Although the insurgents were dispersed, most of the French officers, unlike General Almeras, condescended to the bitterest revenge against the disarmed people.  All the leaders who had not concealed themselves were captured and summarily shot without trial.  Von Kolb, however, escaped with his life:  disguised as a seller of lemons, he fled over the Redensberg, and passing through Antholz managed to reach Stiermark.  Another still more remarkable man, Father Joachim, known amongst the people as Red Beard, wading through deep snow managed to hide himself for many months in the castle of Goldrain.  In August of 1810, disguised as an artisan, he reached Switzerland, Milan, and finally Vienna, where the emperor, as a reward for his valiant deeds, presented him with the living of Hietzing in the neighborhood of Vienna.

Our long but necessary preamble now brings us to Peter Sigmair.  He too had a price set on his head, having acted as lieutenant in the popular cause, and had accordingly sought a safe retreat in the mountains.  Soon, however, a friend brought him word that his old father, George Sigmair, the Tharer-wirth of Mitter Olang, when attending to some business in Bruneck on St. Thomas’s Day, had been arrested by command of General Broussier, with orders that he should be shot if his son did not give himself up before three days.  The son might have comforted himself with the thought that it would be impossible for the general to put so tyrannical a threat into execution, but the consciousness of his father in such danger conquered all other feelings.  He immediately started for Bruneck, and gave himself up.  His father was instantly liberated, whilst he, bound in chains, was sent to Bozen, but brought back to Bruneck at the beginning of January, 1810, when in his cell in the castle he quietly heard his sentence—­that he should be shot before the door of his father’s inn at Mitter Olang, and that his body should then be hung on a gallows as a solemn warning to refractory peasants.  His young wife, maddened with grief, penetrated to the presence of the French general, clasped his knees and plead in vain for mercy.  He remained perfectly impassive to her entreaties, but granted a favor to a young priest, Franz von Moerl, who accompanied the prisoner in his last moments—­namely, that, instead of before the window, the execution should take place at a small wayside chapel on the confines of the village.  And so Peter Sigmair was shot at the age of thirty-six, honored for his valor, but still more for his filial piety.

We were now standing on the very spot, before the humble, whitewashed chapel.  Above the entrance, which was closed, a rude fresco, much injured by weather, commemorated the deed.  Some soldiers in very high-waisted regimentals were taking aim at Peter Sigmair, who knelt blindfolded, wearing the full peasant costume, which, more ordinary in those days, is still used for marriages, and is consequently represented even now on mortuary tablets as indicative of the heavenly wedding-garment.