Rudolf von Hapsburg’s many possessions included an old castle on the Ramflue, which, although it is said to have been founded by the Romans, was known as Neu Hapsburg. Charmingly located on the banks of the Lake of Lucerne, this castle was a favourite resort of Rudolf, who went thither, in the intervals of fighting, to hunt the chamois and the deer.

Tradition claims that Rudolf once set out for the chase from Neu Hapsburg, mounted upon his favourite steed, and followed by one squire, who rode an inferior horse, and therefore had some trouble in keeping up with his rapid pace. While crossing a beautiful green meadow, Rudolf’s attention was suddenly attracted by a tinkling sound. His curiosity aroused, he spurred ahead in the direction of the noise, and soon beheld a priest carrying the Sacrament, and preceded by a sacristan dutifully ringing a little bell.

At this sight, Rudolf immediately dismounted. Then, kneeling, he did respectful homage to the Blessed Body of our Lord, and in that humble posture watched the little procession pass along its way. A few moments later, he sprang up surprised, for the priest had come to a sudden standstill. After a brief period of evident hesitation, Rudolf saw him set the Host down upon a neighbouring stone, and begin to remove his sandals and gird up his cassock. Hastening toward him, Rudolf perceived that recent heavy rains had so swollen the mountain torrent which flowed through the meadow, that the rude bridge had been entirely swept away. No other means of crossing being available for many miles, the priest had determined to wade through the ice-cold waters, for that was his only chance of reaching the dying man who had begged for the last sacrament.

After vainly trying to dissuade the priest from a struggle with the cold and rushing stream, Rudolf, impressed by the good man’s devotion to duty, suddenly offered him his steed. The priest demurred at first, but realising he might not reach his parishioner in time if he had to wade through every torrent, he gratefully accepted the offer. Rudolf then helped him mount the fiery steed, and, once safely across the torrent, saw him speed away to the dying man, whom he reached just in time to bestow the last consolations of religion and thus smooth his path to the grave.

In the meantime, Rudolf patiently awaited the coming of his squire, then mounting the latter’s palfrey went on his way. But, early next morning, the priest appeared at Neu Hapsburg, leading the borrowed steed by the bridle, and he warmly expressed his gratitude for the timely loan of a mount whose strength and speed had enabled him to reach and comfort a dying man. When he added, however, that he had come to restore the animal to its owner, Rudolf impetuously cried: “God forbid that I, or any of my men, should ever use again for war or the chase the steed which bore the sacred Body and Blood of our Blessed Lord!” Then he formally presented the horse to the priest, to have and to hold for ever, bidding him use it for the fulfilment of his holy duties.

Later, on that selfsame day, Rudolf visited a convent, where a nun suddenly addressed him saying: “My lord, you honoured the Almighty by the timely gift of your horse. This good deed will not remain unrewarded, for it has been revealed to me that you and yours will attain the highest temporal honors.”

The castle of Neu Hapsburg was destroyed by the inhabitants of Lucerne in 1352, but since then the peasants have declared that the ruins are haunted by the spirits of departed knights and ladies. A peasant girl, rowing past there early in the morning and late at night, said she often saw a gayly dressed company. Sometimes the knights and ladies made friendly signs to her, but at others the men were all in armour and terrified her by their threatening gestures. Encouraged by their signs, she once stepped ashore to watch them play on the grassy slope with disks of bright gold, which she vainly tried to catch in her apron and carry home.

The nun’s prediction to Rudolf was duly fulfilled, for the priest who had received his steed, having become chaplain to the Bishop of Mayence, used his influence to such good purpose that he secured Rudolf’s election to the imperial crown of Germany, in 1273. Schiller, in his poem “The Count of Habsburg,” claims that at the coronation feast at Aix-la-Chapelle an aged minstrel brought tears to the eyes of all the guests by singing a touching ballad, describing the good deed performed by the new emperor, when he was only a count.

Rudolf proved as successful as ambitious while seated on the German throne, but as the imperial crown was elective and not hereditary, he secured for his descendants Austria, Styria, and Carinthia. These lands were won during a war with the king of Bohemia, and have ever since formed the patrimony of the Hapsburg race, which has provided many rulers for Europe, America, and India.

