Chapter II: Part 2

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.

FRIBOURG

The city of Fribourg, capital of the canton of the same name, is picturesquely situated on a rocky height almost surrounded by the Sarine, one of the tributaries of the Aare. A mediæval town, it boasts of many interesting relics, while in its cathedral stands the great modern organ known the world over.

When Charles the Bold experienced his second appalling defeat at Morat, in 1476, one of the Swiss soldiers volunteered to carry the joyful tidings to Fribourg, his native city. Although he had fought bravely and was very weary after his almost superhuman efforts, he snatched a green twig from a neighbouring lime-tree, stuck it in his hat so that his people could see from afar this sign of victory, and quickly started for home. Tradition claims that he ran every step of the way; the fact is, he reached the city so exhausted that he sank down lifeless as soon as the one word “Victory” had escaped from his parched lips.

His fellow-citizens were so proud of this victory, and of the messenger who brought the news so quickly to them, that they planted the lime twig on the very spot where he had fallen. There it throve and grew, until it is now a mighty tree, with a boll fourteen feet in circumference; and it still serves as a green monument of this famous triumph of the Swiss army.

The whole valley of the Sarine and its tributaries is most picturesque, and the soil so fertile that it supports countless heads of the finest cattle in the world. After passing the quaint little mediæval town of Romont, with its old castle and fortifications, you come to a hill in the middle of the Sarine valley on which rises the famous castle of Gruyère, recently restored, and now one of the most beautiful show places in Switzerland.

The view from Gruyère is most charming, and includes not only the winding course of the Sarine, and the green hills dotted with the herds,--which furnish the renowned Swiss or Gruyère cheese,--but beyond rise rocky pine-clad mountains, the most important of which is the Moléson.

The founding of the castle of Gruyère is attributed to Gruerius, a captain in the Thebaid legion, who, escaping martyrdom in the days of Diocletian, fled into the mountains. After threading his way through the dense forests which then clothed these grassy hills, he finally reached the point where the castle now stands. There, helped by other fugitive Christians, he began to clear away the primeval forest, and founded the castle and town which bear his name.

Gruyère thus became the cradle of a new race, which, constantly increasing in wealth and power, soon ruled over a vast extent of land peopled by many vassals. The Counts of Gruyère were in general good masters; and the land, carefully tilled by their dependants, grew more and more productive, until many villages dotted the country, while the tinkle of cow-bells was heard for miles around.

In the days of the Crusades, many knights passed this castle on their way to the Holy Land; and the Counts of Gruyère, assuming the cross too, joined them with the fatalistic cry, “Go we must, return who may!” (“S’agit d’aller, reviendra qui pourra!”)

In spite of their wealth and extensive possessions, the Counts of Gruyère were none too well informed, for we are told they naïvely asked their companions whether the sea they had to cross on their way to Palestine could possibly be as large as the stretch of water they had seen in making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Lucerne.

Toward the end of the fourteenth century, Margaret, Countess of Gruyère, was very sad, because, although she had already been married several years, Providence had not yet vouchsafed her a child. In her anxiety to obtain offspring, this fair Countess consulted the astrologers and other fortune-tellers who visited the castle; but as their promises afforded her very little satisfaction, she soon resorted to pilgrimages, fasting, and long seasons of fervent prayer.

All the pilgrims who stopped at the castle, on their way to and from the shrines at Einsiedlen and Lucerne, were entertained with the utmost hospitality at Gruyère, and when they departed the Countess invariably loaded them with gifts, gently begging them to intercede for her when they reached the goal of their pilgrimage.

Garbed like a nun, in the plainest of homespun dresses, the Countess diligently visited the poor and sick, helped the needy, and was so good and charitable to all that she was revered throughout the country like a saint. Besides, every night and morning, she spent hours on her knees in the castle chapel, imploring the Virgin and all the saints to grant her her heart’s desire.

One evening, when twilight was fast merging into darkness, she still lingered there on her knees, weeping bitterly because hitherto all her prayers had remained unanswered. Absorbed in sorrowful thoughts, and uttering broken words of supplication between her sobs, the Countess failed to notice the entrance of a lame beggar who had often been the recipient of her bounty.

The sound of suppressed weeping and convulsive prayer soon attracted the beggar’s attention, and peering through the gloom,--which the taper burning on the altar only seemed to intensify,--he soon descried a woman clad in rough homespun. Lame Hans, whose sorest trial was an occasional lack of food, immediately concluded that this poor woman must be needy, and catching the word “children,” he hastily drew some coarse bread and cheese out of his wallet, and laid it beside her, saying,--

“This is all I have, my poor woman, but the Holy Virgin’s blessing resting upon it will enable it to dry your tears.”

