And with the pealing of bells the procession slowly wound up the mountain to the church.
After divine service the festivities began, and very soon shots were fired on the rifle-range, which was built against the rocky wall of the St. Gotthard.
The postmaster’s son was the best shot in the village, and nobody doubted that he would win the prize. He hit the bull’s-eye four times out of six.
From the summit of the mountain came a hallooing and a crashing; stones and gravel rolled down the precipice, and the fir trees in the sacred wood rocked as if a gale were blowing. On the top of a cliff, his rifle slung across his shoulders, frantically waving his hat, appeared the wild chamois hunter Andrea of Airolo, an Italian village on the other side of the mountain.
“Don’t go into the wood!” screamed the riflemen.
Andrea did not understand.
“Don’t go into the sacred wood,” shouted the magistrate, “or the mountain will fall on us!”
“Let it fall, then,” shouted Andrea, running down the cliff with incredible rapidity.
“Here I am!”
“You’re too late!” exclaimed the magistrate.