Laura Richards
Honor Bright

CHAPTER VII
ZITLI

Honor did not sleep the first part of the night; her ankle was stiff and painful, and she was a little feverish. She had a vision, in the middle of the night, of Gretli, towering like an Alp beside her in a mammoth nightgown, holding a cup to her lips and murmuring, “Tisane! to make sleep well. Taste! but taste then, my child!”

Honor tasted, sipped, drank deep of the pleasant cooling draught, herbs and honey and whey mysteriously mingled; then sank back on the pillow. Was it really Gretli or a mountain? The Dent d’Oche, come to visit her and accept her homage? Why not? Hesperus came! Mountains – maidens —tisane—

The next thing Honor knew the morning sun was shining in on her: not directly in her face, but reflected through the open door in the little mirror opposite the foot of her bed. She sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes.

“Where am I?” she said again, as she had said the day before; the next moment she knew, for there was Gretli in the doorway, beaming broad and bright as the sun itself. She carried a basin – a very small one – and a towel of homespun damask fit for a duchess.

“It is to wash the face, is it not?” she said. “Before breakfast; such is the custom of the honored Ladies, one is aware.”

“Oh, thank you, Gretli! What a pretty towel!”

Gretli beamed broader still. “It is of my trousseau!” she said. “I chose it for mademoiselle, because it is the pattern I like best; observe! the double-basket weave; that is not ugly, hein? I spun and wove that when I was of the age of Mademoiselle.”

“Your trousseau!” cried Honor. “Are you going to be married, Gretli? Oh, how exciting! Does Madame know? May I tell the girls? Who is he? Is he as handsome as – but he couldn’t be!”

“Mademoiselle must not excite herself before breakfast!” said Gretli demurely. “All girls make their trousseau, is it not so? Then if the good God sends a husband, voilà! one is not unprepared. Permit that I brush the hair of mademoiselle; the brush is entirely new, a present from my godmother. But, what hair! Verily, it curls like the flames on the hearth. A fire of gold, is it not so?”

“Isn’t it horrid?” sighed Honor. “I’d give everything I have in the world to have it black, Gretli!”

Gretli cried out in horror.

“Mademoiselle! the wonderful hair; beautiful enough, with reverence be it said, for the tresses of Ste. Gêneviève herself. But mademoiselle jests, of a surety. She is doubtless thankful, as she surely ought to be, for this gift of the good God, which might be desired by queens. Voilà! Mademoiselle is tidiness itself; a little moment, and I bring her breakfast!”

What a breakfast that was! Café-au-lait, a whole bowl of it, smoking, fragrant, delicious; crisp rolls, fresh butter, honey and cream, and a little tea-rose-colored egg, which Gretli declared the youngest pullet had laid on purpose not half an hour before. All this neatly arranged on a wooden tray so beautifully carved that Honor cried out at sight of it. Gretli glowed responsive.

“Zitli’s work!” she said proudly. “It took the prize at the carvers’ exhibition last year; in the department of young persons, be it understood. He was offered much money for it, but no! it was for me, he said, the good child! I value it highly, mademoiselle.”

“I should think so!” said Honor. “Why, I never saw anything so lovely. What are the flowers?”

“Edelweiss and alpenrosen; they are my flowers. But now let mademoiselle eat, lest her breakfast cool! I return shortly.”

Honor ate her breakfast with right good will, enjoying every mouthful as a healthy girl should. Between bites and sups, she exchanged morning greetings with the mountains, which showed as friendly a face as the night before, though no rosy veil softened their morning splendor of white and green.

“Did you bring me the tisane last night, Royal Highness?” said Honor. “Or was it really Gretli? She looked quite as big, you know! Are any of your mountain ladies as handsome as she is? Wouldn’t they look funny in blue skirts and black bodices? How many yards do you suppose it would take – ”

A light cloud-shadow drifted over the shining face of the Dent du Midi; it was as if he said, “Don’t talk nonsense, child!”

Honor accepted the rebuke, and devoted herself to her honey and rolls.

By and by came Gretli again to inspect the ankle. It was better, but still swollen and painful. After examining it carefully, the good giantess vanished, and presently reappeared, carrying carefully a glass bowl in which were two black objects about two inches long. At first sight Honor thought they were stones or bits of black wood: but looking carefully at them, she saw one move.

“Gretli!” she cried. “They are alive! What hideous, horrible creatures! Take them away, please!”

