“Now, if we were inhabitants of India, Elias, I should tell you to go and bathe in the Ganges, for the waters of that river wash away the pollutions of both body and soul—­so, at least, the people of that country think; and they kill, and burn, and steal without fear under the protection of that marvellous river.  It is a great comfort for scoundrels!  It is a matter of great regret that we have no such river!  If we were living in the days of Jason, I should prescribe to you the salt-cakes of Queen Circe, which had the remarkable property of whitening blackened consciences and saving people the trouble of repenting.  Finally, if you had the happiness to belong to our holy religion, I would order you to have masses said, and to give up your goods to the Church.  But in your state as to locality, time, and belief, I know of only one way to relieve you.”

“What is it?” cried Hirsch, already kindling with hope.

We had now reached the Rothalp, and were standing in a lonely place called the Holderloch.  It is a deep dark gorge, encircled with gloomy firs; a level rock crowns the abyss, whence fall the dark waters of the Marg with roaring deep and loud.

Our path had brought us there.  I sat down upon the mossy turf to breathe the moist air which rises from the gulf, and at that very moment I espied below me a magnificent goat, reaching up to crop the wild cresses that grow on the edge of the cliff.

Let it be remembered that the rocks of the Holderloch rise in the form of successive terraces, each terrace ten feet high perhaps, but not more than a foot wide, and upon these little narrow ledges grow a thousand sweet-smelling plants—­thyme and honeysuckle, ivy and convolvulus, and the wild vine, perpetually bedewed with the spray from the falling torrent, and falling over in the loveliest clusters of bloom and foliage.

Now my goat—­an animal with a broad brow, garnished with heavy knotted curling horns, with eyes gleaming like a pair of gold buttons, a reddish beard, exhibiting a proud, defiant bearing under those festoons of verdure, and a countenance as bold as that of a prowling satyr—­my goat was making a progress upwards towards the very highest of these narrow ledges, and was enjoying a sweet repast of dainty herbs.

“Elias!” I cried, “I feel an inspiration!  Just as I was thinking of a scapegoat, there is one!  I see it!  Look!—­behold!  There he is!  Is not your course plain now?  Lay your crime upon that goat, and then forget all about it.”

Elias looked at me in stupid ignorance.

“I should like to do that, Christian, but how am I to lay my remorse upon that goat?”

“Nothing can be plainer.  What did the Romans do to get rid of their criminals, polluted with every crime?  Why they flung them off the Tarpeian rock, to be sure.  Well, having laid your imprecations upon that goat, fling him down the Holderloch, and there will be an end of it all.”