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The Selrainthalers are behind none in maintaining the national character. When the law of conscription – one of the most obnoxious results of the brief cession to Bavaria – was propounded, the youths of the Selrain were the first to show that, though ever ready to devote their lives to the defence of the fatherland, they would never be enrolled in an army in whose ranks they might be sent to fight in they knew not what cause – perhaps against their own brethren. The generous stand they made against the measure constituted their valley the rendezvous of all who would escape from it for miles round, and soon their band numbered some five hundred. During the whole of the Bavarian occupation they maintained their independence, and were among the first to raise the standard of the year 1809. A strong force was sent out on March 14 to reduce them to obedience, when the Selrainers gave good proof that it was not cowardice which had made them refuse to join the army. They repulsed the Bavarian regulars with such signal success, that the men of the neighbourhood were proud to range themselves under their banner, which as long as the campaign lasted was always found in the thickest of the fight. No less than eleven of their number received decorations for personal bravery. In peace, too, they have shown they know how to value the independence for which they fought; though their labours in the field are so greatly enhanced by the steepness of the ground which is their portion, that the men yoke themselves to the plough, and carry burdens over places where no oxen could be guided. Their industry and perseverance provide them so well with enough to make them contented, if not prosperous, that ‘in Selrain hat jeder zu arbeiten und zu essen’ (in Selrain there is work and meat enough for all) is a common proverb. The women, who are unable for the reason above noted to take so much part in field-labours as in some other parts, have found an industry for themselves in bleaching linen, and enliven the landscape by the cheerful zest with which they ply their thrifty toil.

The path for the return journey from Selrain to Ober-Perfuss – or foot of the upper height – is as rugged as the other paths we have been traversing, but is even more picturesque. The church is newly restored, and contains a monument, with high-sounding Latin epitaph, to one Peter Anich, of whose labours in overcoming the difficulties of the survey and mensuration of his country, which has nowhere three square miles of plain, his co-villagers are justly proud. He was an entirely self-taught man, but most accurate in his observations, and he induced other peasants to emulate his studies. Ober-perfuss also has a mineral spring. A pleasant path over hills and fields leads in about an hour to Kematen, a very similar village; but the remains of the ruined hunting-seat of Pirschenheim, now used as an ordinary lodging-house, adds to its picturesqueness. Near by it may also be visited the pretty waterfall of the Sendersbach. A shorter and easier stage is the next, through the fields to Völs or Vels, which clusters at the foot of the Blasienberg, once the dwelling of a hermit, and still a place of pilgrimage and the residence of the priest of the village. The parish church of Vels is dedicated in honour of S. Jodok, the English saint, whose statue we saw keeping watch over Maximilian’s tomb at Innsbruck. Another hour across the level ground of the Galwiese, luxuriantly covered with Indian corn, brings us back to Innsbruck through the Innrain; the Galwiese has its name from the echo of the hills, which close in the plain as it nears the capital; wiese being a meadow, and gal the same form of Schall– resonance, which occurs in Nachtigall, nightingale; and also, strangely enough, in gellen, to sound loudly (or yell). At the cross-road (to Axams) we passed some twenty minutes out of Völs, where the way is still wild, is the so-called Schwarze Kreuz-kapelle. One Blasius Hölzl, ranger of the neighbouring forest, was once overtaken by a terrible storm; the Geroldsbach, rushing down from the Götzneralp, had obliterated the path with its torrents; the reflection of each lightning flash in the waste of waters around seemed like a sword pointed at the breast of his horse, who shied and reared, and threatened to plunge his rider in the ungoverned flood. Hölzl was a bold forester, but he had never known a night like this; and as the rapidly succeeding flashes almost drove him to distraction, he vowed to record the deliverance on the spot by a cross of iron, of equal weight to himself and his mount, if he reached his fireside in safety. Then suddenly the noisy wind subsided, the clouds owned themselves spent, and in place of the angry forks of flame only soft and friendly sheets of light played over the country, and enabled him to steer his homeward way. Hölzl kept his promise, and a black metal cross of the full weight promised long marked the spot, and gave it its present name.¹⁸¹ The accompanying figures of our Lady and S. John having subsequently been thrown down, it was removed to the chapel on Blasienberg. Ferneck, a pleasant though primitive bath establishment, is prettily situated on the Innsbruck side of the Galwiese, and the church there was also once a favourite sanctuary with the people; but when the neighbouring land was taken from the monks at Wilten, who had had it ever since the days of the penitent giant Haymon, it ceased to be remembered.