Then, before the astonished Countess could say a word, the lame man hobbled off; and although he went to bed hungry, he felt a warm glow in the region of his heart whenever he pictured the zest with which the hungry children would devour his bread and cheese.

The Countess came out of the chapel a few moments after Hans, and as she returned to her apartments her servants marvelled at the radiant expression of her face, although it bore marks of recent tears. They were still more surprised when they saw her come forth in her richest apparel to welcome her husband and his friends on their return from the chase. Their amazement was shared by the hunters, who gazed with unconcealed wonder at the hostess whom they had left in the morning pale, silent, and dejected, but who now seemed radiant with life and hope.

Her unwonted vivacity charmed both husband and guests; and when toward the end of the evening meal she begged leave to lay before them a new dish, they all received the proposal with joyful acclamations. At a sign from the fair châtelaine, her aged nurse and favourite page then brought in two covered silver dishes, which they gravely set before their master.

All eyes were riveted on these vessels when the Count of Gruyère simultaneously raised both covers; and his expression of disappointment was mirrored on every face, when instead of choice dainties nothing was seen but the coarse bread and cheese of the peasant population. Interrogative glances were therefore soon directed to the Countess, who with charming grace and simplicity related her adventure in the chapel and repeated the lame beggar’s words. She concluded by saying that she now believed her prayers would be answered, and begged all present to partake with her of the food which had come to her in such a strange way. Touched by the tale she told, one and all solemnly ate the bread and cheese she gave them; but her old nurse laid her share carefully aside, saying she would partake of it only when her mistress’s dearest wish had been fulfilled.

Then the castle chaplain arose, filled all the beakers with wine, blessed them as solemnly as if he were about to celebrate a communion service, and all drank to the health of the gracious Countess and the speedy coming of a son and heir to the castle of Gruyère.

Within a year from that day the Stork brought a beautiful boy to the Countess, and at his christening feast many noble guests merrily drank his health. The Countess, radiant with happiness, bestowed bountiful alms upon all the poor, giving lame Hans a new suit of clothes, and a pension to prevent his ever feeling the pangs of hunger again.

In the midst of this feast the old nurse came in and solemnly ate her carefully treasured share of Hans’s bread and cheese. Then she made a deep curtsey to her mistress, saying,--

“Gracious Lady, you see it is just as I always told you. To the one who gives freely, much will be given. May God preserve you and your husband and grant your son a long, happy, and useful life at Gruyère!”

* * * * *

FROM the castle and town of Gruyère one can enjoy a fine view of the Moléson, the highest peak in that region, from whose summit can be seen the Lake of Geneva with Mont Blanc, the Dent du Midi, and the Diablerets to the south. West and east are the Jura and Titlis mountains, while to the north extends the fertile valley of the Sarine.

Here on the Moléson, as well as on most mountain pastures in Switzerland, you can often hear the famous Ranz des Vaches, Kuhreihen, or musical call, which the cattle no sooner hear than they crowd around their herdsmen.

This melody, repeated by the echoes, and accompanied by the ripple and splash of running waters, the tintinnabulations of cow-bells, and the lowing of the kine, has a peculiar charm for all who hear it, and in words runs about as follows:--

“The herdsmen of the Colombettes
At the dawn of day have risen;
Ha, ah! ha, ah!
Cows, cows, to the milking come!
Come here, all of you.
White ones and black ones,
Red and brindled,
Young ones, old ones,
Under this oak-tree,
Where I will milk you;
Under this poplar,
Where I will drain you!
Cows, cows! to the milking come!”[1]

[1] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.

The Moléson was long the favourite field of the chamois-hunters in Fribourg. One of these men having been overtaken by darkness high up on the mountain, once sought refuge in a deserted herdsmen’s hut. Drawing near it, he was surprised to hear the tinkle of bells, the lowing and stamping of cattle, and the voices of herdsmen, for he knew the cows had already left the high pastures. Entering the hut, he was further amazed to see four queer, wizened-looking men, whose thumb and first and second fingers were missing. Besides, one of these men was lame, the second hunchbacked, the third had but one eye, and the fourth was apparently a leper.

These men signed to him to take a seat near the fire, where they were busy making green cheese, of which, however, they had already a large store in the hut.

The hunchback herdsman offered the guest bread and meat which looked so unpalatable that the hunter took but one mouthful and set the food aside, muttering that they must have forgotten the salt when preparing it. This remark so incensed his hosts that they began to gnash their teeth, and came toward him making such threatening gestures that in sudden terror the hunter made a sign of the cross. At that moment herdsmen, cheese, cows, and fire vanished, and the chamois-hunter found himself alone in the deserted hut.

