Chapter I

Knight Schrutan and the Pilatus

The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, lying amidst the four cantons, Uri, Unterwalden, Schwyz, and Lucerne, from which it derives its name, surpasses all other Swiss lakes in the grandeur of its natural beauty and in the wealth of its historical associations.

In the year 1315, which is about the period in which the events of this story occurred, there was upon this lake a little flotilla, which seems insignificant enough when compared with the powerful fleets of the present day. At that time the cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden were frequently engaged in hostilities with their neighbor Lucerne, which still adhered to Austria. Their encounters took place on skiffs and boats and clumsy vessels along the shores of the lake. One big, sharp-pointed, oaken craft, called the “Goose,” was the flagship of the Lucerne fleet. The “Fox” was the flagship of Uri. One day the Lucerne flagship ventured too near the shore and was struck by a millstone which the Unterwaldeners hurled down upon it from a watch-tower, and which so disabled it that Lucerne’s naval power was virtually destroyed.

At the point where the lake makes a wide bend to the south into the very heart of the Alps lies Unterwalden, among precipitous cliffs and mountain pastures. It is a majestic sight when the mists clear away on a bright summer’s morning and the Rigi, Pilatus, the rocky summits of Schwyz, and the range of mountain-peaks extending even to the distant dazzling Jungfrau and the Black Monk are revealed in the brilliant atmosphere. The name “Unterwalden” was applied to this picturesque region in modern times. It is not known what it was called in ancient times, but there can be no doubt that it was inhabited, as it contains unusually rich pasturage for animals and offers favorable opportunities for hunting and fishing.

Not far away from the lake is the little city of Stans, situated in a luxuriant garden, whose fruitfulness is unimpaired, although from the middle of November until the beginning of February the sun is visible only in the morning between Briefenberg and the Staufer Horn, and in the afternoon never gilds the roofs of the little place.

At the eastern extremity of the city stands, even to this day, the Winkelried house, to which we shall now introduce our readers. They must imagine themselves in the middle of the fourteenth century. Although it had ample sleeping-rooms, spacious closets, and large, gayly colored chests in which the linen and garments were kept, as well as other conveniences, a single room was the family’s living apartment. A long wooden bench stood against the wall, in front of which was a large oaken table with massive feet. Some wooden chairs and a leathern arm-chair completed the furniture. Tankards, dishes, and glasses were arranged on shelves, and some silver vessels were enclosed in a beautifully carved cabinet. A holy-water ewer was fastened near the door, and a crucifix hung between the windows. Instead of a stove there was an open coal fire, into which thyme was sprinkled to diffuse a pleasant odor throughout the room. Several tiny cages were suspended from the low ceiling. The sprightly little singers which occupied them were quiet now, having gone to sleep with their heads tucked under their wings, for it was evening and the room had grown dark.

A woman of middle age was seated in the easy-chair absorbed in meditation. A boy sat in her lap, and as he tenderly embraced his mother his eyes turned to the window through which he saw the moon rising over the peaks of Pilatus and the summit of the Felsenhorn, outlined like a sharp black shadow against the sky.

“Little mother,” said the boy, breaking the silence, “why is that mountain called ‘Pilatus’? That is the name of the Roman governor who delivered our Saviour to the Jews.”

“You are right, my Arnold. The mountain was named for him,” replied his mother.

“Why?” asked Arnold.

“Pontius Pilate, who was the Governor of Judea, administered the affairs of the province so corruptly that the Emperor Tiberius recalled him to Rome and shut him up in prison,” said his mother. “Rather than suffer this disgrace, Pilate took his own life. As he was a self-murderer his body was thrown into the Tiber. A terrible tempest of rain and hail at once swept down upon Rome. For weeks the thunder crashed and shook the city. The people at last decided that the storm was caused by the dead Pilate, so they took the body from the river and carried it away. But wherever they deposited it—in the Rhone or in other rivers—violent storms and tempests raged, as they had done in Rome. At last they brought the body here and threw it into the little solitary lake near the top of yonder lofty, rugged, and almost inaccessible mountain. It was then called the Pilatus Lake and at a later day the name was also given to the mountain. Before that the mountain was called Fracmont, which comes from a Latin word signifying its jagged appearance. The lake has neither inlet nor outlet. It is not increased by the rain or the snow, nor does the most intense Summer heat lower it. It does not freeze in Winter. The wind does not agitate its dark surface, but when its quiet is disturbed by human hands frightful tempests arise.”

“Does the dead Pontius Pilate who is buried there make these storms?” said Arnold.