“In truth they are alive!” Gretli nodded contentedly. “Have no fear of them, Mademoiselle. They are good creatures, and understand their business well. See how your ankle is swollen, is it not? I apply my good little sangsue (leech), and in a few moments – but mademoiselle will see!” and without more ado she clapped first one leech and then the other on the offending ankle.

Honor shrieked aloud at the touch of the cold, clammy creatures; shrieked louder still when they applied themselves, in a quiet but efficient way, to the work in hand. The two shrieks rent the air; startled the browsing goats outside, brought Zitli to his feet in the outer room, to see what was the matter. Looking up, in the act of opening her mouth for a third, Honor saw Gretli’s face of demure amazement, and stopped short.

“Why – why do you look at me like that?” she faltered. “They are horrible and disgusting, and they hurt me! I never heard of anything so dreadful!”

“Is it so?” Gretli spoke gravely. “Mademoiselle is young. There are many things more dreadful than a sangsue, which was made by the Divine Hand, and given for the use of man. Mademoiselle observes that we live upon a mountain, where physicians do not abound; thus, we employ the remedies that Nature imparted to our fathers, and are thankful. To the montagnard, the sangsue is a good friend. Zitli went before daybreak to the little pond to bring these fresh and lively for mademoiselle.”

Honor blushed scarlet, and hung her head.

“I am sorry!” she murmured. “It – it was very kind of Zitli. Don’t tell him, please, Gretli! I am so ashamed!”

“Assuredly, no!” Gretli was her own beaming self again; a slight shake of her head as she glanced toward the door warned Zitli to make no sound; he vanished silently.

“Friend sangsue is not beautiful!” she admitted cheerfully. “Also, he surprised mademoiselle. I should have explained in advance – but in that case mademoiselle might not have permitted; so all is well, and now I remove these gentlemen, who have breakfasted to heart’s content —voilà! Back to your bowl, messieurs! Now a little massage, and we shall see!”

Wonderful massage that, with the strong, supple fingers! The pain seemed to melt away under them. When it was over, and the ankle firmly bound in bandages of strong homespun linen (no “gauze” in mountain châlets!) Honor declared it felt almost entirely well.

“I believe I could walk on it! May I try, Gretli?”

“On no account, Mademoiselle! It is great happiness to have relieved you of the pain, but for strength, time and patience are required. It will be several days before mademoiselle can stand on that foot; meantime – behold her conveyance.”

She held out her massive brown arms with a delightful smile. Ten minutes later, Honor was reclining, well propped with pillows, on the seat that ran the length of the broad window in the living room. Her lame ankle, swathed in its bandages, contrasted oddly with her other foot in its stout little walking shoe. Honor had pretty feet. Stephanie admired them greatly (her own feet being large and flat) and was constantly praising them. Soeur Séraphine heard her one day, and said gravely that both girls should be simply thankful that their feet were not deformed.

“It would have been fully as easy for the good God to give you club feet,” she reminded them, “and it is through no merit of yours that this was not ordained. If a foot is good to walk on, that is all we should ask of it.”

The Sister walked away up the allée. Stephanie, shrugging her shoulders, pointed at the footprint she left on the white sand.

“But regard!” she murmured. “It is well for the Sister to speak; her foot was considered the most beautiful in Paris, my mother has told me so.”

Honor was glad Stephanie could not see her foot now; the next moment she forgot all about it.

The broad window looked out upon the green in front of the châlet, a shelf, as it were, of the mountain, which fell steeply away below it, and rose no less steeply behind. There was just room for the buildings (the châlet, the cowhouse and various small outbuildings), and for this pleasant green space. The grass was short and close as turf, though no lawn mower had ever touched it. The goats attended to that; here they were now, nibbling busily away, as if they had no time to spare. In the middle of the green sat Zitli, on a low stool, milking one of the she-goats. His crutch lay on the grass beside him; he was whistling gayly, and looked bright as the morning. Presently Honor, watching, saw him give a quick little glance over his shoulder, and then very quietly take a crutch in one hand, while he went on milking with the other. Following his glance, Honor was aware of Bimbo, standing a few paces in the rear of Zitli, his beautiful head thrown back, his eyes measuring the distance between him and the boy. Now he cast a wary glance around him; nibbled grass for a moment with an air of elaborate detachment; then dropping his head swiftly, he sprang forward like arrow from the bow.

Whack! the crutch caught him full on the muzzle: he rolled over with a shrill bleat of amazement, rage and pain.

Honor clapped her hands in delight.

“Hurrah!” she shouted.

Zitli looked up and laughed back at her.

