on the village green, and all of
them looked happy and very wide awake. Nearly every man carried a gun
instead of the scythe; and matrons and maids looked at the men with
scrutinising and encouraging eyes, for it was for the defence of their
country and their homes that they had learned to handle a gun; and
to-night the best shot would have the honour of opening the dance with
the prettiest girl of the village.

A large waggon, drawn by four horses, gaily decorated with flowers and
ribbons, drew up; the whole waggon had been transformed into a summer
arbour; one could not see the people inside, but one could hear their
songs. They sang of Switzerland and the Swiss people, the most beautiful
country and the bravest people in the world.

Behind the waggon walked the children's procession. They went by twos,
hand in hand, like good friends or little brides and bridegrooms.

And with the pealing of bells the procession slowly wound up the
mountain to the church.

After divine service the festivities began, and very soon shots were
fired on the rifle-range, which was built against the rocky wall of the
St. Gotthard.

The postmaster's son was the best shot in the village, and nobody
doubted that he would win the prize. He hit the bull's-eye four times
out of six.

From the summit of the mountain came a hallooing and a crashing; stones
and gravel rolled down the precipice, and the fir trees in the sacred
wood rocked as if a gale were blowing. On the top of a cliff, his rifle
slung across his shoulders, frantically waving his hat, appeared the
wild chamois hunter Andrea of Airolo, an Italian village on the other
side of the mountain.

"Don't go into the wood!" screamed the riflemen.

Andrea did not understand.

"Don't go into the sacred wood," shouted the magistrate, "or the
mountain will fall on us!"

"Let it fall, then," shouted Andrea, running down the cliff with
incredible rapidity.

"Here I am!"

"You're too late!" exclaimed the magistrate.

"I have never been too late yet!" replied Andrea; went to the
shooting-range, raised his rifle six times to his cheek, and each time
hit the bull's-eye.

Now, he really was the best shot, but the club had its regulations,
and, moreover, the dark-skinned men from the other side of the mountain,
where the wine grew and the silk was spun, were not very popular. An old
feud raged between them and the men of Goeschenen, and the newcomer was
disqualified.

But Andrea a