“Yes, my child. At times he rises from the lake and sits upon a mountain-peak, and from thence stirs up the storms which spread such devastation over the country. But once there came a wandering scholar—”

“What kind of persons are those?” asked the lad.

“They are scholars who go from one school to another, pursuing their studies, now in this one, now in that. They are poor, and the ecclesiastics and other religious people whom they visit in their wanderings support them. Last Summer one of them ate at our table.”

“Was he a scholar?” asked Arnold, in great surprise; “why, he was as big as father, and had a long beard, besides.”

“Yes,” replied his mother, with a smile; “it is not unusual for these learned beggars to remain in the schools until their thirtieth year, when they sometimes get positions as under-teachers.”

“One of these travelling scholars came, you were saying,” said Arnold, thus recalling to his mother the interrupted story.

“Yes, one of them came into our neighborhood who knew how to exorcise evil spirits, and the valley people promised to pay him well if he would quiet Pilate. The student betook himself to the lake and hurled such powerful incantations at him that he promised to rest quietly in the lake upon condition that he might rise from his watery grave one day in each year. Since that time, upon every Good Friday, Pilate leaves the lake and sits in his red robes of office as he used to do. During the remainder of the year he is quiet and invisible. But when he becomes provoked by unusual noises in the vicinity of the lake, or stones are thrown into it, then the clouds gather about the mountains, terrible storms break loose, and the lake emits fiery exhalations. On this account people are forbidden to go near the lake lest some one may ignorantly or maliciously provoke him and thereby endanger this region as well as himself.”

The mother ceased. The boy gazed steadily at the mysterious mountain, at that instant illuminated by the rising moon and gleaming like silver in its snowy drapery.

“Do you know anything more about Pilatus?” he asked, after a little.

“No, my darling, I have told you all that people say about it.”

The story greatly excited Arnold. He wanted to hear more of the same thrilling kind. A dim recollection of an extraordinary adventure connected with his own family rose in his mind.

“Little mother,” he said, “what was that horrible animal which once lived in this region? I heard you tell about it once, but I have forgotten most of the story. I know that a knight called Winkelried killed it.”

“That was Henry of Winkelried, your grandfather, usually called ‘Schrutan.’”

“Why Schrutan?”

“The name was probably given to him by his companions in the tournaments; for like all knights he was fond of tilting.”

“If my grandfather was a knight, why are there no knights now?” asked Arnold, raising his head from his mother’s shoulder and gazing at her earnestly.

“The times have greatly changed,” she replied. “Once the powerful family of Hohenstaufen[1] ruled over the German Empire. It occupied the throne more than a hundred years. The emperors fought many great battles, and the Winkelrieds, who were in their service, were elevated to knighthood. But when the Hohenstaufens ceased to rule, an evil time ensued. As it was no longer an honor to be a knight, the Winkelrieds discarded knighthood and lived like plain country people.”

“And what is it about the terrible animal and my grandfather who was called Knight Schrutan?” said Arnold.

“Listen,” said his mother, as she began to tell him the story once more. “You know the little village of Odwylen, between Stans and the Kernwald. In the mountains near it there is a vast cavern which is said to have been occupied by heathens in the ancient days. Perhaps they were the old Romans who took refuge there because they had committed crimes and been banished from their own country. About a century ago a huge dragon had its lair in this cavern. It killed both men and beasts. The people of the little village, which is called Wylen to this day, had to flee, and as it was forsaken and desolate it took the name of Odwylen.[2] Along the roads which lead across the moors and meadows between Stans and Sarnen to the little village, not a person could be seen, nor were any animals pastured there, for the dragon concealed itself in the swamps and attacked every living thing. To be safe from the monster they laid out new roads, traces of which are visible even to-day. The people of Unterwalden sometimes undertook to attack the dragon, but it was always on the alert, and as soon as it discovered its enemies it retreated to the mountain cavern or some other place where it could defy pursuit. It was so agile that it could run up the steepest mountain-side as swiftly as a lizard and as easily as if it were on level ground. Knight Schrutan heard about this dragon. He was no longer in his own country, for in his wrath he had slain an Unterwaldener who had wronged him, and he had been banished for it. He requested permission to attack the dragon, asking no other compensation than the remission of his penalty of exile. Being a valiant knight, the Unterwaldeners granted his petition and allowed him to return home. The knight made a long spear with a sharp spike for its tip, and at once sought the dragon, which he was not long in finding. When the monster saw that it had to deal with but one man, it rushed upon him with open jaws. Knight Schrutan hurled the spear with all his strength into its throat, where the spike held it securely. Then he drew his sword and smote the dragon until, bleeding from numerous wounds, it died in terrible convulsions.”