When Rudolf died in 1291, the imperial crown was disputed by two candidates, until, by the death of one of them, it finally fell into the hands of Albert of Hapsburg, Rudolf’s son. As grasping and tyrannical as any of his race, Albert refused to let his nephew John—the son of an older brother—have the Castle of Hapsburg, which was his by right of inheritance. Embittered by this act of injustice, and despairing of redress since the wrong was committed by the emperor himself, John began to plot with several malcontents, biding his time until he could take his revenge by slaying his uncle.

John was not the only one who complained of injustice. The freemen of Helvetia also had good cause for resentment. On mounting the imperial throne, Rudolf had refused to confirm Uri’s charter, and his bailiffs and stewards ruthlessly exerted the power entrusted to them. Thus, they gradually alienated the peaceful peasants, and drove them to the verge of despair. Mindful of their former independence, and weary of tyranny and extortion, the principal citizens of the cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald met, seventeen days after Rudolf’s death, and on the 1st of August, 1291, took a solemn oath to stand by each other and resist all foreign intervention, until they had recovered their former freedom. This oath—the corner-stone of the Swiss Confederation—was duly sworn by all the principal inhabitants, among which figure men whose names are noted in legend as well as in history.

Tradition has richly supplemented the meagre historical data of this epoch, thus giving us one of the most romantic, if not authentic, chapters of Swiss history. The legend, which gradually arose, has been the theme of Schiller’s tragedy of “William Tell,” of Rossini’s opera of the same name, and a source of inspiration for countless poems, pictures, and statues. Such is the popular belief in the tale, that all the most famous places mentioned in it are always pointed out to strangers, and kept alive in the memory of the public by more or less picturesque monuments.

The famous Tell legend runs as follows: The stewards and bailiffs of the House of Austria, encouraged by immunity, daily grew more and more cruel, until, under the slightest pretext, they thrust Swiss freemen into damp and dark prisons, keeping them there for life. Fearful stories of the heartlessness of these bailiffs were noised abroad, and no one could speak strongly enough of their greed, cruelty, and total lack of principle.

The Swiss bore this oppression as patiently as they could, and until their position became so unbearable that they perceived they must assert and maintain their rights to freedom, or they would soon be reduced to a state of such abject slavery as to be deprived of all power of resistance. Walter Fürst, Arnold von Melchthal, and Werner Stauffacher, the wealthiest and most respected citizens of the cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, therefore met to discuss the advisability of an uprisal, and, in support of their views, quoted recent acts of wanton cruelty perpetrated by Austrian bailiffs. For instance, one of these men had grievously insulted the wife of a peaceful citizen, who, to defend her, slew the oppressor and was now a hunted fugitive.

A young man of Uri was told he must surrender the fine team of oxen with which he was ploughing, because the bailiff wanted them. As the messenger coolly proceeded to taunt him and unyoke his oxen, the young peasant, in a frantic effort to save the cattle, dealt a blow which raised a terrible outcry among the bailiff’s servants. Knowing that such an offence would be punished by life-long imprisonment in some foul dungeon, if not by prolonged torture and cruel death, the young man hastily fled. But the blow so thoughtlessly given was visited upon his aged father, whose eyes were put out by order of the vindictive bailiff.

Countless other examples of fiendish cruelty and wanton oppression were not lacking, and when the three men parted, it was with the understanding that they were to ascertain how many of their countrymen were willing to help them. They furthermore arranged to meet again, October 17, 1307, on the Grütli or Rütli, a plateau at the foot of the Seelisberg, close by the Mythenstein, on the Lake of Lucerne.

One moonlight night, therefore, three bands of ten picked men, led by Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal wended their way to the Grütli, and there beneath the open sky, and in sight of the snow-crowned mountains tipped by the first glow of dawn, the leaders, clasping hands, raised three fingers to heaven. In that position they solemnly swore to shake off the yoke of the oppressor, their motto being, “One for all and all for one.” This oath was fervently echoed by the thirty companions they had brought thither, and ere they parted all agreed to be ready to rise at a given signal on New Year’s Day, to drive the tyrants out of the land for ever.

On the traditional spot where the Swiss patriots stood while registering this solemn oath, three springs of crystal clear water are said to have sprung. The legend further claims that in one of the clefts of the Seelisberg the patriots sit, wrapped in slumbers which will remain undisturbed until their country again has need of their services.