Starting from Innsbruck again in a southerly direction, a little beyond Wilten, already described, we reach Berg Isel. Though invaded in part by the railway, it is still a worthy bourne of pilgrimage, by reason of the heroic victories of the patriots under Hofer. On Sunday and holiday afternoons parties of Innsbruckers may always be found refreshing these memories of their traditional prowess. It is also precious on less frequented occasions for the splendid view it affords of the whole Innthal. Two columns in the Scheisstand record the honours of April 29 and August 30, 1809, with the inscription, ‘Donec erunt montes et saxa et pectora nostra Austriacæ domini mænia semper erunt.’ I must confess, however, that the noise of the perpetual rifle-practice is a great vexation, and prevents one from preserving an unruffled memory of the patriotism of which it is the exponent; but this holds good all over Germany. Here, on May 29, fell Graf Johan v. Stachelburg, the last of his noble family, a martyr to his country’s cause. The peasants among whom he was fighting begged him not to expose his life so recklessly, but he would not listen. ‘I shall die but once,’ he replied to all their warnings; ‘and where could it befall me better than when fighting for the cause of God and Austria?’ He was mortally wounded, and carried in a litter improvised from the brushwood to Mutters, where he lies buried. A little beyond the southern incline of Berg Isel a path strikes out to the right, and ascends the heights to the two villages of Natters and Mutters, the people of which were only in 1786 released from the obligation of going to Wilten for their Mass of obligation. Natters has some remains of one of Archduke Sigismund’s high-perched hunting-seats, named Waidburg; he also instituted in 1446 a foundation for saying five Masses weekly in its chapel.

There are further several picturesque mountain walks to be found in the neighbourhood of Innsbruck, under the grandly towering Nockspitze and the Patscherkofl. Or again from either Mutters or Natters there is a path leading down to Götzens, Birgitz, Axams, and Grintzens, across westwards to the southern end of the Selrainthal. Götzens (from Götze, an idol), like the Hundskapelle, received its name for having retained its heathen worship longer than the rest of the district around. The ruins, which you see on a detached peak as you leave Götzens again, are the two towers of Liebenberger, and Völlenberger the poor remains of Schloss Völlenberg, the seat of an ancient Tirolean family of that name, who were very powerful in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It fell in to the Crown during the reign of Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche, by the death of its last male heir. Frederick converted it into a state-prison. The noblest person it ever harboured was the poet Oswald von Wolkenstein. Himself a knight of noble lineage, he had been inclined in the early part of Frederick’s reign to join his influence with the rest of the nobility against him, because he took alarm at his familiarity with the common people. Frederick’s sudden establishment of his power, and the energetic proceedings he immediately adopted for consolidating it, took many by surprise, Oswald von Wolkenstein among the rest. He was a bard of too sweet song, however, to be shut up in a cage, and Friedl was not the man to keep the minstrel in durance when it was safe to let him be at large. He had no sooner established himself firmly on the throne than he not only released the poet, but forgetting all cause of animosity against him, placed him at his court, and delighted his leisure hours with listening to his warbling. Oswald’s wild and adventurous career had stored his mind with such subjects as Friedl would love to hear sung. But we shall have more to say of Oswald when we come to his home in the Grödnerthal.

The next village is Birgitz; and the next, after crossing the torrent which rushes down from the Alpe Lizum, is Axams, one of the most ancient in the neighbourhood, after passing the opening to the lonesome but richly pastured Sendersthal, the slopes of which meet those of the Selrainthal.

The only remaining valley of North Tirol which I have room here to treat is the Stubay Thal.¹⁸² Of the three or four ways leading into it from Innsbruck, all rugged, the most remarkable is called by the people ‘beim Papstl’ because that traversed by Pius VI. when he passed through Tirol, as I have already narrated. The first place of any interest is Waldrast, a pilgrim’s chapel, dating from the year 1465. A poor peasant was directed by a voice he heard in his sleep to go to the woods (Wald), and lay him down to rest (Rast), and it would be told him what he should do; hence the name of the spot. There the Madonna appeared to him, and bid him build a chapel over an image of her which appeared there, no one knew how, some years before.¹⁸³ A Servite monastery, built in 1624 on the spot, is now in ruins, but the pilgrimage is still often made. It may be reached from the railway station of Matrey. The ascent of the Serlesspitz being generally undertaken from here, it is called in Innsbruck the Waldrasterspitz. Fulpmes is the largest village of the Stubay Thal. The inhabitants are all workers in iron and steel implements, and among other things are reckoned to make the best spikes for the shoes of the mountain climbers. Their works are carried all over Austria and Italy, but less now than formerly. In the church are some pictures by a peasant girl of this place. Few will be inclined to pursue this valley further; and the only remaining place of any mark is Neustift, the marshy ground round which provides the Innsbruck market with frogs. The church of Neustift was built, at considerable cost, in the tasteless style of the last century. The wood carvings by the Tirolean artists Keller, Hatter, and Zatter, however, are meritorious.

