e
was an old man who knew every, tradition and legend, besides all the
family histories in that part of the Tyrol. 'That tree,' said he, 'is
left there purposely, as the reminder of a great crime, and nobody
would think of touching it. If you look into the chapel, you'll see a
Christ on the cross which has been shot through the breast. That was
once a crucifix under this very tree.' Then the guide made a remark
which had often struck myself--that there are some families in which
everything that is strange and dreadful happens, whilst there are
others that go on for generations and are no more distinguishable than
the very weeds themselves. In that valley were the Hochmairs, and they
were of this prominent sort, and odd enough, as I said before, it was
at a Hochmair's house that I read this account. Well, some generations
back there was a Hochmair who was a regular ruffian. He cared no more
for the life of a man than that of a chamois. The government kept the
game strictly on the mountains, and he was suspected of having put
more than one of their keepers out of the way. In short, he had such
a bad character that when he went to confession the priest would
not give him absolution. This put him in a great rage, and it is
remarkable that from that day his luck in hunting forsook him. He
could not take aim--a sort of mist was ever before his eyes, his hand
trembled. People believed that he was perpetually haunted by the ghost
of a young man whom, after he had shot, he had beaten to death with
his gunstock, and then flung down a crevasse. Be that as it may, he
would be absent for weeks in the mountains. He did no good, and the
little he possessed fell into ruin.

"His creditors were about to sell him up, stick and stone, when he
put, as one may say, the finishing stroke to everything himself. It
was Corpus Christi Day: the bells were ringing and the procession
moving through the fields, the holy banners waving, the choir-boys
singing the sanctus, when just as the priest lifted the Host in the
golden monstrance, a shot was fired from the bushes in front of a
crucifix. Lightning flashed from heaven, and the house of the wicked
Hochmair, which was at no great distance, burst into flames. An awful
cry rang from the bushes: the procession rushed forward, the priest
only remaining with the Host and a few attendants. And what did they
see? There was the image of the crucified Saviour pierced by a bullet,
and out in the road stood