Swiss peasants say that the Three Tells—for such is their popular designation—have been seen several times. A young shepherd, for instance, seeking a stray goat, once came to the entrance of this mysterious cave, and beheld three men fast asleep. While staring in speechless amazement at their old-fashioned garb and venerable faces, one of the sleepers suddenly awoke and asked, “What time is it up in the world?”

“High noon,” stammered the shepherd, remembering that the sun stood directly overhead when he entered the cave.

“Then it is not yet time for us to appear,” drowsily remarked the aged man, dropping off to sleep again.

The shepherd gazed in silent awe upon the three Tells, then, stealing noiselessly out of the cave, carefully marked the spot, so he could find it again when he wished to return. These precautions were vain, however, for he and his companions searched every nook and cranny in the mountain, without ever being able to find the entrance to the cave of the Swiss Sleepers. But the natives declare that some simple herdsman may again stumble upon it by accident, and many believe that the guardians of their country’s liberties will come forth to defend them in case of need.

Among the patriots who took the oath upon the Rütli, was a man named Tell, son-in-law of Walter Fürst, and noted far and wide for his skill as a marksman. Strong and sure-footed, Tell delighted in pursuing the chamois over almost inaccessible heights, and along the jagged edges of dangerous precipices, where a moment’s dizziness or a single misstep would have hurled him down on the rocks hundreds of feet below. Tell lived, with his wife and two little sons, in a hut at Bürglen, in Uri, on the very spot where a chapel was built in his honour in 1522.

It came to pass, shortly after the patriots had met on the Grütli, and before the time set for their uprisal, that Gessler, an Austrian bailiff, one of whose castles rose in sight of Hapsburg, determined to ascertain by a clever device how many men in Uri were loyal to his master. He therefore set up a pole in the market-place at Altorf, upon which he hung a hat,—the emblem of Austrian power,—bidding a herald proclaim aloud that all must do homage to it under penalty of death or life-long imprisonment.

The freemen of Uri were justly incensed when they heard this decree, and by common consent avoided passing through the square. When compelled to do so, they resorted to various stratagems to avoid obeying Gessler’s orders without forfeiting life or liberty. One of their devices was to send the priest to take up his position with the Host directly under the obnoxious Austrian emblem. Of course, all who now passed by reverently bent the knee; but it was quite evident, even to the guards, that the homage was paid to the Sacrament alone, and not to the imperial hat.

Living only a short distance from Altorf, but ignorant of all that had recently happened there, Tell came down to the village one day, leading his little son by the hand. Unconscious alike of pole, hat, and guards, he strolled across the square, and was greatly surprised to find himself suddenly arrested for defying Gessler’s orders. While protesting his innocence, and striving to make the guards release him, Tell saw Gessler ride by; so, turning toward him, he loudly called for justice. The bailiff immediately drew near, and standing in the midst of the crowd composed of his attendants and of the startled inhabitants of Altorf, he sneeringly listened to Tell’s account of his unjust arrest.

Now, it happened that Gessler had often heard Tell’s skill as a marksman loudly praised, and that he had long wished to see an exhibition of it. He therefore seized this opportunity for gratifying both his curiosity and his cruelty, and promised to set the prisoner free, if he shot an apple from the head of his child at a distance of one hundred and fifty paces.

At these words a murmur of indignation arose in the crowd, but such was the fear inspired by the cruel Gessler that none ventured to interfere in behalf of Tell, whose prayers and protestations proved alike vain. Seeing no other means of escape, and urged by his child, who of his own accord ran to place himself against a linden-tree on the spot where the fountain now stands, Tell tremblingly selected two arrows from his quiver. One he hastily thrust in his bosom, the other he carefully adjusted in his crossbow; but when he would fain have taken aim, the weapon fell from his nerveless hand. Still, a sneer from the bailiff, and an encouraging call from his boy, steeled Tell’s heart for this awful test of skill. A moment later the child came bounding forward, proudly exhibiting the apple transfixed by his father’s dart.

Just as Tell, still dazed by emotion, was about to turn away, Gessler called him back to inquire why he had drawn two arrows from his quiver, when only one shot was required to prove his proficiency. Tell hesitated; but when Gessler assured him that he could speak without any fear for his life, he hoarsely answered,—

“Had I injured my child, this arrow would have found its goal in your heart, for my hand would not have trembled a second time!”

