“My lord,” cried one of the trembling rowers to the governor, “we will all go to the bottom unless something is done, for there is not a man among us fit to manage a boat in this storm.  But Tell here is a skilful boatman, and it would be wise to use him in our sore need.”

“Can you bring us out of this peril?” asked Gessler, who was no less alarmed than his crew.  “If you can, I will release you from your bonds.”

“I trust, with God’s help, that I can safely bring you ashore,” answered Tell.

By Gessler’s order his bonds were then removed, and he stepped aft and took the helm, guiding the boat through the storm with the skill of a trained mariner.  He had, however, another object in view, and had no intention to let the tyrannical governor bind his free limbs again.  He bade the men to row carefully until they reached a certain rock, which appeared on the lake-side at no great distance, telling them that he hoped to land them behind its shelter.  As they drew near the spot indicated, he turned the helm so that the boat struck violently against the rock, and then, seizing the cross-bow which lay beside him, he sprang nimbly ashore, and thrust the boat with his foot back into the tossing waves.  The rock on which he landed is, says the chronicler, still known as Tell’s Rock, and a small chapel has been built upon it.

The story goes on to tell us that the governor and his rowers, after great danger, finally succeeded in reaching the shore at Brunnen, at which point they took horse and rode through the district of Schwyz, their route leading through a narrow passage between the rocks, the only way by which they could reach Kuessnach from that quarter.  On they went, the angry governor swearing vengeance against Tell, and laying plans with his followers how the runaway should be seized.  The deepest dungeon at Kuessnach, he vowed, should be his lot.

He little dreamed what ears heard his fulminations and what deadly peril threatened him.  On leaving the boat, Tell had run quickly forward to the passage, or hollow way, through which he knew that Gessler must pass on his way to the castle.  Here, hidden behind the high bank that bordered the road, he waited, cross-bow in hand, and the arrow which he had designed for the governor’s life in the string, for the coming of his mortal foe.

Gessler came, still talking of his plans to seize Tell, and without a dream of danger, for the pass was silent and seemed deserted.  But suddenly to his ears came the twang of the bow he had heard before that day; through the air once more winged its way a steel-barbed shaft, the heart of a tyrant, not an apple on a child’s head, now its mark.  In an instant more Gessler fell from his horse, pierced by Tell’s fatal shaft, and breathed his last before the eyes of his terrified servants.  On that spot, the chronicler concludes, was built a holy chapel, which is standing to this day.

Such is the far-famed story of William Tell.  How much truth and how much mere tradition there is in it, it is not easy to say.  The feat of shooting an apple from a person’s head is told of others before Tell’s time, and that it ever happened is far from sure.  But at the same time it is possible that the story of Tell, in its main features, may be founded on fact.  Tradition is rarely all fable.