of the castle, and have a herald proclaim that unless the garrison
surrendered immediately, Stein would be put to death. This order was
executed; but the last words of the proclamation had scarcely been
uttered when the prisoner sternly cried,--
“Comrades, pay no heed to these summons. You were Swiss before you
became my friends; therefore be true to your country, and die rather
than relinquish your trust. But if you love me, guard well my treasure
and cast it into the lake rather than let it fall into the hands of our
enemy.”
Before the Burgundians could recover sufficient presence of mind to
silence him, this brief speech was ended, and it was clear that not a
word of it had been lost, for the garrison shouted a unanimous refusal
to yield when summoned to do so for the third and last time. Still,
when the Swiss saw their beloved chief led away to the scaffold, hot
tears poured freely down their bronzed and bearded cheeks.
Such was their respect for their master’s memory that they resisted
every attack, holding out until forged papers convinced them that Bern
was in the power of the Burgundians, and that they could expect no
help from their distressed countrymen. These false tidings determined
them to surrender the castle, provided their safety was guaranteed by
Charles the Bold.
But the gates were no sooner opened than Charles, in spite of his
promises, ordered most of these brave men cast into the lake or
hanged, sparing only a few of those who pledged themselves to serve
him faithfully. Having thus rid himself of the garrison, the Duke
next proceeded to search for Stein’s treasure, but all in vain. He
questioned the few survivors, but they truthfully declared they had
never heard of any store of gold, silver, or precious stones. Convinced
nevertheless that Stein must have owned at least one priceless jewel,
Charles bitterly regretted having slain him before ascertaining the
nature and place of concealment of that treasure.
Thinking that Laurent, keeper of the alarm tower, an old retainer of
Stein’s, might know something about it, Charles went in quest of him,
harshly threatening to pitch him into the lake, unless he immediately
revealed all he knew concerning his master’s possessions. Thus
constrained, Laurent reluctantly admitted that Stein, having spared the
life of a Mussulman, had received from this grateful man a pyramidal
diamond of fabulous value, from which hung by a slender golden chain a
huge pear-shaped pearl.
The Duke, who had a passion for diamonds, immediately ordered a new
and more minute search; but as the treasure was not forthcoming, he
renewed his visit and threats, telling Laurent he must produce the
missing jewel or die on the spot. In vain the poor man swore he had
never seen the diamond since his mistress wore it on her wedding-day;
the Duke refused to believe him, and angrily ordered him flung out of
the window! Just then, however, a panel in the wall directly opposite
Charles slipped noiselessly aside, revealing a deep niche in which
stood a beautiful, stern-faced woman, gowned all in black, but wearing
a dazzling diamond pendant. This woman stepped slowly forward, the
panel closed behind her, and the Duke started back in terror when she
threw the magnificent jewel at his feet, crying,--
“There, traitor, behold the diamond you covet; but Stein’s real
treasures, his sorrowing wife and innocent daughter, will die by their
own hand rather than fall into the power of such a miscreant as you!”
Then, before the Duke could recover sufficient presence of mind to
speak or move, the Lady of Stein vanished behind the secret panel, and
Charles could have believed himself victim of a delusion had not the
jewel still sparkled at his feet.
The Lady of Stein had vanished; but the Burgundian now learned from
Laurent that the two ladies were waiting, in the secret chambers of the
castle, for an opportunity to escape to a convent, where both intended
to take the veil, since he had broken their hearts by killing Stein.
Charles, who had an eye for beauty, promptly reasoned that the daughter
of such a handsome mother must be very lovely, and he began to devise
an excuse to see her. He therefore artfully informed Laurent that
Romont alone was to blame for Stein’s death; adding that his dearest
wish was to provide a suitable husband for Elizabeth Stein, and that,
in token of regard, he would give her her father’s jewel as wedding
present. Then he persuaded Laurent to carry a message to his stern
mistress and induce her to come down into the great hall of the castle,
where he would await her.
The Duke having departed, Laurent touched a cunningly hidden spring,
and threaded his way along secret passages which led from tower to
tower, down long, narrow stairs, and into a passageway opening out on
the lake. In one of these recesses he found his mistress, who finally
consented to appear before Charles with her seventeen-year-old daughter
Elizabeth.