Beside himself with rage at these bold words, Gessler now bade his guards bind Tell fast, and convey him immediately down to his waiting boat at Flühlen, adding that while he would keep his promise not to kill Tell, he would nevertheless thrust him into a dungeon where neither sun nor moon would ever shine upon him, and where snakes would prey upon his living body.

Placed in the boat, with fast-bound hands and feet, his useless weapons close beside him, Tell despairingly watched the bailiff embark and the shore near Altorf slowly recede. But when the rowers tried to round the Axenstein, a sudden tempest swept down on the lake, whipping its waters to foam, and bringing skiff and passengers in such imminent danger that there seemed no hope of escape. The boatmen, remembering that Tell was the most clever steersman on the lakeside, now implored Gessler to let him help, and the prisoner, freed from his bonds, quickly seized the rudder.

With strong arm and fearless gaze he stood there, and boldly directed the boat toward a broad ledge of rock forming a natural landing-place at the foot of the Axenberg, at a point where the lake is nearly seven hundred feet deep.

As the boat drew near this place, Tell suddenly let go the rudder, and seizing his bow and arrows, sprang ashore! This spot, since known as Tellsplatte, is one of the most interesting sites on the Lake of Lucerne, and in the chapel commemorating this feat there are several paintings representing various phases of the legend.

Gessler’s boat, hurled back among the seething waves, tossed about in great danger, although his boatmen now made frantic efforts to save their own lives. Dreading the bailiff’s vengeance should he manage to escape, Tell hastened over the mountains to the Hohle Gasse, or Hollow Way, a narrow road between Küssnacht and Immensee, along which Gessler would have to pass to reach home.

There, crouching in the bushes on the steep bank, Tell patiently waited to see whether his enemy would escape from the perils of the storm. Before long the bailiff appeared, riding at the head of his troop, and evidently meditating in what way he could best effect his revenge upon Tell. His wicked plans were all cut short, however, for an arrow from Tell’s bow put a sudden end to his tyrannical career. The spot where Tell stood and where Gessler fell has long been marked by a small chapel, decorated with a painting representing this scene. After ascertaining that Gessler was really dead, Tell fled, making his way back to Bürglen, where he cheered friends and family by the assurance that the tyrant could never trouble them again.

The story of Swiss independence and of Tell’s brave deeds has been so ably dramatised by Schiller, that a grateful people have carved his name on the Mythenstein, where it may be seen by passengers on the boats constantly plying to and fro on the Lake of Lucerne.

Besides the three picturesque chapels known by the name of Tell, where anniversary services are held every year, and the huge statue erected at Altorf, on the very spot where he shot the apple from the head of his son, Tell’s name has been honoured in poetry, painting, sculpture, and song. His death was on a par with the rest of his life, for when far advanced in age, he fearlessly sprang into the Schächen to save a drowning child. The sudden plunge into the ice-cold waters of this mountain stream, and the great exertion required to stem its current, so enfeebled the old man that he soon died.

Tradition claims that Gessler’s cruel treatment of Tell precipitated historical events, for when the men of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald heard that Gessler was dead, they gave the agreed signal for a general uprising. Then they simultaneously attacked all the Austrian bailiffs, slew or drove them away, and razed their castles to the ground, after freeing their captive countrymen.

This rebellion roused the wrath of the Emperor Albert, who immediately set out from Hapsburg Castle to put it down with a heavy hand. But while crossing the Reuss, in full view of his castle and retainers, Albert was murdered by his nephew John and by four Swiss noblemen, the only persons who were with him. Then the murderers fled, leaving the emperor to breathe his last in the arms of a peasant woman who happened to be near.

It is said that, wandering among the mountains, John finally reached Tell’s cottage at Bürglen, where he stopped to beg food. Here he confessed what he had done, and was sternly reproved by Tell, who proved to him that murdering a relative in revenge for personal injuries and for the sake of selfish gain, was very different from killing a tyrant in self-defence and for the good of one’s country.

All but one of Albert’s murderers escaped justice; but not content with slaying that victim in the most barbarous way, his wife and daughter persecuted all the friends and relatives of those who had taken part in the crime. More than a thousand of these unfortunates are said to have perished, and it is claimed that Agnes, the emperor’s daughter, personally superintended some of the executions, and rapturously exclaimed, “Now I am bathing in May dew!” when she saw their blood flow in torrents.