“Bon jour, mademoiselle!” he cried, waving his victorious crutch. “He has his breakfast, that one, not so?”

“Look out, Zitli!” cried Honor. “There comes Séraphine, on the other side!”

She-goats do not butt; nevertheless, Séraphine, sidling quietly up, evidently meant mischief. She stretched her neck toward the brimming pail; another moment, and —whack! the crutch caught her too, and she retired shaking her head violently.

“What possesses the creatures?” cried Honor.

“The pixies are riding them, mademoiselle!” replied Zitli. “Ohé, Gretli! the pail is full, and the creatures are ridden.”

Gretli came hastening out to lift the heavy pail, and scold the unruly goats, which scattered in every direction at sight of her; some up the mountain, some down, away they went, leaping from stone to stone, till not one was to be seen save old Moufflon, standing on a point of rock and gravely bleating reproof to his troublesome flock.

Zitli followed Gretli into the house, and while she disappeared into the dairy, he came and sat down by Honor’s window-seat. He hoped mademoiselle had slept well; pain, that was not agreeable, no indeed. He rejoiced to hear that it was nearly gone this morning.

“Are the goats always so mischievous, Zitli?” asked Honor.

“Not always! often, yes; but I hold it not wholly the fault of the creatures. To-day, for example, they are pixy-ridden, that sees itself easily.”

“What do you mean, Zitli?”

“Mademoiselle knows about the pixies? No? True, they are of the mountains; in cities, one hears, they are not known, but here – yes, indeed! They are like men, only small, small, and full of mischief. At times, they are visible to mortals, at others not; it is as they please. Mademoiselle permits that I bring my work-bench, yes? Like that, I can talk better; that is, if mademoiselle would care to hear?”

Seeing Honor all eagerness, he hobbled across the room, and returned, pushing before him a small table covered with bits of wood and carving tools.

“Like that!” he repeated, settling himself, and taking up his work. “While the hands work, the tongue may play; if it speaks no evil!” added the boy, crossing himself gravely.

“Tell me about the pixies!” cried Honor. “Did you ever see one, Zitli?”

Zitli glanced toward the dairy.

“The sister holds it not well to speak of them,” he said uneasily; “but so long as one says no harm – Brother Atli thinks it was a dwarf I saw, mademoiselle, a mortal being, only small, like a tiny child. There are such, he says, and all he says is true. Nevertheless – ” he paused.

“Nevertheless? Do go on, Zitli!”

“He was very small!” Zitli spoke in a half-whisper. “Smaller than any child I ever saw; and he wore a green coat. Mademoiselle can judge for herself. Certain it is that he had a bag full of money, hung from his belt. There was a hole in it, and some coins had fallen out, gold and silver pieces. There they lay in the road, and he all unknowing. I called to him, and he turned and gave me a look of anger truly frightful. I began to pick up the coins, and brought them to him as quickly as I could; then, quite suddenly, his look changed. He thanked me as a father might, and gave me – look, mademoiselle!”

He drew from under his shirt a small bag that hung round his neck, and opening it, displayed a gold coin.

“Oh, Zitli, how wonderful!” cried Honor. “And you think – you really think he was a pixy? May I look? Oh! but – but this is a real coin, isn’t it? A ten-florin piece. Would a pixy have that, do you think, Zitli?”

Zitli nodded thrice, gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “those people can have what they like – or the appearance of it. Never while I live will I spend this gold; and – mademoiselle may think this strange, but it is true – since I have had it my back has given me no pain; but none at all, compared with former times. It is true, as my sister says, that the doctor at Lucerne gave also some help; yes, I am not ungrateful to him; but – ” he nodded several times, gravely, as he replaced the bag around his neck.

“Are they often seen?” queried Honor. “Could – do you suppose a girl could see them, Zitli?”

“But assuredly! indeed, some hold that they are kinder to maidens than to men. There is the story of Magdalen of Pilatus. Mademoiselle has never heard that? She lived at the foot of that dreadful mountain – ” Zitli crossed himself again – “and she was a good girl, and beautiful, but very poor. Higher up on the mountain lived her mother’s cousin Klaus, and he was very rich, and his gold, men said, come by in no honest way, but of that I know nothing. Once the mother fell sick, and felt a longing for a certain kind of cheese, which they were too poor to buy. Magdalen went to the rich Klaus, and asked for a piece of this cheese, of which it was known that he possessed a large store, but he would not give her so much as would lie on the point of a pin, and drove her away with cruel words. Then she went to her betrothed, Alois, a good youth, but little richer than herself. He gave her what cheese he had; but as she was returning home down the mountain, her foot slipped, and she dropped the cheese, which rolled down the precipice and was lost. Magdalen sat down and wept bitterly; as she wept, she felt a pull at her sleeve, and looking up, lo! there was a little green man with a long beard and a cheese on his shoulder. In his hand he held a green plant, and he bade Magdalen give over her weeping.