The moment Charles’s eyes rested upon this lovely maiden, he was seized
with a mad passion, which he determined to gratify at any cost. His
first move was to try and gain the good graces of both women, but in
spite of all his protestations and courteous speeches, the Lady of
Stein declared he must prove his innocence by punishing her husband’s
murderer, adding that her daughter would either marry her father’s
avenger or become a nun.
On hearing these words, Charles gave immediate orders to seize Romont
and have him beheaded in the presence of both ladies. A few moments
later, therefore, the Count stood in the castle yard; but when the
executioner read aloud his death sentence, he boldly declared he
was neither a murderer nor a traitor, and that he could prove his
innocence, were the guest in his tent only allowed to appear with him
before Charles. Anxious to seem just and generous in the eyes of the
ladies, the Duke granted this request, and the brave young James of
Romont soon came in, followed by a man in full armour.
“My lord Duke,” cried Romont, “I am not a traitor! I have merely been
guilty of disobeying an order which I knew you would regret in time.
You accuse me of being Stein’s murderer; that is impossible, for,
behold! there he stands!”
At that moment the stranger to whom Romont pointed threw up his
vizor, and both ladies rapturously flew into his arms, thus proving
his unmistakable identity. The first outburst of emotion over, Stein
told his wife and daughter how generously Romont had treated him, and
Charles winced when he heard them express their undying gratitude, and
saw the glances exchanged by the young people, who had fallen in love
with each other at first sight.
To rid himself of the youthful saviour who found such evident favour in
Elizabeth’s eyes, Charles now sternly ordered Romont back to prison,
saying he must prove himself innocent of the charge of treachery which
had also been brought against him.
Sure of speedy acquittal,--for he was the soul of honour,--Romont
quietly allowed himself to be led away to a dungeon, where he beguiled
the weary hours by long day-dreams, and by composing and singing tender
love-songs in praise of the fair Elizabeth.
In the meantime, Charles led the Stein family to his own camp, where
he assigned them sumptuous tents, and surrounded them with all manner
of graceful attentions. But in spite of all his efforts to win their
confidence, Stein and his wife could not help suspecting he was not
so good and true as he would fain appear. For this reason they both
watched carefully over their daughter, and the Duke could not secure a
moment’s private intercourse with her, although he frequently tried to
do so.
This watchfulness vexed Charles greatly; for while he loved the girl,
he had no intention of marrying her, but he knew her parents would
detect his evil intentions should he approach her through them.
One day, he accidentally learned that Romont managed to send love-songs
to the fair Elizabeth, and that her parents unconsciously encouraged
her secret passion for the young prisoner by speaking of him in terms
of the highest praise. Thinking he might perchance win Elizabeth by
working upon her fears for Romont’s safety, the Duke now informed Stein
that he would forgive and release the prisoner, provided Elizabeth
interceded in his behalf, and if he were allowed to make sure of her
real sentiments in a private interview.
Although loath to lose sight of his daughter even for a minute, Stein
felt too deeply in Romont’s debt to refuse this apparently simple
request, and himself conducted Elizabeth to the Duke’s tent, where he
bade her enter while he mounted guard at the door.
The timid Elizabeth therefore presented herself alone before Charles,
who gently reassured her, and then explained that if she would only
consent to be his, Romont should be released, but that if she refused,
the young man should be put to death.
At first the virtuous Elizabeth could not credit her ears, but when the
Duke drew near as if to clasp her in his arms, she fled to her father
crying--
“Take me away, father! The poor prisoner we love will have to die, but
I know he would rather lose his life than see me dishonoured!”
Stein gnashed his teeth on hearing these words, which more than
confirmed his darkest suspicions; and while he gently led his weeping
daughter back to her mother, he tried to plan how best to avenge this
deadly insult.
In the meantime, the Duke feverishly paced his tent, and calling for
his confidant asked him what course he could pursue to recover the
maiden’s confidence and still attain his evil ends. This man, whose
task it was to gratify the Duke’s passions, now artfully suggested that
Charles should declare he had merely wished to test Elizabeth’s virtue,
and should propose to her parents that she marry Romont without delay.