On the spot where Albert died—the site of the old Roman Vindonissa—his widow and daughter erected the famous Abbey of Königsfelden, which was richly decorated with historical paintings and stained-glass windows. About two centuries later the abbey was secularised, and it is now used as an insane asylum; but the principal objects of interest there are still shown to admiring tourists.

Albert was succeeded by two emperors who, not belonging to the Hapsburg race, were inclined to help the Swiss. But their brief reigns having come to an end, another Hapsburg was raised to the imperial throne, and on the 15th of November, 1315, made a determined attempt to conquer the Swiss. The latter, however, were lying in wait for his army, which they suddenly attacked while it was hemmed in between Lake Ægeri and the mountain at Morgarten. Far from expecting such an impetuous onslaught, the imperial forces, notwithstanding all their boasted panoply of war, were completely routed by an inferior number of poorly armed patriots. The latter, impelled by long-pent fury for all the wrongs they had endured at the hands of the Austrians, fairly swept them into the lake, where many of the knights were drowned.

Ever since then, at midnight on the anniversary of the battle, it is said the lake suddenly begins to boil, and that its seething waters assume a bloody hue. Then, from the depths of the lake, the spirits of all these drowned warriors arise, still clad in full armour and bestriding their huge battle steeds. Led by Death on his pale horse, brandishing his scythe and hour-glass, the dead knights march in solemn procession around the lake, plunging back into its waters when the clocks in the neighbouring villages strike one.

A memorial chapel, containing a painting representing the famous encounter at Morgarten, marks the spot where the battle was fought, and solemn anniversary services are held there every year. This memorable victory won so many adherents for the Swiss in their own land, that before long the Confederation numbered eight instead of three cantons.

Seventy years after Morgarten, the Austrians made a second attempt to conquer the Swiss, but they were again defeated at Sempach, on the lake of the same name, near Lucerne. At first it seemed as if this battle would prove fatal to the Swiss, for the Austrians were armed with long pikes, which enabled them to make havoc in the ranks of their opponents, whose weapons were too short to reach them.

Perceiving his companions fall around him, without being able to strike a single blow, Arnold von Winkelried suddenly determined to break the enemy’s ranks. Calling loudly to his friends to look after his wife and children, this hero seized an armful of the long Austrian spears, and driving them into his own breast, fell, crying, “Make way for liberty!” His countrymen, pouring into the breach he had thus made at the expense of his life, attacked the enemy with such fury that they soon won a brilliant victory.

The battle of Sempach is commemorated by a monument, upon which stands the simple inscription: “Hier hat Winkelried den seinen eine Gasse gemacht.” 1386. (Winkelried here made a way for his friends).

At Stanz, in Unterwald, the birthplace of Winkelried, a fine statue represents his heroic death. The Austrian spears clasped in a last embrace, he turns his dying glance upon his countrymen, urging them to rush over his prostrate body against their country’s foe. On the anniversary of the battle a ghostly voice is heard in the castle at Richensee, dolefully calling, “Conrad! Conrad!” In answer to this cry, a knight in black armour, with ghastly wounds in head and breast, suddenly appears on the ruined tower, and as though responding to a roll-call, gruffly answers, “Here, Austria!”

This apparition is said to be a lord of the castle, who fell at Sempach, fighting for Austria as bravely as one of his ancestors who lost his life in that cause at Morgarten.

An outpost of the mighty Alps, Mount Pilatus, on the boundary of the cantons of Lucerne and Unterwald, is one of the most picturesque features of that region.

In the days of Roman occupation a light-house (lucerna) is said to have shone on the spot where the Wasserthurm now stands, and to have given its name to canton, lake, and town. At that epoch Mount Pilatus was known as Mons Fractus, Fracmont, or the Broken Mountain, owing to the jagged crag-like appearance of its summit. This descriptive name, however, was gradually supplanted by another, equally appropriate, that height—seldom free from clouds—being called Mons Pileatus, or the Capped Mountain. Every storm coming from the north or west gathers around this majestic peak, which serves as a natural barometer for all the people dwelling within sight of it. According to a very old and equally popular rhyme, the weather probabilities are that the day will be fair if the clouds merely rest upon the mountain top; when they extend part way down, it is well to be prepared for sudden changes; but should trails of mist reach far down Pilatus’ rugged sides, it is considered an infallible sign of a coming storm. In its oldest form this rhyme runs:—

In the course of time this jingle has undergone sundry modifications, until the English version now reads:—

With the introduction of Christianity, and the substitution of the vernacular for the Latin language, the original meaning of pileatus was entirely forgotten. The natives therefore soon began to claim that the mountain was named after Pontius Pilate, the unscrupulous governor of Judea who sentenced our Saviour to death. Little by little this belief gave rise to the picturesque legend connected with this locality, which, owing to numerous accretions, is singularly complete and interesting.