“‘Take this plant,’ he said, ‘and make of it a tisane for your mother; it will cure her of her sickness. As for cheese, here is one that will do instead of that you lost!’

“He then disappeared like a mist of night. Magdalen hastened home and made the tisane and gave it to her mother, who recovered her health at once. And when they cut open the cheese, mademoiselle, it was all pure gold within. So they became rich, and Magdalen and Alois were married, and bought many fine pastures and cows, and became the happiest couple in Switzerland. But from that day the wicked Klaus began to lose his riches, and at last he died a beggar whom Magdalen fed out of her bounty.”

CHAPTER VIII
THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE

Honor will never forget as long as she lives the next evening at the Châlet des Rochers. Indeed, every hour she spent there was a life-long treasure of memory, but that evening was perhaps the most wonderful.

To begin with, Atli came. At five o’clock the farmyard dog, a huge St. Bernard, began to bark; deep, regular barks, like the booming of distant cannon. Zitli looked up from his carving, Gretli turned from her frying-pan; both faces were bright with a look which, Honor was to find out, meant always one thing.

“Atli comes!” said the boy.

“Is that why the dog barks?” asked Honor. “Can he see him?”

Gretli laughed. “Not so, mademoiselle! Probably Atli has set his foot on a stone at the bottom of the Alp; possibly there has been no sound at all, and Tell knows because he knows, all simply. Soon you will hear the goats; they have less intelligence, you understand.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later came bleatings, at first faint and scattered, then gathering in strength and volume, till at last the whole herd, Bimbo leading, Moufflon bringing up the rear, came scampering over the rocks and formed in an eager huddle on the greensward, facing the climbing path. Again a few minutes, and an object appeared, at sight of which a perfect chorus of bleats broke out, while the barking of Tell grew louder and more eager. First the top, then the whole, of a green pointed hat; then a brown, ruddy, smiling face; then a pair of massive shoulders; finally the whole (which means a great deal) of Atli.

“Atli comes!” repeated the brother and sister in happy duet, and both hastened out, with a glance of smiling apology at the young guest who could not follow, could only gaze with all her eyes from her window, could only thrill through all her being at the really splendid vision of the young giant. It was as if one of her mountains had taken human shape and come a-visiting; only, no mountain could look so friendly or smile so kindly. She could hear the eager questions, the gay laughing answers. Had all gone well? Was the clover sufficient? Were the children content with the pasture?

“My faith, yes! they might well be. The clover is thick as – as thy hair, my Gretli! Not one of them but desired two mouths that she might eat the faster.”

“La Dumaine led the way well? But why do I ask? Surely she did!”

Atli nodded emphatically.

“She is a queen indeed! There is no such leader in these Alps. Once only that one – ” a jerk of the head conveyed, somehow, one could not tell how, that “that one” was the Duchess of Montbazon – “tried to push ahead, and got a thrust in the side from our Queen’s horn that sent her back roaring, I promise you. Saperli poppette! in the home yard La Dumaine is the gentille demoiselle, see you; on the Alp she is General as well as Queen.”

“And thou hast left Jean and François in charge? Didst sleep in the hut? All was well?”

“All well, my sister! except – I have brought the appetite of a wolf! But who is that at the window? Tiens! the little mademoiselle with golden hair! How then, my sister?”

“Zitli will tell you!” cried Gretli. “I must prepare supper on the instant. Hast had nothing, I’ll warrant, for a day and a half, but bread and cheese, and I stand here chattering!”

She hurried in. Zitli told in eager detail, with many gestures, the story of Bimbo’s assault and its consequences, and Atli hastened to greet Honor and to express his sympathy and regret.

“That nefarious beast! he should be sewed in his own skin turned inside out. But what would you, mademoiselle? A goat, that has no moral sense. The good God, in making this beast, omitted it, for reasons known only to Himself. I am desolated; yet I trust mademoiselle is not too uncomfortable? What honor for the Châlet des Rochers to receive such a guest! Be still, creatures! I come!” This to the goats, who were bleating and leaping about him, making soft runs and butts against his columnar legs. “A moment, my sister, while I feed the creatures and greet our Tell, who barks his head off in calling me; then I come, a wolf indeed!”

