“A fair evening, Herr Sigismund, and a happy meeting,” cried Peterchen, so soon as his weary mule, which frequently halted under its unwieldy burthen, had brought him within hearing.  “Little did I think to see thee again so quickly, and less still to lay eyes on this holy convent; for though the traveller might have returned in thy person nothing short of a miracle—­” Here the bailiff winked, for he was one of those Protestants whose faith was most manifested in these side-hits at the opinions and practices of Rome,—­“Nothing but a miracle, I say, and that too a miracle of some saint whose bones have been drying these ten thousand years, until every morsel of our weak flesh has fairly disappeared, could bring down old St. Bernard’s abode upon the shores of the Leman.  I have known many who have left Vaud to cross the Alps come back and winter in Vevey; but never did I know the stone that was placed upon another, in a workman-like manner, quits its bed without help from the hand of man.  They say stones are particularly hard-hearted, and yet your saint and miracle-monger hath a way to move them!”

Peterchen chuckled at his own pleasantry, as men in authority are apt to enjoy that which comes exclusively of their own cleverness, and he winked round among his followers, as if he would invite them to bear witness to the rap he had given the Papists, even on their own exclusive ground.  When the platform of the Col was attained, he checked the mule and continued his address, for want of wind had nipped his wit, as it might be, in the bud.

“A bad business this, Herr Sigismund; a thoroughly bad affair.  It has drawn me far from home, at a ticklish season, and it has unexpectedly stopped the Herr von Willading (he spoke in German) in his journey over the mountains, and that, too, at a moment when all had need be diligent among the Alps.  How does the keen air of the Col agree with the fair Adelheid?”

“God be thanked, Herr Bailiff, in bodily health that excellent young lady was never better.”

“God be thanked, right truly!  She is a tender flower, and one that might be suddenly cut off by the frosts of St Bernard.  And the noble Genoese, who travels with so much modest simplicity, in a way to reprove the vain and idle—­I hope he does not miss the sun among our rocks?”

“He is an Italian, and must think of us and our climate according to his habits; though in the way of health he seems at his ease.”

“Well, this is consolatory!  Herr Sigismund, were the truth known,” rejoined Peterchen, bending as far forward on his mule as a certain protuberance of his body would permit, and then suddenly drawing himself up again in reserve—­“but a state secret is a state secret, and least of all should it escape one who is truly and legitimately a child of the state.  My love and friendship for Melchior von Willading are great, and of right excellent quality; but I should not have visited this pass, were it not to do honor to our guest the Genoese.  I would not that the noble stranger went down from our hills with an unsavory opinion of our hospitality.  Hath the honorable Chatelain from Sion reached the hill?”