“Look thou, good Prior, much as I love thee and thy convent, and Melchior von Willading and his daughter, I would have spared myself this journey, but for that same Genoese.  Let there be no questions, however, between us:  the proper time to speak will come, and God forbid that I should be precipitate!  Thou shalt then see in what manner a bailiff of the great canton can acquit himself!  At present we will trust to thy prudence.  The friend hath gone to Italy in haste, that the delay may not create surprise!  Well, each one to his humor on the highway:  it is mine to journey in honor and security, though others may have a different taste.  Let there be little said, good Michael:  not so much as an imprudent look of the eye;—­and now, o’ Heaven’s sake, thy glass of kirschwasser!”

They were at the door of the refectory, and the conversation ceased.  On entering, Peterchen found his friend the baron, the Signor Grimaldi, and the chatelain of Sion, a grave ponderous dignitary of justice, of German extraction like himself and the Prior, but whose race, from a long residence on the confines of Italy, had imbibed some peculiarities of the southern character.  Sigismund and all the rest of the travellers were precluded from joining the repast, to which it was the intention of the prudent canons to give a semi-official character.

The meeting between Peterchen and those who had so lately quitted Vevey was not distinguished by any extraordinary movements of courtesy; but that between the bailiff and the chatelain, who represented the authorities of friendly and adjoining states, was marked by a profusion of politic and diplomatic civilities.  Various personal and public inquiries were exchanged, each appearing to strive to outdo the other in manifesting interest in the smallest details on those points in which it was proper for a stranger to feel an interest.  Though the distance between the two capitals was fully fifteen leagues, every foot of the ground was travelled over by one or the other of the parties, either in commendation of its beauties, or in questions that touched its interests.

“We come equally of Teutonic fathers, Herr Chatelain,” concluded the bailiff, as the whole party placed themselves at table, after the reverences and homages were thoroughly exhausted, “though Providence has cast our fortunes in different countries.  I swear to thee, that the sound of thy German is music to my ears!  Thou hast wonderfully escaped corruptions, though compelled to consort so much with the bastards of Romans, Celts, and Burgundians, of whom thou hast so many in this portion of thy states.  It is curious to observe,”—­for Peterchen had a little of an antiquarian flavor among the other crude elements of his character—­“that whenever a much-trodden path traverses a country, its people catch the blood as well as the opinions of those who travel it, after the manner that tares are scattered and sown by the passing winds.  Here has the St. Bernard been a thoroughfare since the time of the Romans, and thou wilt find as many races among those who dwell on the way-side as there are villages between the convent and Vevey.  It is not so with you of the Upper Valais, Herr Chatelain; there the pure race exists as it came from the other side of the Rhine, and honored and preserved may it continue for another thousand years!”