Thus equipped, he wended his way up the Fletschhorn, where cat, dog, and rooster soon perished, leaving the man to continue his perilous climb alone. Although the pain in his head again grew worse with every upward step, our mountaineer pressed bravely on, knowing the iron band would hold fast, and finally reached the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. His fellow-citizens, proud of this feat, bestowed upon him the Fletschalp, and honoured him as long as he lived as the most skilful Alpine climber of that part of the country.
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Patches of so-called red snow are sometimes found high up on the Alps; but while scientists ascribe that peculiar colour to a microscopic fungus growth, the legend accounts for the vivid hue in a very different way.
In bygone times, before the Alps had been pierced by tunnels and even before convenient roadways had been built, rough paths leading over the various passes served as means of communication between Switzerland and Italy. These were much frequented by pack-drivers with their sure-footed mules, and among other things thus imported were fiery Italian wines. Some of the muleteers who had a tendency to drink, or who were none too scrupulous to cheat their employers, used to tap the barrels and kegs on their way over the mountains, replacing the wine they had consumed by water from some mountain stream, so that the vessels were always full when they reached their destination.
The pack-drivers on the Furka Pass were, it seems, especially addicted to this species of peculation, and generally paused at the top of the pass to refresh themselves after their long and arduous climb. In their eagerness to partake of the strength-giving fluid, some of them often tapped their barrels so hastily that red wine spurted forth, and falling upon the immaculate snow gave it a blood-like tinge.
In punishment for this crime, or for so carelessly guarding their merchandise that they did not even notice when barrels leaked, many pack-drivers are now said to haunt this pass, continually treading the path they once went over. They are tormented by a thirst such as is known by the damned only, and which all the ice, snow, and running streams around there cannot quench. Their only refreshment now comes from the scattered drops remaining here and there upon the snow, or from small libations which compassionate travellers still pour out along the pass, to moisten the parched lips and throats of these unhappy spirits.
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The old and picturesque city of Grandson, on the west shore of Lake Neuchâtel, and in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, is noted in history as the place where, in 1476, fifty thousand Burgundians, under their Duke Charles the Bold, were routed with great slaughter by less than half that number of Swiss patriots. Rich and quaint specimens of the booty secured on that memorable occasion by the victors, still adorn various Swiss museums and arsenals; Soleure exhibiting the costume of Charles’s jester, while Lucerne boasts of the golden Seal of Burgundy.
Many romantic legends are told of the town and castle of Grandson, which were defended by a Bernese patriot, Brandolf of Stein, at the beginning of the Burgundian war. Such was the courage and skill of this commander, that, perceiving he could not secure the town by force, the Count of Romont, Charles’s ally, resorted to stratagem. It succeeded only too well, and the Burgundians were already masters of the town when the first alarm was given, and Stein rushed bravely into the fray at the head of his five hundred men. The Swiss, however, soon saw that the town was lost, and wishing to preserve the castle until his countrymen could send reinforcements to eject the Burgundians, Stein quickly ordered a retreat.
To make sure that the enemy would be held at bay until all his men were safe, and the castle gates duly closed, Stein himself covered their retreat; but at the last moment he was surrounded and overpowered by Romont, who, forcing him to surrender, led him away to his own quarters to await the arrival and decree of the Duke.