Arnold scarcely breathed during the story, so spellbound was he. At last a deep sigh escaped him. He slid down from his mother’s lap and stood before her with his arms crossed, impatiently awaiting her next words, for he knew the story was not yet finished. He was sure there was something else, but could not remember what it was. His mother continued:

“When the knight saw that his task was complete and successful he raised both arms and praised God for His personal assistance. But, alas! he kept his sword in his hand and the poisonous blood of the dragon dripped upon the unprotected parts of his body. A few days afterwards the valiant hero died, mourned by all the people of that region, whom he had rescued from the ravages of the cruel monster.”

Arnold stood lost in thought as his mother brought the story to an end. Had his brave ancestor gone forth to battle, and had he returned victorious, and been overwhelmed with gold and honors by the grateful Unterwaldeners it would not have been half so inspiring to the lad as this tragic fate of the hero who paid for his brave deed with his life. Young as he was, he too longed to achieve something great and bequeath to others a legacy of glorious memories. The spark of self-sacrifice was kindled at that instant in the boy’s breast, not to be extinguished except with his last breath.

“Little mother,” cried Arnold, with glowing cheeks, “I will be such a knight!”

His mother smiled, but made no reply. She knew the Winkelrieds’ love of freedom. She knew, also, how different it was from the conceptions of freedom in the days of chivalry, and she was sure that Arnold’s was the true Winkelried love. She had long been aware of the boy’s heroic spirit, but she had never thought of him as an armed warrior in the field.

That night Arnold dreamed of nothing but Pilatus, the Knight Schrutan, and the dragon, and they were mingled together in the strangest manner. He dreamed he was on Lake Pilatus and saw the knight engaged in a desperate struggle with the dragon. Nearer and more near the hero forced the monster to the water’s edge, and with one last desperate effort he drove it into the gloomy lake, which rose high above the sinking reptile. The sky was instantly overspread with black clouds. The region was enveloped in darkness, and, accompanied by deafening crashes of thunder, Pilate rose from the lake in his red robes, holding in his hand a spear set with sharp spikes, and making menacing gestures at the knight. Schrutan plunged into the lake without hesitation, and notwithstanding his heavy armor, breasted the waves with strong arms, prepared to struggle with the evil spirit. Before he could reach him, however, the water changed to dragon’s blood in which the knight was overwhelmed.

On the next day, Florian Häbli, Arnold’s friend and playmate, came to see him. Notwithstanding Florian’s father was poor and had to earn a living for his large family by fishing and felling trees, Arnold preferred him to all the other boys, and admired his courage, though Florian sometimes was bolder in words than in action. The two boys at first indulged in a vigorous snowball fight. Then they made a snow man, and when it was finished Arnold placed a hat upon its head. As this reminded him of the cloud caps which at times covered the summit of Pilatus, he called the snow man the wicked Pontius Pilate, and bade Florian help him to destroy Pilate. Both lads began a fierce bombardment of the snow man, and kept it up until it was reduced to a shapeless mass. Then Arnold told Florian about Schrutan and his adventure; and he said he would like to encounter a dragon, but unfortunately there were no more of them in that neighborhood.

“Do you really mean to say that you, such a little fellow, would really fight a dragon?” rather contemptuously replied Florian, who was half a head taller than Arnold. “Why, it would bury you in the cavity of one of its teeth.”

Arnold, with equal contempt, answered back: “You shall yet see what I will do. And I shall not kill a dragon,” he said, with a glance at the fragments of the snow man. “The wicked Pilate is up there in the lake. He sends storms over the land, which destroy the crops just as the dragon killed men and beasts. He rises from the lake every Good Friday, and then we can attack him.”

“Have you the courage to do it?” said Florian, incredulously.

“Yes, I have,” replied Arnold, in a manner so serious that Florian was deeply impressed. He stated the perils of such an undertaking to his companion, and also informed him that no one was allowed to go near the banks of the lake. But Arnold was not to be dissuaded from his purpose. He replied by setting forth with such enthusiasm the duty of some one to perform the heroic deed of ridding the region of the evil spirit that Florian resolved not to be outdone by his brave comrade. He decided on the spot to accompany him on his dangerous expedition, and to help him to overcome Pilate. The two lads talked of nothing else from day to day, and carefully guarded their secret. Florian agreed to all the details of the plan and worked them out assiduously. Most of his time was spent in devising the weapons they should use. He was eager to construct a catapult, like those used to batter down the walls of fortresses, but found it impossible. Then he considered other methods of attack. He thought of Greek fire, but he did not know how to make it. At last he thought of a thunder-machine, for he had heard that these machines, by some mysterious force, could hurl great iron balls. But as all his plans proved impracticable, he next began to devise methods of protection against the enemy’s attack which would make up for the lack of these terrible weapons,—such as an invulnerable coat of mail, or some wonderful ointment which could be rubbed on the body from head to foot, and make the skin as hard as horn.