In the second century after Christ, there already existed an apocryphal Epistle of Pilate, containing his account of the trial and condemnation of Jesus Christ.11 Warned by his wife, Procla, who had “suffered many things in a dream because of him,” and by sundry miracles enumerated in his epistle, Pilate, convinced of the divine origin as well as of the innocence of the Prisoner brought before him, nevertheless weakly yielded to the threats of a few among the Jews, and condemned our Lord to an ignominious death. A moral coward, Pilate next sought to escape the natural consequences of his pusillanimous compliance by publicly washing his hands, and solemnly crying, “I am innocent of the blood of this just person; see ye to it.”

Pilate’s report and various other rumours concerning the death and resurrection of Christ, together with frequent bitter complaints of extortion and misgovernment, finally reached the ears of Tiberius. Moved by anger and curiosity, this emperor immediately summoned the accused official to Rome to render a minute account of his stewardship. But before Pilate could reach the Eternal City, Tiberius died and was succeeded by Caligula, who, equally incensed against the faithless governor, loudly boasted that he would make very short work of his trial. The Roman courtiers were therefore seized with unbounded astonishment when they beheld their savage master treat Pontius Pilate with every mark of extreme courtesy, and heard the mild and gentle tones in which he addressed him. But no sooner had Pilate left the tribunal than all Caligula’s wrath flamed up anew, and he peremptorily ordered the delinquent governor to be brought in again.

When Pilate stood before his irate judge, the latter, suddenly and mysteriously soothed, once more overwhelmed him with tokens of the highest favour instead of punishing him as he wished. The courtiers’ wonder grew apace, nor did it diminish when, after Pilate’s second exit, the emperor breathed forth curses and threats even more violent than before. Summoned a third time with the same baffling result, Caligula, convinced that Pilate must be protected by some amulet of great power, bade his courtiers carefully search the Judean governor ere they brought him into his presence for a fourth and last time.

In executing these orders, the courtiers discovered that Pilate wore under his usual garments the “seamless robe” of Our Lord, which he had purchased from the soldier to whom it had fallen by lot. Stripped of this talisman, Pilate stood before Caligula, who, no longer restrained from anger and vituperation by the presence of the holy relic, poured out all the vials of his wrath upon the prisoner’s head, and sentenced him to an ignominious death.

To avoid the jeers of the Roman mob, and the disgrace of a public execution, Pilate is said to have committed suicide in his prison by stabbing himself with his table-knife. His corpse—as was then customary in cases of self-murder—was cast into the Tiber. But the waters, refusing to suffer such pollution, rose with unprecedented fury and overflowed their banks, while the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and the earth shook with such violence that all hearts were filled with awe. The terrified Romans therefore hastened to consult their oracles, and learning that the dreadful tumult was occasioned by Pilate’s corpse, they quickly withdrew it from the Tiber, whose fury immediately subsided as if by magic. To dispose of the body,—which could not be buried in the usual way,—it was now cast into the Mediterranean Sea. But there, too, its presence caused such dire commotion that to ward off further misfortunes it was again removed.

Finding earth and water equally loath to harbour such an abhorred tenant, the Romans, remembering they owed a grudge to the inhabitants of Vienne, in Gaul, carefully placed Pilate’s corpse upon a barge, and sent it up the Rhône. Arrived at Vienne, the Roman envoys obediently cast the body into the deepest spot in the river. But its presence there caused such damages that the frightened inhabitants hastened to forward it on to Lausanne. The same unpleasant phenomena recurring there also, Pilate’s remains were finally sent out into the wilderness, far from the haunts of men. After carrying them for many days up hill and down dale, the bearers finally reached an almost inaccessible mountain. Convinced that this point was sufficiently remote from civilisation to satisfy all reasonable requirements, they cast their uncanny burden into a small lake at the foot of a barren peak, and hastened away as quickly as they could. Still, it was only with the utmost difficulty that they managed to reach home, for no sooner had Pilate’s body touched the waters of the lonely tarn, than it stirred up such a tempest as had never before been seen in that region.