The table was drawn up beside Honor’s window-seat, that she might join the family party. Gretli laid the plates of heavy dark green crockery, and the carved wooden cups, Zitli’s handiwork, as she proudly explained. There were sausages for supper, and ham, black bread and cheese, with honey and cream and biscuits des Rochers for dessert. No great variety is to be looked for in a Swiss châlet, but everything was so good, Honor thought she would never ask for anything different.

They supped by daylight; but by-and-by, when the sunset glory faded and the air grew cold and thin, doors and windows were shut, the big lamp lighted, and the evening began in earnest. First, Honor must be moved nearer the fire, Atli and Gretli declared. The reclining chair that Atli had made when Zitli was so ill, and had to lie extended like a piece of wood; was it not so, Zitli? Let Atli bring it from the shed; like that! Now carefully – ah, but carefully! in manner not to disturb a bird upon the nest.

Honor felt “like a small bit of thistledown,” she told Stephanie afterward, in those powerful arms. Atli took her gently by the shoulders, Gretli by the feet; she was wafted across the room, and deposited in the cushioned chair beside the glowing hearth. Ah! for example! that was as it should be, said Gretli, beaming broadly. Atli nodded approval, and hoped mademoiselle found herself not too badly off.

“Oh, but it is delightful,” cried Honor. “So comfortable! and really, I feel perfectly well —oh!” She had moved her foot, and was promptly reminded that however the rest of her might feel, her ankle had its own sensations. Then what sympathy was showered upon her! Mademoiselle was of a delicacy! Gretli explained. Like that, the nerves were sensitive, one understood. Let her, Gretli, but rub the ankle a little, n’est-ce-pas? Honor protesting it was all right again, truly, truly, Gretli announced that in that case a little diversion was what was needed.

“A little music, is not so? Zitli, bring thy zither! I have some yarn to wind, and Atli and I will sing to thy playing.”

“Oh, let me hold the yarn!” cried Honor. “Mayn’t I, Gretli?”

So Honor held the blue yarn, and Gretli wound mightily, her strong brown arms moving with machine-like regularity. Atli brought his own work-bench, and fell to shaping wooden shoes; while Zitli tuned his zither. Presently he struck a chord, nodding to his brother. The shepherd threw back his head, opened his mouth wide, and poured forth in a rich and mellow tenor a ditty which, roughly translated, might run thus:

 
“On the Alp the grass is sweetest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!
Thou whose beauty is completest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!
Crop thy fill of honey clover,
Crop and crop it o’er and over,
On the Alp thou fairest rover,
Li-u-o, my Queen!”
 

Atli closed his powerful jaws with a snap on the last word, and Gretli took up the song, her rich, deep contralto ringing out nobly.

 
“I will follow at thy calling,
O my master dear!
Where the mountain streams are falling,
O my master dear!
Follow past the rushing torrent,
Past the precipice abhorrent,
Trusting in thy faithful warrant,
O my master dear!”
 

In the third verse the two voices blended, Zitli adding, in a sweet clear treble, a yodel with no articulate words, only a melodious combination of vowels.

 
“Follow Queen and follow Master,
Cows and heifers all!
Fear no trouble nor disaster,
Cows and heifers all!
On the Alp is richest feeding,
Thither then with cautious heeding,
Follow where the Queen is leading,
Cows and heifers all!”
 

The words were mere doggerel, the air simple and primitive, but somehow the effect was magical. Honor felt the very spirit of the place enter into her. It was good to be here! If she might only stay always! Why not? She was a poor orphan, with no kin that she had ever seen; she could not stay in school all her life. What more delightful than to become a sennerin of the Alps? To live here, with the Twins and Zitli: to learn to spin and weave, to make butter and cheese. She would be their little sister; it would be heavenly!

Honor glanced up shyly under her long eyelashes at Atli where he sat opposite her. How splendid he was! Just so, and no otherwise, must Hercules have looked; or Roland, or Lancelot – no, Lancelot’s hair was black! Siegfried, then! or Baldur the Beautiful! Yes, that was best; if only Baldur were a prettier name – it made one think of baldness, and his hair was so wonderful. She glanced again: Atli was intent on his shoemaking. The firelight played on his crisp yellow curls, turning them to threads of gold; on his broad white forehead, his brown cheeks, his massive yet shapely arms and hands. Truly, a splendid figure of a man. Honor’s heart fluttered a little, as fourteen-year-old hearts will flutter. If – if only she had dark hair! if some day —

Half consciously she dropped into her story, neglected now these many days; began “telling” to herself, while the yarn flew over her hands, and the fire glowed and crackled.