CHAPTER XI.
WÄLSCH-TIROL.
THE WÄLSCH-TIROLISCHE ETSCHTHAL AND ITS TRIBUTARY VALLEYS

It is not some Peter or James who has written these stories for a little circle of flattering contemporaries; it is a whole nation that has framed them for all times to come, and stamped them with the impress of its own mighty character.– Aksharounioff, Use of Fairy Tales.

It is time that we turn our attention to the Traditions of South and Wälsch-Tirol, though it must not be supposed that we have by any means exhausted those of the North. There are so many indications that ere long the rule over the province, or Kreis,¹⁸⁴ as it is called, of Wälsch-Tirol, may some day be transferred to Italy, that, especially as our present view of it is somewhat retrospective, it is as well to consider it first, and before its homogeneity with the rest of the principality is destroyed.

Wälsch, or Italian-Tirol sometimes, especially of late, denominated the Trentino, comprises the sunniest, and some at least, of the most beautiful valleys of Tirol. The Etschthal, or valley of the Adige, which takes its source from the little lake Reschen, also called der Grüne, from the colour of its waters, near Nauders, traverses both South and Wälsch-Tirol. That part of the Etschthal belonging to the latter Kreis takes a direct north to south direction down its centre. There branch out from it two main lines of valleys on the west, and two on the east. The northernmost line on the west side is formed of the Val di Non and the Val di Sole; on the east, of the Avisio valley under its various changes of name which will be noted in their place. The Southern line on the west is called Giudicaria, and on the east, Val Sugana, or valley of the Euganieren.

The traveller’s first acquaintance with the Wälschtirolische-Etschthal will probably, as in my own case, be made in the Val Lagarina, through which the railway of Upper Italy passes insensibly on to Tirolese soil, for you are allowed to get as far as Ala before the custom-house visitation reminds you that you have passed inside another government. It is a wild gorge along which you run, only less formidable than that which you saw so grimly close round you as you left Verona. If you could but lift that stony veil on your left, you would see the beautiful Garda-See sparkling beside you; but how vexatious soever the denial, the envious mountains interpose their stern steeps to conceal it. Their recesses conceal too, but to our less regret, the famous field of Rivoli.

