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Half consciously she dropped into her story, neglected now these many days; began telling to herself, while the
yarn flew over her hands, and the fire glowed and crackled.
While yet little more than a child I met him who was thenceforth to dominate my life. It was among the Alps, in a simple châlet, humble, yet more delightful than many a turreted castle I have seen. Around were all the glories of Nature (and then I can put in a description of the sunset last night, you know), and he was like his own mountains, rugged and grand and glorious. He was my opposite in every way, though our souls were alike. (Here followed an accurate description of Atli.) Something in me it may have been my night-black tresses and starry eyes attracted him. He turned his flashing glance upon me
At this moment Atli looked up and his eyes met Honors. They did not flash, but they were very pleasant and friendly.
Perhaps mademoiselle will sing for us! he said; a song of her great country, is it not so? Last summer I guided an American Monsieur over the Weisshorn, and he sang a song of America. How was it, then? I-an-kidoodel? Mademoiselle is acquainted with that song?
Honor laughed outright; dreams and story for she was really a sensible child when not dreaming flew up the chimney.
Yankee Doodle! oh, yes! she cried. I know that; Papa taught me, and some others too.
She sang Yankee Doodle in a very sweet, fresh voice, and the Twins I was going to say cooed, but mooed would be more like it with pleasure, and demanded more. So she gave them the Suwanee River and America, to their great delight. The first, Gretli declared, melted the heart to softness, while the latter
That elevates the soul, hein ? The blood stirs, as at the sound of a trumpet. But mademoiselle must not fatigue herself. A glass of buttermilk, is it not so? Behold that I bring it, on the instant, cool, cool, from the stream!
She brought it, and stood over Honor with smiling authority.
Every drop! she commanded. It is stomachic, mademoiselle understands, and nourishing as well. Now mademoiselle shall rest, and Zitli shall tell us a story, since it is not yet bed time. Or is mademoiselle weary? On the instant I transport her
Oh, no, no! cried Honor. A story, please! I am not one scrap sleepy.
At the good hour! Attend, Zitli, till I bring my knitting! Behold, thy table! Thou talkest always best with thy tools in hand, not so? Voilà! proceed then, my son!
Zitli, with frowning brow, pondered, taking up one tool and then another, examining them minutely and laying them aside. Finally, he found one to his mind; selected a bit of wood with like care, and fell to work.
Shall it be of Pilatus? he asked; and went on without waiting for reply. Pilatus, as mademoiselle knows well, is far over yonder! He nodded toward the northeast. We cannot see it from here, but from the Dent du Midi it sees itself plainly. That mountain is always wrapped in clouds, and these clouds are sent, some say, by the other mountains round about, because they do not wish to see a place of such shame and sorrow; but others claim that the mountain himself grieves for the curse put upon him, and veils his face because of it. Which of these sayings, if either, is true, is not known to me. There plâit-il, mademoiselle ?
Honor had looked up with such evident inquiry in her eyes that the boy stopped.
I didnt mean to interrupt, she said, I only wondered what is the curse, Zitli?
Atli and Gretli were too polite to look their astonishment, but Zitli was younger; besides, he was a story-teller.
Mademoiselle does not know? he cried. In America, one is ignorant of that? Tenez , that is something of the remarkable. That mountain, mademoiselle, is accursed and has ever been so. After the death of the Saviour of Mankind the three crossed themselves devoutly Pontius Pilatus, the wicked Governor of Jerusalem, found himself so ill at ease because of the sin and remorse that was in him that he took flight from the Holy Land, and tried to hide himself, now here, now there. But everywhere he was driven out with maledictions, until he came to our beloved country, where, do you see, there were not many people in those days, and all honest Christians attending to their own affairs and minding their flocks and herds as Christians should. So no one saw that accursed one, and he took refuge on that mountain and there he has been ever since. He cannot die, because neither Heaven nor Hell will receive him. He wanders about the mountain, and wherever he goes the green herb withers and the leaves of the trees shrivel and drop off. The mountain groans and would fain be rid of him. Now it lets fall an avalanche, hoping to bury him fathoms deep and
so make an end; but the snow falls away from him on either side and leaves him bare. Now it gathers a thunderstorm and tries to strike him dead with lightning bolts, but all in vain; he opens his breast, inviting death; the bolt turns aside and will not touch him. Often has he tried to drown himself in the gloomy lake on the top of the mountain, but the waves rise and cast him on shore. So he lives, accursed of God and man.