‘Yes,’ said the soldier, triumphantly; ‘we have both seen his habit; we have seen his body, too, at Sachseln. Fill your glasses!’ he rubbed up his hair, first over his ears and then above his forehead and at the back of the head, and starting to his feet, pledged Bruder Klaus of pious memory. Percenez and Nicholas joined enthusiastically. ‘See!’ said the latter, taking his black ribbon from his neck, and extending the medal to Percenez; ‘on that coin is a representation of the blessed hermit; that piece has been laid on his shrine, and has been blessed by the priest of Sachseln.’ ‘Fetch him the statue of the glorious brother!’ cried the corporal to his son; ‘let him see what blessed Nicholas really was like.’ The lad instantly dived out of the room, down a passage, and presently reappeared with a wooden figure of the hermit, carved by himself. The face was exquisitely wrought, and the hands delicately finished. The whole was painted, but not coarsely. ‘He was very pale in the face, almost deadly white, and dark about the eyes,’ said the soldier. ‘We have his portrait, taken during his life, in the town-hall of Sarnen----’ all at once the corporal’s eyes rested on his watch. ‘Herr Je!’ he exclaimed; ‘we have exceeded our time by three minutes.’ He rapped with his knuckles on the table, and shouted the order: ‘Music!’ Instantly his son Nicholas produced a flute, and warbled on it a well-known Swiss air. The corporal folded his hands on his breast, threw back his head, fixed his eyes on the scrap of blue sky visible above the roofs of the houses opposite, and began to sing, ‘Herz, mein Herz warum so traurig’--of which we venture to give an English rendering: ‘Heart, my heart! why art thou weary, Why to grief and tears a prey? Foreign lands are bright and cheery; Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say? ‘That which ails me past appeasing! I am lost, a stranger here; What though foreign lands be pleasing, Home, sweet home, alone is dear. ‘Were I now to home returning, Oh, how swiftly would I fly! Home to father, home to mother, Home to native rocks and sky! ‘Through the fragrant pine-boughs bending I should see the glacier shine, See the nimble goats ascending Gentian-dappled slopes in line; ‘See the cattle, hear the tinkle Of the merry clashing bells, See white sheep the pastures sprinkle In the verdant dewy dells. ‘I should climb the rugged gorges To the azure Alpine lake, Where the snowy peak discharges Torrents, that the silence break. ‘I should see the old brown houses, At the doors, in every place, Neighbours sitting, children playing, Greetings in each honest face. ‘Oh my youth! to thee returning, Oft I ask, why did I roam? Oh my heart! my heart is burning At the memory of Home.