Borghetto is the first village on Tirolese soil, and Ala, in the Middle Ages called Sala, the first town. It thrives on the production of silk, introduced here from Lombardy about 1530. It has a picturesque situation, and some buildings that claim a place in the sketchbook. The other places of interest in the neighbourhood are most conveniently visited from Roveredo, or Rofreit as the Germans call it, a less important and pleasing town than Trent, but placed in a prettier neighbourhood. It received its name of Roboretum from the Latins, on account of the immense forests of oak with which it was surrounded in their time. The road leading through it, being the highway into the country, bristles all along its way with ancient strongholds, as Avio, Predajo, Lizzana, Castelbarco, Beseno, and others, which have all had their share in the numerous struggles for ascendancy, waged for so many years between the Emperor, the Republic of Venice, the Bishops of Trent, and the powerful families inhabiting them. The last-named preserves a tradition of more peaceful interest. At the time that Dante was banished from Florence, Lizzana was a seat of the Scaligers, and they had him for their visitor for some time during his wanderings. Not far from it is the so-called Slavini di San Marco, a vast Steinmeer, which seems, as it were, a ruined mountain, such vast blocks of rock lie scattered on every side. There is little doubt the poet has immortalized the scene he had the opportunity of contemplating here in his description of the descent to the Inferno, opening of Canto XII. It is said that a fine city, called San Marco, lies buried under these gigantic fragments, concerning which the country people were very curious, and were continually excavating to arrive at the treasure it was supposed to contain, till one day a peasant thus engaged saw written in fiery letters on one vast boulder, ‘Beati quelli che mi volteranno’ (happy they who turn me round). The peasant thought his fortune was made. There could be no doubt the promised happiness must consist in the riches which turning over the stone should disclose. Plenty of neighbours were ready to lend a hand to so promising a toil; and after the most unheard-of exertions, the monster stone was upheaved. But instead of a treasure they found nothing but another inscription, which said ‘Bene mi facesti, perchè le coscie mi duolevano (you have done me a good turn, for I had a pain in my thighs).¹⁸⁵ As the peasants felt no great satisfaction in working with no better pay than this, the buried city of San Marco ceased from this time to be the object of their search. Nevertheless, near Mori, on the opposite (west) side of the river, is a deep cave called ‘la Busa del Barbaz,’ concerning which the saying runs, that it was, ages ago, the lurking-place of a cruel white-bearded old man, who lived on human flesh, and that whoso has the courage to explore the cave and discover his remains, will, immediately on touching them, be confronted by his spirit, who will tell the adventurous wight where an immense treasure lies hid. Some sort of origin for this fable may be found in an older tradition, which tells that idols, whose rites demanded human sacrifices, were cast down this cave by the first Christian converts of the Lenothal. The Slavini are closed by a rocky gorge, characteristically named Serravalle; and as the country again opens out another cave on the east bank is pointed out, which was for long years a resort of robbers, who plundered all who passed that way. These were routed out by the Prince-bishop of Trent in 1197, and a hospice for the relief of travellers built on the very spot which so long had been the terror of the wayfarer. The chapel was dedicated in honour of S. Margaret, and still retains the name.

Roveredo itself is crowned by a fort – Schloss Junk, or Castel nuovo – which has stood many a siege, originally built by the Venetians; but it is more distinguished by its villas and manufactories. The silk trade was introduced here in 1580, and has continuously added to the prosperity of the place. Gaetano Tacchi established relations with England at the end of the last century, and the four brothers of the same name, who now represent her house, are the richest family in Roveredo. They have a very pretty family vault near the Madonna del Monte, a pilgrimage reached by a road which starts behind the Pfarrkirche of Sta. Maria. Another pilgrimage church newly established is the Madonna de Saletto. While the silk factories occupy the Italian hands, the Germans resident in Roveredo find employment at a newly-established tobacco factory. Much tobacco is grown in the Trentino.

A great deal of activity is seen in Roveredo. The Corso nuovo is a broad handsome street with fine trees. A new and handsome road, between the town and railway station, was laid out in the autumn of 1869. Outside the town is the so-called Lenoschlucht, reached by the Strada nuova, which crosses it by a daring high arched bridge. The cliff rises sheer on the right hand, and overlooking the dangerous precipice is the little chapel of S. Columban, seemingly perched there by enchantment. It is built over the spot where a hermit, who was held in veneration by the neighbourhood, had his retreat.

There are seven churches, but not much to remark in any of them. That of S. Rocchus was built in consequence of a vow made by the townspeople during the plague of 1630, to invite a settlement of Franciscans if it was stayed. The altar-piece is ascribed to Giovanni da Udine. There are several educational establishments, and a club which is devoted to propagandism of Italian tendencies.

The time to see Trent to advantage is in the month of June, not only for the sake of the natural beauties of climate and scenery, but because then falls the festa of S. Vigilius (26th), the evangelizer of the country, and the churches are crowded with all the surrounding mountain population, who, after religious observances have been duly fulfilled, indulge in all their characteristic games and amusements, often in representations of sacred dramas,¹⁸⁶ and always wind up with their favourite and peculiar illumination of their mountain sides by disposing bonfires in devices over a whole slope. This custom is the more worth noting that it is thought to be a remnant of fire-worship, prevailing before the entrance of the Etruscans.¹⁸⁷

