legends handed down from one generation to another, for the last six
hundred years. Reaching the crest of the topmost height, he stopped
suddenly.

"It is just the day to see the herdsmen;" and he threw down the reins,
and prepared to dismount. I stood up and looked around.

"The battle you know between the herdsmen and the monks, with Austria
to help. It was a hard battle, and the knights were whipped; and ever
since, on certain days, the herdsmen are seen armed with bows and
pikes," he continued. By this time I had taken in his meaning, and
turning my attention to the misty curtain rolling up into clouds about
the sides of the mountain, I had no difficulty in picturing the
discomfited Austrians flying from the pursuit of the hardy
mountaineers.

"It was a great battle, and they have never tried it since," and there
was a ring in the voice that sounded like the echo of Grütli.

"No wonder, if your herdsmen are still ready to keep up the fight."

"You do not see them," and he made a gesture in the direction where my
eye still lingered.

"As plainly as any body can," and I tried hard not to smile.

"It is quite true this;" and he gathered up the reins.

"I do not doubt it."