‘Heart, my heart! in weary sadness Breaking, far from fatherland, Restless, yearning, void of gladness, Till once more at home I stand.’ As the old man sang, the tears filled his large eyes, and slowly trickled down his weather-beaten cheeks. He sat for some while in silence and motionless, absorbed in memory. Now and then a smile played over his rugged features. ‘I remember walking from Beckenreid to Seelisberg one spring evening,’ he said, speaking to himself; ‘the rocks were covered with wild pinks. We never see wild pinks here. And the thyme was fragrant, multitudes of bees swarmed humming about it. I remember, because, when tired, I sat on the thyme, and listened to their buzz. Down below lay the deep blue green lake reflecting the mountains, still as glass. The bell of Gersau was chiming. The red roofs were so pretty under the brown rocks of the Scheideck and Hochflue. A little farther on, upon a mass of fallen rock in the water, in the midst of a feathery tuft of birch, stood the chapel of Kindlismord.’ He paused and smiled, and then a great tear dropped from his cheek to his breast. ‘I saw a foaming torrent rush through the forest and dart over a ledge and disappear. The golden clouds overhead were reflected in the lake. I picked a bunch of blue salvias and a tiger-lily.’ He drew a heavy sigh, brushed his hair down with his hands, shook his head, looked at his watch, and rapped the table with the order: ‘Prayers!’ Immediately all rose, and the old soldier led the way down the passage into Klaus’s workshop. Klaus, as has already been said, carved statues for churches. His room was full of figures, some finished and coloured, others half done; some only sketched out of the block. On a shelf stood a row of little saints; but the majority were from three to five feet high. In the corner was a huge S. Christopher, carrying the infant Saviour on his shoulder, and leaning on a rugged staff. His work-table was strewn with tools and shavings and chips of wood, and the floor was encumbered with blocks of oak and box, wood shavings and sawdust. In a niche in the side of the room, on a pedestal, stood a life-sized figure of the Swiss hermit, the patron saint of the Deschwandens, with a pendent lamp before it. A crucifix of ebony and boxwood stood before the little window which lighted the room, and was situated immediately above his work-table. The corporal knelt down, followed by his family and the guests, and recited the usual evening prayers in a firm voice, ending with the Litany of the Saints. After the last response, the corporal made a pause, and rapped with his knuckles against the bench in front of him, whereupon Madame Deschwanden rose with a sniff and a great rustle of her garments, and sailed out of the room, leaning on Madeleine.