“While yet little more than a child I met him who was thenceforth to dominate my life. It was among the Alps, in a simple châlet, humble, yet more delightful than many a turreted castle I have seen. Around were all the glories of Nature (and then I can put in a description of the sunset last night, you know), and he was like his own mountains, rugged and grand and glorious. He was my opposite in every way, though our souls were alike. (Here followed an accurate description of Atli.) Something in me – it may have been my night-black tresses and starry eyes – attracted him. He turned his flashing glance upon me – ”

At this moment Atli looked up and his eyes met Honor’s. They did not flash, but they were very pleasant and friendly.

“Perhaps mademoiselle will sing for us!” he said; “a song of her great country, is it not so? Last summer I guided an American Monsieur over the Weisshorn, and he sang a song of America. How was it, then? ‘I-an-kidoodel?’ Mademoiselle is acquainted with that song?”

Honor laughed outright; dreams and story – for she was really a sensible child when not dreaming – flew up the chimney.

“‘Yankee Doodle!’ oh, yes!” she cried. “I know that; Papa taught me, and some others too.”

She sang “Yankee Doodle” in a very sweet, fresh voice, and the Twins – I was going to say “cooed,” but “mooed” would be more like it – with pleasure, and demanded more. So she gave them the “Suwanee River” and “America,” to their great delight. The first, Gretli declared, melted the heart to softness, while the latter —

“That elevates the soul, hein? The blood stirs, as at the sound of a trumpet. But mademoiselle must not fatigue herself. A glass of buttermilk, is it not so? Behold that I bring it, on the instant, cool, cool, from the stream!”

She brought it, and stood over Honor with smiling authority.

“Every drop!” she commanded. “It is stomachic, mademoiselle understands, and nourishing as well. Now mademoiselle shall rest, and Zitli shall tell us a story, since it is not yet bed time. Or is mademoiselle weary? On the instant I transport her – ”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Honor. “A story, please! I am not one scrap sleepy.”

“At the good hour! Attend, Zitli, till I bring my knitting! Behold, thy table! Thou talkest always best with thy tools in hand, not so? Voilà! proceed then, my son!”

Zitli, with frowning brow, pondered, taking up one tool and then another, examining them minutely and laying them aside. Finally, he found one to his mind; selected a bit of wood with like care, and fell to work.

“Shall it be of Pilatus?” he asked; and went on without waiting for reply. “Pilatus, as mademoiselle knows well, is far over yonder!” He nodded toward the northeast. “We cannot see it from here, but from the Dent du Midi it sees itself plainly. That mountain is always wrapped in clouds, and these clouds are sent, some say, by the other mountains round about, because they do not wish to see a place of such shame and sorrow; but others claim that the mountain himself grieves for the curse put upon him, and veils his face because of it. Which of these sayings, if either, is true, is not known to me. There —plâit-il, mademoiselle?”

Honor had looked up with such evident inquiry in her eyes that the boy stopped.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, “I only wondered – what is the curse, Zitli?”

Atli and Gretli were too polite to look their astonishment, but Zitli was younger; besides, he was a story-teller.

“Mademoiselle does not know?” he cried. “In America, one is ignorant of that? Tenez, that is something of the remarkable. That mountain, mademoiselle, is accursed and has ever been so. After the death of the Saviour of Mankind – ” the three crossed themselves devoutly – “Pontius Pilatus, the wicked Governor of Jerusalem, found himself so ill at ease because of the sin and remorse that was in him that he took flight from the Holy Land, and tried to hide himself, now here, now there. But everywhere he was driven out with maledictions, until he came to our beloved country, where, do you see, there were not many people in those days, and all honest Christians attending to their own affairs and minding their flocks and herds as Christians should. So no one saw that accursed one, and he took refuge on that mountain and there he has been ever since. He cannot die, because neither Heaven nor Hell will receive him. He wanders about the mountain, and wherever he goes the green herb withers and the leaves of the trees shrivel and drop off. The mountain groans and would fain be rid of him. Now it lets fall an avalanche, hoping to bury him fathoms deep and so make an end; but the snow falls away from him on either side and leaves him bare. Now it gathers a thunderstorm and tries to strike him dead with lightning bolts, but all in vain; he opens his breast, inviting death; the bolt turns aside and will not touch him. Often has he tried to drown himself in the gloomy lake on the top of the mountain, but the waves rise and cast him on shore. So he lives, accursed of God and man.”