'By all means,' answered the corporal, rapping on the table.
'Ah!' he continued; 'you should see Maria Sonnenberg! It stands above the lake Uri, on a precipice, a little white chapel with a red-tiled roof, and a spirelet—so pretty; and within is the dear Lady who was found in a rose-bush.'
'So was our Lady of La Couture,' exclaimed Gabrielle.
'The Blessed Virgin of Sonnenberg was discovered by a shepherd-lad. His sheep strayed—and he followed them, and, lo! there was the beautiful image in a bush of blushing wild-roses.'
'It was the same exactly with our holy Virgin at my home.'
'How beautiful! Maria sey gelobt!' exclaimed Nicholas, clapping his hands, as a smile shone from his full honest face; 'you see the Holy Virgin loves equally our Switzerland and your Normandy.'
'And then,' pursued the corporal, with his usual gravity; 'there is the Virgin of Sarnen—of the convent there. That is a famous pilgrimage shrine. It came to pass thus:—One Christmas Eve all the sisters had gone to midnight mass, and they left one poor nun very sick upon her pallet in her cell. She was sorely grieved not to be able to assist at the holy mass, and she prayed with her face towards an image of the Virgin and Child. And, lo! as she prayed, the Mother raised the sacred infant, and the Divine Child smiled upon her and gave her the blessing with his little hand. When the sisters returned from the chapel, they found the nun in a rapture; and when she had recovered, she told all that had befallen her. I have seen the very statue——'
'And so have I,' said Nicholas, rubbing his hands.
'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.'