“He, and no other!  A lucky meeting on the quay of Genf brought us together again after a separation of full thirty years, and, as if Heaven had reserved its trials for the occasion, we have been made to go through the late danger in company.  I had him in my arms in that fearful moment, Roger, when the sky, and the mountains, and all of earth, even to that dear girl, were fading, as I thought for ever, from my sight,—­he, that had already been my partner in so many risks, who had bled for me, watched for me, ridden for me, and did all other things that love could prompt for me, was brought by Providence to be my companion in the awful strait through which I have just passed!”

While the Baron was still speaking, his friend entered with the quiet and dignified mien he always maintained, when it was not his pleasure to throw aside the reserve of high station, or when he yielded to the torrents of feeling that sometimes poured through his southern temperament, in a way to unsettle the deportment of mere convention.  He was presented to Roger de Blonay and the bailiff, as the person just alluded to, and as the oldest and most tried of the friends of his introducer.  His reception by the former was natural and warm, while the Herr Hofmeister was so particular in his professions of pleasure and respect as to excite not only notice but surprise.

“Thanks, thanks, good Peterchen,” said the Baron de Willading, for such was the familiar diminutive by which the bustling bailiff was usually addressed by those who could take the liberty; thanks, honest Peterchen; thy kindness to Gaetano is so much love shown to myself.”

“I honor thy friends as thyself, Herr von Willading,” returned the bailiff; “for thou hast a claim to the esteem of the buergerschaft and all its servants; but the homage paid to the Signor Grimaldi is due on his own account.  We are but poor Swiss, that dwell in the midst of wild mountains, little favored by the sun if ye will, and less known to the world;—­but we have our manners!  A man that hath been intrusted with authority as long as I were unfit for his trust, did he not tell, as it might be by instinct, when he has those in his presence that are to be honored.  Signore, the loss of Melchior von Willading before our haven, would have made the lake unpleasant to us all, for months, not to say years; but, had so great a calamity arrived as that of your death by means of our waters, I could have prayed that the mountains might fall into the basin, and bury the offending Leman under their rocks!”

Melchior de Willading and old Roger de Blonay laughed heartily at Peterchen’s hyperbolical compliments; though it was quite plain that the worthy bailiff himself fancied he had said a clever thing.