Then, under pretext of sparing the latter the hard duty of fighting
against his wife’s people, Charles was to dismiss Romont from the army.
But while he thus openly posed as the young people’s friend and
benefactor, one of his emissaries was to persuade a few of the camp
followers that Romont was a traitor, and instigate them to create a
disturbance when the bridal party left the church. In the midst of the
confusion a hired assassin could easily kill Romont; and the Duke,
in pretending to avenge his death and protect Elizabeth, would gain
possession of his vast estates and of his young widow, who would then
be at his mercy.
This artful plan so pleased Charles that he immediately hastened to the
Steins’ tent, where he played his part with such consummate skill that
they believed all he said, and joyfully consented to their daughter’s
immediate marriage.
The preparations were speedily made, and the nuptials solemnised; but
as the little procession left the church, Stein and the Duke were
detained for a moment by a man with a petition.
Romont, proudly leading his peerless young bride, on whose bosom
sparkled the famous diamond, suddenly found himself surrounded by a
brawling troop of soldiers, who angrily shook their fists at him and
denounced him as a traitor. Before he could speak one word in his own
defence, the hired assassin sprang forward with raised dagger, crying,
“Die, thou traitor!”
Just then Elizabeth sprang forward, and the sharp blade had to pass
through her slender body before it could touch Romont. A scene of
indescribable confusion ensued; but although Romont swiftly carried his
dying bride into her mother’s tent, where every care was lavished upon
her, she lived only long enough to whisper, “I die happy since I could
save you, beloved!” and gently breathed her last.
When the fatal truth dawned upon the frantic bridegroom, he fell
fainting across his dead bride; and it was only then that they
discovered that he too had been wounded, for his doublet was drenched
with blood. Nobly forgetting her own sorrow to minister to her
husband’s saviour, the Lady of Stein nursed Romont so carefully that in
spite of his longing to follow Elizabeth’s pure spirit into the better
land, he was soon restored to health. But he never forgot his bride,
and when her parents ultimately died, he left his own country to take
up his abode in a foreign land.
As for the Duke, he was sorely punished for all his crimes. Not only
did he lose Elizabeth, whom he passionately loved; but a few days after
her death he was defeated by her countrymen at the battle of Grandson.
Such was the fury of that Swiss onslaught, that Charles would have
fallen into their hands had not his fleet steed swiftly carried him out
of their reach. A few months later he suffered a second crushing defeat
at their hands at Morat; and he was slain near Nancy, in the following
year, while trying to escape from his Swiss foes for the third and last
time.
FRIBOURG
The city of Fribourg, capital of the canton of the same name, is
picturesquely situated on a rocky height almost surrounded by the
Sarine, one of the tributaries of the Aare. A mediæval town, it boasts
of many interesting relics, while in its cathedral stands the great
modern organ known the world over.
When Charles the Bold experienced his second appalling defeat at Morat,
in 1476, one of the Swiss soldiers volunteered to carry the joyful
tidings to Fribourg, his native city. Although he had fought bravely
and was very weary after his almost superhuman efforts, he snatched
a green twig from a neighbouring lime-tree, stuck it in his hat so
that his people could see from afar this sign of victory, and quickly
started for home. Tradition claims that he ran every step of the
way; the fact is, he reached the city so exhausted that he sank down
lifeless as soon as the one word “Victory” had escaped from his parched
lips.
His fellow-citizens were so proud of this victory, and of the messenger
who brought the news so quickly to them, that they planted the
lime twig on the very spot where he had fallen. There it throve and
grew, until it is now a mighty tree, with a boll fourteen feet in
circumference; and it still serves as a green monument of this famous
triumph of the Swiss army.
The whole valley of the Sarine and its tributaries is most picturesque,
and the soil so fertile that it supports countless heads of the finest
cattle in the world. After passing the quaint little mediæval town of
Romont, with its old castle and fortifications, you come to a hill in
the middle of the Sarine valley on which rises the famous castle of
Gruyère, recently restored, and now one of the most beautiful show
places in Switzerland.
