize Romont and have him beheaded in the presence of both ladies. A few moments later, therefore, the Count stood in the castle yard; but when the executioner read aloud his death sentence, he boldly declared he was neither a murderer nor a traitor, and that he could prove his innocence, were the guest in his tent only allowed to appear with him before Charles. Anxious to seem just and generous in the eyes of the ladies, the Duke granted this request, and the brave young James of Romont soon came in, followed by a man in full armour.

“My lord Duke,” cried Romont, “I am not a traitor! I have merely been guilty of disobeying an order which I knew you would regret in time. You accuse me of being Stein’s murderer; that is impossible, for, behold! there he stands!”

At that moment the stranger to whom Romont pointed threw up his vizor, and both ladies rapturously flew into his arms, thus proving his unmistakable identity. The first outburst of emotion over, Stein told his wife and daughter how generously Romont had treated him, and Charles winced when he heard them express their undying gratitude, and saw the glances exchanged by the young people, who had fallen in love with each other at first sight.

To rid himself of the youthful saviour who found such evident favour in Elizabeth’s eyes, Charles now sternly ordered Romont back to prison, saying he must prove himself innocent of the charge of treachery which had also been brought against him.

Sure of speedy acquittal,—for he was the soul of honour,—Romont quietly allowed himself to be led away to a dungeon, where he beguiled the weary hours by long day-dreams, and by composing and singing tender love-songs in praise of the fair Elizabeth.

In the meantime, Charles led the Stein family to his own camp, where he assigned them sumptuous tents, and surrounded them with all manner of graceful attentions. But in spite of all his efforts to win their confidence, Stein and his wife could not help suspecting he was not so good and true as he would fain appear. For this reason they both watched carefully over their daughter, and the Duke could not secure a moment’s private intercourse with her, although he frequently tried to do so.

This watchfulness vexed Charles greatly; for while he loved the girl, he had no intention of marrying her, but he knew her parents would detect his evil intentions should he approach her through them.

One day, he accidentally learned that Romont managed to send love-songs to the fair Elizabeth, and that her parents unconsciously encouraged her secret passion for the young prisoner by speaking of him in terms of the highest praise. Thinking he might perchance win Elizabeth by working upon her fears for Romont’s safety, the Duke now informed Stein that he would forgive and release the prisoner, provided Elizabeth interceded in his behalf, and if he were allowed to make sure of her real sentiments in a private interview.

Although loath to lose sight of his daughter even for a minute, Stein felt too deeply in Romont’s debt to refuse this apparently simple request, and himself conducted Elizabeth to the Duke’s tent, where he bade her enter while he mounted guard at the door.

The timid Elizabeth therefore presented herself alone before Charles, who gently reassured her, and then explained that if she would only consent to be his, Romont should be released, but that if she refused, the young man should be put to death.

At first the virtuous Elizabeth could not credit her ears, but when the Duke drew near as if to clasp her in his arms, she fled to her father crying—

“Take me away, father! The poor prisoner we love will have to die, but I know he would rather lose his life than see me dishonoured!”

Stein gnashed his teeth on hearing these words, which more than confirmed his darkest suspicions; and while he gently led his weeping daughter back to her mother, he tried to plan how best to avenge this deadly insult.

In the meantime, the Duke feverishly paced his tent, and calling for his confidant asked him what course he could pursue to recover the maiden’s confidence and still attain his evil ends. This man, whose task it was to gratify the Duke’s passions, now artfully suggested that Charles should declare he had merely wished to test Elizabeth’s virtue, and should propose to her parents that she marry Romont without delay. Then, under pretext of sparing the latter the hard duty of fighting against his wife’s people, Charles was to dismiss Romont from the army.

But while he thus openly posed as the young people’s friend and benefactor, one of his emissaries was to persuade a few of the camp followers that Romont was a traitor, and instigate them to create a disturbance when the bridal party left the church. In the midst of the confusion a hired assassin could easily kill Romont; and the Duke, in pretending to avenge his death and protect Elizabeth, would gain possession of his vast estates and of his young widow, who would then be at his mercy.

This artful plan so pleased Charles that he immediately hastened to the Steins’ tent, where he played his part with such consummate skill that they believed all he said, and joyfully consented to their daughter’s immediate marriage.

The preparations were speedily made, and the nuptials solemnised; but as the little procession left the church, Stein and the Duke were detained for a moment by a man with a petition.

Romont, proudly leading his peerless young bride, on whose bosom sparkled the famous diamond, suddenly found himself surrounded by a brawling troop of soldiers, who angrily shook their fists at him and denounced him as a traitor. Before he could speak one word in his own defence, the hired assassin sprang forward with raised dagger, crying, “Die, thou traitor!”

Just then Elizabeth sprang forward, and the sharp blade had to pass through her slender body before it could touch Romont. A scene of indescribable confusion ensued; but although Romont swiftly carried his dying bride into her mother’s tent, where every care was lavished upon her, she lived only long enough to whisper, “I die happy since I could save you, beloved!” and gently breathed her last.

When the fatal truth dawned upon the frantic bridegroom, he fell fainting across his dead bride; and it was only then that they discovered that he too had been wounded, for his doublet was drenched with blood. Nobly forgetting her own sorrow to minister to her husband’s saviour, the Lady of Stein nursed Romont so carefully that in spite of his longing to follow Elizabeth’s pure spirit into the better land, he was soon restored to health. But he never forgot his bride, and when her parents ultimately died, he left his own country to take up his abode in a foreign land.

As for the Duke, he was sorely punished for all his crimes. Not only did he lose Elizabeth, whom he passionately loved; but a few days after her death he was defeated by her countrymen at the battle of Grandson. Such was the fury of that Swiss onslaught, that Charles would have fallen into their hands had not his fleet steed swiftly carried him out of their reach. A few months later he suffered a second crushing defeat at their hands at Morat; and he was slain near Nancy, in the following year, while trying to escape from his Swiss foes for the third and last time.