Arnold listened to all of Florian’s suggestions without making any reply. He had long since settled the whole matter himself. His courage was sufficient armor for him, and his weapon was the simple sling, with which David smote the giant Goliath. He was sure he could overcome Pilate if he had a fair chance, and to make sure of it he practised with the sling until he became so expert that he could hit any mark within stone’s throw.

The two little adventurers impatiently awaited the spring-time, which would bring Holy Week and the eventful day. The mountains took on fresh tints. The sky was gorgeously colored, and the atmosphere so transparent that the most distant mountains seemed near by. There was a certain relaxation in the air and a peculiar rustle in the woods. The dwellers in the valley went around anxiously and extinguished the fire on every hearth, for these manifestations of nature were the harbingers of the violent Föhn. This dreadful wind (the Föhn) sweeps down from the mountains upon the valleys, but gentle Spring follows in its train. The Föhn melts the Winter snows even more rapidly than the sun, on which account it is called the “snow-eater,” and its warm breath imparts new life to the grasses and buds.

The valley was already clothed in tender green when Good Friday came. On that eventful morning, armed only with his sling, Arnold and his companion-at-arms set out for Lake Pilatus. Arnold did not know the way, but Florian was familiar with it. His godfather, Peter Ruttimer, whose duty it was to keep strangers away from it, had sometimes taken Florian with him, so that he knew the road, and now and then had even been near the lake.

After a troublesome and painful tramp of several hours, climbing up steep places on all fours, and frequently stopping to rest, the venturesome lads reached the accursed water, enclosed all round with gloomy forests. Florian would have greatly preferred to abandon the expedition, of which he was growing very tired, and visit his godfather; but Arnold’s cool contempt of every danger deeply impressed him and strengthened his wavering courage.

There was not a ripple on that gloomy water; not a trace of Pilate, who should have been sitting there in his official robes, was to be seen. Florian, after all, was right when he said that Pilate would not allow any one to see him.

“You see, he does not come,” whispered Florian, after they had waited a long time.

“He will come yet,” replied Arnold; and to expedite the wished-for moment he picked up a large stone, and before Florian could stop him, hurled it into the lake with all his might. It struck with a great splash. With a loud outcry, brave Florian took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.

Arnold, however, was not in the least disturbed. After waiting a little while, he sent Pilate a second invitation. He repeated it a dozen times, making longer pauses between the throws so as to give him time to consider it. His efforts were useless. He could not even rouse the sluggish water into activity again. But he did not mind that, for he was certain that Pilate was in the lake. At last he decided that more energetic measures were necessary to entice him to the surface. He arranged for a general bombardment by collecting a veritable arsenal of stones. When he had piled them up in a small pyramid he began operations. He hurled one stone after another into the lake and kept up the assault with such vigor that the sweat poured down his face. But Pilate treated these unprecedented insults with silent contempt. While Arnold was making preparations to renew the bombardment, for which he was collecting fresh ammunition, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. Turning round, he saw the powerful figure of Peter Ruttimer, and Florian, who had turned informer, by his side.

The guardian of Pilatus had already thrown up his hands in dismay when he noticed that the water of the lake had been disturbed by some one throwing stones. White with rage, he rushed after the malefactor. Little he cared that that malefactor’s ancestor was a knight. He would have liked to give him a sound whipping on the spot, but refrained, fearing that Arnold would make an outcry which would only add another offence to his disobedience of orders; so he contented himself by hissing out the maledictions which herdsmen employ when their animals are refractory, after which he drove both boys down the mountain. He would have had the legal penalty imposed upon Arnold had not his godson also been concerned in the offence.

Nearly two hundred and fifty years later, imitators of these boys went to the lake. Johann Müller, the Lucerne magistrate, climbed to the notorious spot with many others. They shouted to Pilate to arise from his watery grave, and they threw stones into the lake; but neither Pilate nor the tempest appeared. Some walked into the water to see if it was bottomless or would emit fiery exhalations, as was the general belief. Several years later the lake was drained,—only an ugly and dangerous morass remaining. The herdsmen, however, did not give up their belief in the legend. For a long time an old custom prevailed among them of shouting an incantation every evening through their milk-funnels to prevent Pilate from harming them or their animals during the night.