Six months from the day he had left his home he was discharged cured.  He had not a kreutzer in his pocket; he had never drawn his wages from his employer; he had preferred to have it in a lump sum that he might astonish his family on his return.  His eyes were still weak, his memory feeble; only his great physical strength remained through his long illness.  A few sympathizing travelers furnished him the means to reach his native village, many miles away.  He found his family had heard of the loss of the Englishman and the guides, and had believed he was one of them.  Already he was forgotten.

“Ven you vos once peliefed to be det,” said Rutli, after a philosophic pause and puff, “it vos not goot to ondeceif beoples.  You oopset somedings, soomdimes always.  Der hole dot you hef made in der grount, among your frients and your family, vos covered up alretty.  You are loocky if you vill not fint some vellars shtanding upon id!  My frent, ven you vos Dink det, SHTAY det, be det, and you vill lif happy!”

“But your sweetheart?” I said eagerly.

A slight gleam of satire stole into Rutli’s light eyes.  “My sweetheart, ven I vos dinks det, is der miller engaged do bromply!  It is mooch better dan to a man dot vos boor and plint and grazy!  So!  Vell, der next day I pids dem goot-py, und from der door I say, ’I am det now; but ven I next comes pack alife, I shall dis village py! der lants, der houses all togedders.  And den for yourselluffs look oudt!’”

“Then that’s your revenge?  That is what you really intend to do?” I said, half laughing, yet with an uneasy recollection of his illness and enfeebled mind.

“Yes.  Look here!  I show you somedings.”  He opened a drawer of his desk and took out what appeared to be some diagrams, plans, and a small water-colored map, like a surveyor’s tracing.  “Look,” he said, laying his finger on the latter, “dat is a map from my fillage.  I hef myselluff made it out from my memory.  Dot,” pointing to a blank space, “is der mountain side high up, so far.  It is no goot until I vill a tunnel make or der grade lefel.  Dere vas mine fader’s house, dere vos der church, der schoolhouse, dot vos de burgomaster’s house,” he went on, pointing to the respective plots in this old curving parallelogram of the mountain shelf.  “So was the fillage when I leave him on the 5th of March, eighteen hundred and feefty.  Now you shall see him shoost as I vill make him ven I go back.”  He took up another plan, beautifully drawn and colored, and evidently done by a professional hand.  It was a practical, yet almost fairylike transformation of the same spot!  The narrow mountain shelf was widened by excavation, and a boulevard stretched on either side.  A great hotel, not unlike the one in which we sat, stood in an open terrace, with gardens and fountains—­the site of his father’s house.  Blocks of pretty dwellings, shops, and cafes filled the intermediate space.  I laid down the paper.