The view from Gruyère is most charming, and includes not only the
winding course of the Sarine, and the green hills dotted with the
herds,--which furnish the renowned Swiss or Gruyère cheese,--but beyond
rise rocky pine-clad mountains, the most important of which is the
Moléson.
The founding of the castle of Gruyère is attributed to Gruerius, a
captain in the Thebaid legion, who, escaping martyrdom in the days of
Diocletian, fled into the mountains. After threading his way through
the dense forests which then clothed these grassy hills, he finally
reached the point where the castle now stands. There, helped by other
fugitive Christians, he began to clear away the primeval forest, and
founded the castle and town which bear his name.
Gruyère thus became the cradle of a new race, which, constantly
increasing in wealth and power, soon ruled over a vast extent of land
peopled by many vassals. The Counts of Gruyère were in general good
masters; and the land, carefully tilled by their dependants, grew more
and more productive, until many villages dotted the country, while the
tinkle of cow-bells was heard for miles around.
In the days of the Crusades, many knights passed this castle on their
way to the Holy Land; and the Counts of Gruyère, assuming the cross
too, joined them with the fatalistic cry, “Go we must, return who may!”
(“S’agit d’aller, reviendra qui pourra!”)
In spite of their wealth and extensive possessions, the Counts of
Gruyère were none too well informed, for we are told they naïvely asked
their companions whether the sea they had to cross on their way to
Palestine could possibly be as large as the stretch of water they had
seen in making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Lucerne.
Toward the end of the fourteenth century, Margaret, Countess of
Gruyère, was very sad, because, although she had already been married
several years, Providence had not yet vouchsafed her a child. In
her anxiety to obtain offspring, this fair Countess consulted the
astrologers and other fortune-tellers who visited the castle; but as
their promises afforded her very little satisfaction, she soon resorted
to pilgrimages, fasting, and long seasons of fervent prayer.
All the pilgrims who stopped at the castle, on their way to and from
the shrines at Einsiedlen and Lucerne, were entertained with the utmost
hospitality at Gruyère, and when they departed the Countess invariably
loaded them with gifts, gently begging them to intercede for her when
they reached the goal of their pilgrimage.
Garbed like a nun, in the plainest of homespun dresses, the Countess
diligently visited the poor and sick, helped the needy, and was so good
and charitable to all that she was revered throughout the country like
a saint. Besides, every night and morning, she spent hours on her knees
in the castle chapel, imploring the Virgin and all the saints to grant
her her heart’s desire.
One evening, when twilight was fast merging into darkness, she still
lingered there on her knees, weeping bitterly because hitherto all her
prayers had remained unanswered. Absorbed in sorrowful thoughts, and
uttering broken words of supplication between her sobs, the Countess
failed to notice the entrance of a lame beggar who had often been the
recipient of her bounty.
The sound of suppressed weeping and convulsive prayer soon attracted
the beggar’s attention, and peering through the gloom,--which the
taper burning on the altar only seemed to intensify,--he soon descried
a woman clad in rough homespun. Lame Hans, whose sorest trial was an
occasional lack of food, immediately concluded that this poor woman
must be needy, and catching the word “children,” he hastily drew some
coarse bread and cheese out of his wallet, and laid it beside her,
saying,--
“This is all I have, my poor woman, but the Holy Virgin’s blessing
resting upon it will enable it to dry your tears.”
Then, before the astonished Countess could say a word, the lame man
hobbled off; and although he went to bed hungry, he felt a warm glow in
the region of his heart whenever he pictured the zest with which the
hungry children would devour his bread and cheese.
The Countess came out of the chapel a few moments after Hans, and as
she returned to her apartments her servants marvelled at the radiant
expression of her face, although it bore marks of recent tears. They
were still more surprised when they saw her come forth in her richest
apparel to welcome her husband and his friends on their return from
the chase. Their amazement was shared by the hunters, who gazed with
unconcealed wonder at the hostess whom they had left in the morning
pale, silent, and dejected, but who now seemed radiant with life and
hope.