That their city was the see of S. Vigilius, and the seat of the great council of the Church, are reckoned by its people their greatest glories; and they delight to trace a parallel between their city and ‘great Rome.’ They reckon that it was founded in the time of Tarquinius Priscus by a colony of Etruscans, under a leader named Rhætius, who established there the worship of Neptune, whence the name of Tridentum or Trent. That they occupied and fortified the country, and subsequently became a power formidable to the Empire; but some twenty-five years before the Christian era, Rhætia, as the country round was called, was conquered by Drusus, son-in-law of Augustus, and colonized. An ancient inscription preserved in the Schloss Buon Consiglio shows that Trent was the centre of the local government, which was exactly modelled on that of Rome. S. Vigilius, who spread the light of the faith here, was a born Roman, and suffered martyrdom in a persecution emulating those of Rome in the year 400. The city endured sieges and over-running from many of the barbarous nations which over-ran and sacked Rome, and researches into the ancient foundations show that the accumulation of ruins has raised the soil, as in Rome, some feet above the original ground plan – Ranzi says more than four metres. The traces of three distinct lines of walls, showing just as in Rome the progressive enlargement of the city, have been found, as also remains of a considerable amphitheatre, and many of inlaid pavements, &c., showing that it was handsomely built and provided. To complete the parallel, it was under the régime of an ecclesiastical ruler that, after years of distress and turmoil, its peace and prosperity were restored. The Bishop of Trent still retains his title of Prince, but the deprivation of his territorial rule was one of the measures of secularization of Joseph II.

There are sixteen churches in Trent, of which the most considerable is the Cathedral, dating from the eleventh century – with some remnants of sculpture, as the Lombard ornaments of the three porches, reckoned to belong to the seventh or eighth – a Romanesque building of massive design, built of the reddish-brown marble which abounds in the neighbourhood, with a Piazza and fountain before it. The interior is extensively decorated with frescoes. It is dedicated to S. Vigilius, whose relics are preserved in a silver sarcophagus. Among its other notabilia are a Madonna, by Perugino, and some good paintings of less esteemed masters; also a copy of the Madonna di San Luca of the Pantheon, presented in 1465 to the then Bishop of Trent, while on a visit to Rome, by the Pope, and ever since an object of popular veneration. As a curiosity, is shown a waxen image of the Blessed Virgin, modelled by a Jew. It also contains several curious brass monuments. The Church of Sta. Maria Maggiore, where the great Council was held, on this account, surpasses it in interest, though of small architectural merit. There is a legend that when the final Te Deum at the close of the Council was sung on December 4, 1563,¹⁸⁸ a crucifix, still pointed out in one of the side chapels¹⁸⁹ of the Cathedral, was seen to bow its head as if in token of approval of the constitutions that had been established. Sta. Maria Maggiore contains a picture of the Council, with the fathers in full session, which is not without interest, as all the costumes can still be made out, though quaint and faded and injured by lightning. It has also a very fine organ, the tone of which was so much esteemed at the time it was built, that it is said the Town Council determined to put out the eyes of the organ-builder,¹⁹⁰ lest he should endow any other city with as perfect an instrument. The meister, finding he could not prevail on the councilmen to relent, asked as a last favour to be allowed to play on his organ, which was willingly conceded; but as soon as he had obtained access to the instrument, he contrived to damage the stop imitating the human voice, which he had invented, and which had been its great merit, and thus punished the pride and cruelty of the municipality. In the remarkable Gothic Church of St. Peter is a chapel, built in commemoration of the infant St. Simeon, or Simonin, whose alleged martyrdom at the hands of the Jews, in 1472, I have already had reason to mention. Many relics of him are shown in the chapel, where a festa is still kept in his honour on March 24. The cutting of his name in the stone is still quite legible.

My limits forbid my speaking in much detail of the secular buildings and institutions which are, however, not unworthy of attention. There are clubs and reading-rooms – in some of which aspirations after union with Italy are steadily propagated. The spirit of loyalty to Austria, though still strong in many breasts, has nothing like the same influence as in 1848–9, or in 1866, when the attacks and blandishments of the revolutionists of Italy were alike powerless to shake the allegiance of the Trentiners. No one will overlook the vast Schloss buon Consiglio in the Piazza d’Armi, said to be an Etruscan foundation. The public museum is a very creditable institution, enriched in 1846 by the legacy of Count Giovanelli’s collection, chiefly of coins and medals; and paintings, not to be despised, are to be seen in the collections of the best families of the place – Palazzi Wolkenstein and Sizzo, Case Salvetti and Gaudenti. Two great ornaments of the city are the Palazzi Tabarelli, and Zambelli or Teufelspalast; and with the legend of the latter I must wind up my notice of Trent.

