'Then, again, there is the little chapel of Giswyl. Ah, what a beautiful spot!' The corporal shut his eyes and was silent for some moments; then he proceeded:--'Where stands the church of Giswyl now, was once an ancient castle that looked down upon a small clear lake; but the water was drawn off by a tunnel in 1761, just about the time my Nicholas was born, and now I suppose its site is occupied by green pastures. To the north you see the lovely lake of Sarnen; right and left are fearful precipices, and at their feet a pleasant meadow-land dotted over with fruit-trees. If one climbs the rocks by a little path that threads its way amongst pines and over great fragments of stone, far up in a lonely spot stands a tiny chapel with a little bell-cot, all of wood. Inside is a simple altar, and the walls are covered with votive pictures. Descend a few steps, and under the chapel is a little cell and a basin of crystal water. How comes the poor little shrine in that wilderness, far away from men? I will tell you. In 1492, some thieves broke into the church of Giswyl at night, and stole from it the pyx containing the Blessed Sacrament. The pyx was of precious metal, and the men carried it to the spot where the chapel now stands, then they examined it, and threw the Host upon the grass, after which they fled towards Pilatus. When the robbery was discovered, all the country rose, and one of the thieves was caught. He told where the Sacrament had been cast, and the priest of Giswyl and many of his people ran into the forest to seek it. As they approached the spot--it was evening--they saw a beautiful white light streaming between the pine-boles, and heard strains of enchanting music. They drew nearer, the music ceased, but there, on the grass, lay the Host, like a fallen planet illumining the flowers, the fir-boughs and the rocks, with a wondrous light.' 'Now, corporal,' said Madame Deschwanden, from the window, 'have you done with your fusty Swiss saints? I don't believe a word about their miracles.' 'Not believe, madame!' cried the soldier, wheeling his chair round; 'why, my wife, I have seen miracles wrought with my own eyes. When our Kridli----' 'Kridli! there's a barbarous name!' 'Then let her name be Marguerite, but I must say our Swiss name, Kridli, is the sweetest; so! when she was a little baby, her eyes were sore, and inflamed. We took her to the doctor at Stanz, he could do nothing for her; then we went by boat to Lutzern, and the doctors there said she must lose her sight; then we took her home to Sachseln, and we had recourse to the holy Bruder Klaus. We touched her eyes with the hem of his garment, and on the following day she had perfectly recovered her sight. In gratitude, we named our next child--this boy here, after him.' 'Where is Kridli now?' asked Gabrielle. Nicholas, hearing her mention his sister by her German name, nodded approvingly at her and smiled.