Night and day, year in and year out, the storm went on raging around the lonely mountain-top, filling with awe the hearts of the simple peasant-folk who dwelt in the neighbouring valleys. They too soon longed to be rid of the unquiet spirit, but could find no people willing to harbour a ghost which raged round the mountain, waded about the lake until it overflowed, stormed up and down the jagged rocks howling with fear and remorse, and which occasionally indulged in fearful wrestling-bouts with the spirit of King Herod, or those of other famous malefactors. Even in his comparatively quiet moments, Pilate was dreaded, for then he sat aloft on the Güppe,—one of the peaks of the mountain,—grimly conjuring new storms, washing his hands in the dripping clouds, and shaking huge rain-drops from his trembling fingers down upon the fertile pastures below him. None of the shepherds dared venture near him, because he stampeded their flocks by his violent gestures, and often hurled cows and goats over the precipices and down on the sharp rocks, where they were dashed to pieces.

Years, therefore, passed by without Pilate’s being molested in any way; but at last there came a travelling scholar, who, having mastered the Black Art at Salamanca, was fully competent to deal with spirits of all kinds. The people no sooner heard of his unusual accomplishments than they crowded around him, eagerly imploring him to cast a quieting spell upon Pilate’s restless ghost, and proffering rich rewards if he would only put an end to their woes.

Thus urged, the magician consented to try his skill. Journeying up the mountain, he came, after several hours of hard climbing, to the foot of the peak upon which Pontius Pilate sat watching his approach with lowering brows. Placing himself upon a large stone, the conjurer drew a magic circle around him, and then began his incantations. But even his most powerful formulas left Pilate unmoved, although they made the rocks around him quiver and shake as if about to fall. When the magician perceived this, he changed his position to a peak directly opposite the one Pilate had chosen for his favourite seat, and undismayed by his first failure, again began reciting all the most potent exorcisms he knew. This time they were not without effect, for Pilate suddenly rose in anger from his rocky throne and rushed toward the intruder as if to sweep him off the face of the earth. But balked of this amiable intention by the magic circle, instead of whisking the magician off into space, Pilate could only rage around and around him, trampling the ground with such fury that no grass can even now grow on that spot. Indeed, his mere footprints laid such a curse upon the soil that no dew has fallen upon it, nor any animal ventured to cross it since that day!

After careering thus wildly around the scholar for some time, Pilate’s ghost, weakening perceptibly, finally agreed to retire to the tarn high up the mountain side. There he promised to remain in peace, provided no one wantonly disturbed his rest, and he was allowed to range the mountain at will one day in the year.

The exorcist having consented to this stipulation, Pilate further proved he had not sojourned among the Jews in vain, by carefully bargaining that a steed should be provided to bear him off in state to his last resting-place. The Salamancan scholar therefore called up from the depths a flame-breathing steed of the blackest hue, which bore Pontius Pilate off at a truly infernal pace. As they dashed over the rocks, the steed’s clattering hoofs struck out so many sparks that the mountain was illumined from base to summit, and it stamped so hard that the marks of its flying feet can still be seen in the rocks near the tarn.

Arriving there, Pontius Pilate vanished in the depths of the lake, or morass, where he quietly stayed, thus honestly keeping his part of the agreement. Since then, unless disturbed by sceptics coming to mock at him, or cast sticks and stones into his retreat, Pilate has quietly reposed in the depths of his lake. But although sure to resent any mark of disrespect, by rising to stir up a fearful storm, his spirit has always been sufficiently discriminating to make no demonstration when his rest is broken by accident or through ignorance.

Such was the dread of rousing Pilate’s wrath, that the magistrates of Lucerne solemnly issued a decree forbidding all strangers to visit the tarn. They also made all the herdsmen take a yearly oath not to guide any foreigner thither, or to point out the road which led there. Any infringement of this edict was punished with the utmost severity, as can still be seen in the annals of Lucerne; and the law remained in force until 1585, the time of the Reformation.