Her unwonted vivacity charmed both husband and guests; and when toward
the end of the evening meal she begged leave to lay before them a new
dish, they all received the proposal with joyful acclamations. At a
sign from the fair châtelaine, her aged nurse and favourite page then
brought in two covered silver dishes, which they gravely set before
their master.
All eyes were riveted on these vessels when the Count of Gruyère
simultaneously raised both covers; and his expression of disappointment
was mirrored on every face, when instead of choice dainties nothing
was seen but the coarse bread and cheese of the peasant population.
Interrogative glances were therefore soon directed to the Countess,
who with charming grace and simplicity related her adventure in the
chapel and repeated the lame beggar’s words. She concluded by saying
that she now believed her prayers would be answered, and begged all
present to partake with her of the food which had come to her in such
a strange way. Touched by the tale she told, one and all solemnly
ate the bread and cheese she gave them; but her old nurse laid her
share carefully aside, saying she would partake of it only when her
mistress’s dearest wish had been fulfilled.
Then the castle chaplain arose, filled all the beakers with wine,
blessed them as solemnly as if he were about to celebrate a communion
service, and all drank to the health of the gracious Countess and the
speedy coming of a son and heir to the castle of Gruyère.
Within a year from that day the Stork brought a beautiful boy to the
Countess, and at his christening feast many noble guests merrily drank
his health. The Countess, radiant with happiness, bestowed bountiful
alms upon all the poor, giving lame Hans a new suit of clothes, and a
pension to prevent his ever feeling the pangs of hunger again.
In the midst of this feast the old nurse came in and solemnly ate her
carefully treasured share of Hans’s bread and cheese. Then she made a
deep curtsey to her mistress, saying,--
“Gracious Lady, you see it is just as I always told you. To the one who
gives freely, much will be given. May God preserve you and your husband
and grant your son a long, happy, and useful life at Gruyère!”
* * * * *
FROM the castle and town of Gruyère one can enjoy a fine view of
the Moléson, the highest peak in that region, from whose summit can
be seen the Lake of Geneva with Mont Blanc, the Dent du Midi, and
the Diablerets to the south. West and east are the Jura and Titlis
mountains, while to the north extends the fertile valley of the Sarine.
Here on the Moléson, as well as on most mountain pastures in
Switzerland, you can often hear the famous Ranz des Vaches, Kuhreihen,
or musical call, which the cattle no sooner hear than they crowd around
their herdsmen.
This melody, repeated by the echoes, and accompanied by the ripple and
splash of running waters, the tintinnabulations of cow-bells, and the
lowing of the kine, has a peculiar charm for all who hear it, and in
words runs about as follows:--
“The herdsmen of the Colombettes
At the dawn of day have risen;
Ha, ah! ha, ah!
Cows, cows, to the milking come!
Come here, all of you.
White ones and black ones,
Red and brindled,
Young ones, old ones,
Under this oak-tree,
Where I will milk you;
Under this poplar,
Where I will drain you!
Cows, cows! to the milking come!”[1]
[1] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.
The Moléson was long the favourite field of the chamois-hunters in
Fribourg. One of these men having been overtaken by darkness high up on
the mountain, once sought refuge in a deserted herdsmen’s hut. Drawing
near it, he was surprised to hear the tinkle of bells, the lowing and
stamping of cattle, and the voices of herdsmen, for he knew the cows
had already left the high pastures. Entering the hut, he was further
amazed to see four queer, wizened-looking men, whose thumb and first
and second fingers were missing. Besides, one of these men was lame,
the second hunchbacked, the third had but one eye, and the fourth was
apparently a leper.
These men signed to him to take a seat near the fire, where they were
busy making green cheese, of which, however, they had already a large
store in the hut.
The hunchback herdsman offered the guest bread and meat which looked
so unpalatable that the hunter took but one mouthful and set the food
aside, muttering that they must have forgotten the salt when preparing
it. This remark so incensed his hosts that they began to gnash their
teeth, and came toward him making such threatening gestures that in
sudden terror the hunter made a sign of the cross. At that moment
herdsmen, cheese, cows, and fire vanished, and the chamois-hunter found
himself alone in the deserted hut.