Georg Fugger, a scion of the wealthy Anthony Fugger, of Augsburg, the entertainer of Charles Quint, was deeply enamoured of the spirited Claudia Porticelli, the acknowledged beauty of Trent. Claudia did not appear at all averse from the match, but she was too proud to yield herself all too readily; and besides, was genuinely possessed with the spirit of patriotism, to which mountain folk are never wanting. Accordingly, when the reply long pressed for from her lips came at last, it informed him that never would Claudia Porticelli of Tirolean Trent give her hand to one whose dwelling was afar from her native city; she wondered, indeed, that one who did not own so much as a little house to call a home in Trent, should imagine he possessed her sympathies. To another this answer would have amounted to a refusal, for it only wanted a day of the time already fixed, of long date beforehand, for the announcement of her final choice. But Georg Fugger, whose vast riches had long nursed him in the belief that ‘money maketh man,’ and that nothing was denied to him, would not yield up a hope so dearly cherished as that of making Claudia Porticelli his wife. To his determined mind there was a way of doing everything a man was resolved to do. To build a house, however, in one night, and that a house worthy of being the home of his Claudia, when men should call her Claudia Fugger, was a serious matter indeed. No human hands could do the work, that was clear; he must have recourse to help from which a good Christian should shrink; but the case was desperate; he had no choice. Nevertheless, Georg Fugger had no mind to endanger his soul either. The game he had to play was to get the Evil One to build the house, but also to guard from letting him gain any spiritual advantage against him; and his indomitable energy devised the means of securing the one and preventing the other. Without loss of time the devil was summoned, and the task of building the desired palace propounded. The tempter willingly accepted the undertaking, on his usual condition of the surrender of the soul of him in whose favour it was performed. Georg Fugger cheerfully signed the bond with his blood, only stipulating first for the insertion of one slight condition on his side – namely, that the devil should do one little other thing for him before he claimed his terrible guerdon. ‘Whatever you like! it won’t be too hard for me!’ boasted the Evil One; and they separated, each well satisfied with the compact.

‘The Devil’s Palace has a splendid design, worthy the genius of Palladio,’ writes a modern traveller, who has only seen it in its decadence. On the night in which it was built, it was resplendent with marbles and gilding and tasteful decoration; furnished it was too, to satisfy the most fastidious taste, and the requirements of the most luxurious. With pride the devil called Georg Fugger to come and survey the lordly edifice, and name his ‘final condition.’ Georg Fugger was prepared for him; he had taken a bushel of corn, and strewn it over all the floors of the vast building. ‘Look here, Meister,’ he said. ‘If you can gather this corn up grain by grain, and deliver me back the whole number correctly, then indeed my soul will be yours; but if otherwise, my soul remains my own and the palace too. That is my final condition.’

The devil accepted the task readily, and with no misgiving of his success. True, it took all the time that remained before sunrise to collect all the scattered grain; still he had performed harder feats before that day. But the hours ran by, and still there were five grains wanting to complete the count; where could those five grains be! With a flaring torch, lighted at his fiercest fire, he searched every corner through and through, but the five grains were nowhere to be seen, and daylight began to appear! ‘Ah! the measure is well-heaped up, the Fugger won’t discover they are missing,’ so the fiend flattered himself. But Georg Fugger was keener than he seemed. Before his eyes he counted out the corn, and asked for the five missing grains. ‘Stuff! the measure is piled up full enough, I can’t be so particular as all that. The number must be there.’ ‘But it is not!’ urged Fugger. ‘Oh, you’ve miscounted,’ rejoined the Evil One; ‘I’m not going to be put off in that way. I’ve built your house, and I’ve collected your measure of corn, and your soul is mine; you can’t prove that there were five more grains.’ ‘Yes, I can,’ replied Fugger; ‘reach out me your paw;’ and the Devil, not guessing how he could convict him by that means, held out his great paw, with insolent confidence of manner. ‘There!’ cried Fugger, pointing to it as he spoke; ‘there, under your own claws, lie the five grains! That corn had been offered before the Holy Rood, and by the power of the five Sacred Wounds it was kept from fulfilling your fell purpose. You had not collected the full number of grains into the measure by the morning light, so our bargain is at an end. Begone!’ The Devil, self-convicted, had no refuge but to strive to alarm his victor by a show of fury, and with burning claw he began tearing down the wall so lately raised. But Fugger remained imperturbable, for he had fairly won the palace, and the Devil himself had no more power over it. He could only succeed in making a hole big enough for himself to escape by, which hole was for many and many years pointed out.