But when he told his night adventure at home, he learned that a small piece of meat had been cut out of the left hind quarter of his best cow. One of the oldest inhabitants of the village, moreover, informed him that the men whom he had seen were wicked herdsmen, who had neglected their duties while in the flesh, and had besides been guilty of perjury. In punishment for their wickedness, they had not only lost the three fingers upheld in taking an oath, but were condemned to atone for past laziness by working hard every night.

LEGENDS OF NEUCHÂTEL

A younger son of one the Counts of Neuchâtel, wishing to found a family of his own, went to settle in 1155 in the picturesque Val de Ruz in the Jura mountains. Here he selected a tall and jagged rock, washed by the Seyon, as the site of his new stronghold, the Castle of Vallangin. Owing to its position, it was almost impregnable; but it was a very dismal abode, for the heights of Chaumont at the south overshadowed it, cutting off much sunlight, while the dense pine forests around it did not tend to lessen the gloom.

The Val de Ruz was so fertile, however, that the lords of Vallangin soon grew rich and powerful, ruling wisely over the many peasants who came to settle there under their protection. At the end of the thirteenth century their vassals already numbered many thousands, and included all classes of society.

Rollin, lord of Vallangin, was but sixteen years of age, when two of his most powerful vassals renounced their allegiance to him and prepared to despoil him of his property. With that end in view, they armed their retainers and sallied forth to attack their young master. The friends of the latter, however, getting wind of this plot, hastily assembled the noblemen, clergy, and peasants who were still faithful to their lord, and consulting with them took active measures to meet and conquer the foe. Young Rollin himself, supported by the lords of Neuchâtel, of Colombiers, and of Vauxtravers, set out at the head of his army, and meeting the two faithless lords on the plain of Coffrane, defeated their forces in pitched battle, and secured the persons of the recreant vassals.

Many men perished on both sides in this encounter; and hundreds of years later, a staff of command lost in this battle was ploughed up by a farmer and placed in the Museum of Neuchâtel, where it is carefully preserved as a relic of the fight.

Rollin, having seized the faithless vassals, had them brought before him, and sternly informed them that in his anger at hearing of their treachery, he had vowed nothing short of two heads would ever satisfy him. At these words the guilty lords trembled and grew pale, for they felt their last hour was near. Their despair was such that when Rollin bade them reveal the place where they had concealed their treasures, they offered no resistance, but meekly obeyed. Before long, therefore, two huge heaps of silver lay at Rollin’s feet. He gazed at them a few moments in silence, then addressed the culprits, saying:

“I swore I would have two heads, and this solemn vow cannot be recalled. But, as I have never yet sentenced a guilty man to death, I am loath to shed your blood. I will therefore spare you, on condition that two silver heads be cast from this metal, to take the place of those which you have forfeited, but which I allow you to retain. You shall also recover your freedom and go home in peace, but I hereby warn you that should you ever prove faithless again it will be bloody and not bloodless heads which I will claim!”

The delinquent lords, happy to escape their death sentence, solemnly presented two heavy silver heads to the young lord of Vallangin. These were placed by his order on the high altar of the collegiate church at Neuchâtel, where they remained until the days of the Reformation, when an ignorant iconoclast, deeming them idols, removed them from the altar. Since then no trace of the silver busts has been seen.

* * * * *

EARLY in the fourteenth century, some of the vassals of the lord of Vallangin went to settle in the lovely valleys of the Jura Mountains, where, joined by a few families from Burgundy, they founded Le Locle and La Chaux-de-Fonds. These two colonies speedily increased in numbers and wealth, and the towns thus founded are now important centres for the manufacture of watches and jewelry.

Many of the people of the Canton of Neuchâtel having turned Protestant, Wilhelmine of Bergy, grandmother of one of the lords of Vallangin, a stanch Catholic, sadly forsook the castle which she had entered as a happy young bride, to go and live like a hermit in the village of Gezard, which was her dowry.

This lady, already eighty years of age, was lamed by gout and quite feeble, but she nevertheless took great interest in the peasants around her, whom she often visited and frequently helped by her good advice.

One day, sitting among the women of the village who were diligently spinning, she heard them comment bitterly upon their sad lot, saying it was very hard that among all the fields they tilled, there was not a single acre which they could call their very own and which was entirely free from taxation.

Emboldened by the kindly interest the old lady showed in their remarks, they finally ventured to beg her to give them part of her land, to have and to hold without being asked for tithes or rent in exchange. Wilhelmine, who could not dispose of the land otherwise, then said:

“My good women, your request shall be granted. You shall have one half of the land which I can walk around in one day.” Saying these words, the old lady painfully rose from her seat, and tottered slowly back to her humble dwelling.

The peasant women, whose hearts had swelled with joy at her first words, but whose hopes had been shattered by the conclusion of her speech, sadly watched her limp out of sight, and then murmured regretfully,--

“The poor mistress is so old and weak, that with the best intentions in the world, she will hardly be able to creep around a single acre!”