Then a doughty pastor prevailed upon the magistrates to repeal their edict, and climbed up to the tarn. There he convinced all the people that there was no further cause for their superstitious fears, by flinging stones into the water, calling out every imaginable insult, and boldly challenging Pilate’s ghost to rise and do its worst.

Pilate’s spirit, banned by the Salamancan student, has ever since been said to rise only on Good Friday. Clad in purple, he then sits upon a judgment seat, which comes up out of the lake, and repeats in pantomime the actions he performed on the fatal and memorable day when he sentenced Christ to the cross. Then, too, Pilate always washes his shaking hands, in the futile effort to cleanse himself from all share in that deadly sin; and any wanderer who, by choice or accident, gazes at his distorted features at that time is sure to die within the year. On Good Friday, too, Pilate often rages around the mountain in despairing remorse, but at midnight he invariably sinks down again into his morass.

There are numerous variations of this legend, one of which claims that Pilate ruled in Vienne, where he committed suicide by casting himself into the Rhône. Another version says that, full of remorse for his crime, he wandered from place to place, until in despair he finally drowned himself in the lake on the mountain bearing his name.

Such was the terror inspired by this mountain, and the difficulty of reaching its summit, that the first ascension is said to have taken place only in 1518. As one can seldom obtain a clear view even after bearing the fatigue of such an arduous climb, it was rarely visited by strangers until the wonderful railway was built which now enables travellers to reach its top with the utmost ease. Since then Mount Pilatus has become a favourite goal for excursions, and those who have once beheld the extensive panorama visible from its crest can never forget the marvellous view, which, extending as far as the eye can reach, includes glaciers, mountains, valleys, streams, and lakes, not to mention picturesque towns, villages, churches, and castles, which abound in that section of the country.

Besides the legend from which Mount Pilatus is popularly supposed to have derived its name, many others are told relating to various points on the mountain. For instance, it is said that a cooper from Lucerne once climbed up its rocky sides in quest of wood for barrel hoops and staves, and fell into a deep gully whose sides were so high and steep that he could not get out of it again. The soil at the bottom was so soft and slimy that the cooper, uninjured by his fall, next tried to make his way out by following the bottom of this cleft. He could find no issue, however, but finally came to a sort of tunnel in the rocks. Entering boldly, he suddenly found himself face to face with a couple of huge, fire-breathing dragons. A hasty sign of the cross, and a fervent, if trembling prayer for the Virgin’s protection, effectively closed the mouths of the dragons already gaping wide to devour him, and transformed them into gentle creatures which fawned upon him, humbly licking his hands and feet. Their manners were so ingratiating that the cooper soon ceased to fear them, and sitting down beside them, spent six months in their company, feeding as they did upon a salty substance which exuded from a crack in the rocks.

Winter over, the dragons, who had lain supine in the cave all that time, wriggled slowly out into the gorge, where they began stretching and shaking themselves, spreading and furling their wings, as if to make sure their pliancy had not suffered from a long period of inaction. Then the amazed cooper suddenly beheld one of the monsters rise straight up into the air, and once out of the deep cleft, fly in wide circles far above his head and finally pass out of sight.

The second dragon soon after showing signs of a desire to follow its mate, the cooper promptly grasped it by the tail, and was whisked up out of the abyss, but gently set down again on a soft grass plot near the city of Lucerne. On entering that town, he was rapturously welcomed by his friends, who, after vainly seeking him on the mountain, had given him up as dead.

In token of gratitude for his marvellous preservation, and safe return to his native city, the cooper gave a communion service to the church of St. Leodegarius in 1420. On this service is a quaint representation of his adventure with the dragons on Mount Pilatus. The legend declares, however, that, unable to digest common viands after living so long upon the dragons’ mysterious food, the cooper died of starvation two months after his return to Lucerne.

Another legend claims that a peasant from Lucerne once beheld a dragon rise slowly from the Rigi and fly heavily towards Mount Pilatus. Gazing in open-mouthed astonishment at this wonderful sight, the peasant next saw the monster drop something, and when sufficiently recovered from his terror to investigate what it might be, he discovered it was a huge clot of blood in which lay imbedded a precious stone.

This jewel was found in time to possess wonderful curative powers, for a mere touch of it healed victims of the pest and of other equally fatal diseases. The Dragonstone was, therefore, carefully preserved in the city, where it can still be seen, although for some time past its medicinal powers are said to have deserted it.