I will go,
and try to stand first in the match. Babette will be there, and I
shall be able to make her acquaintance."

Carrying his light knapsack, which contained his Sunday clothes,
on his back, and with his musket and his game-bag over his shoulder,
Rudy started to take the shortest way across the mountain. Still it
was a great distance. The shooting matches were to commence on that
day, and to continue for a whole week. He had been told also that
the miller and Babette would remain that time with some relatives at
Interlachen. So over the Gemmi Rudy climbed bravely, and determined to
descend the side of the Grindelwald. Bright and joyous were his
feelings as he stepped lightly onwards, inhaling the invigorating
mountain air. The valley sunk as he ascended, the circle of the
horizon expanded. One snow-capped peak after another rose before
him, till the whole of the glittering Alpine range became visible.
Rudy knew each ice-clad peak, and he continued his course towards
the Schreckhorn, with its white powdered stone finger raised high in
the air. At length he had crossed the highest ridges, and before him
lay the green pasture lands sloping down towards the valley, which was
once his home. The buoyancy of the air made his heart light. Hill
and valley were blooming in luxuriant beauty, and his thoughts were
youthful dreams, in which old age or death were out of the question.
Life, power, and enjoyment were in the future, and he felt free and
light as a bird. And the swallows flew round him, as in the days of
his childhood, singing "We and you--you and we." All was overflowing
with joy. Beneath him lay the meadows, covered with velvety green,
with the murmuring river flowing through them, and dotted here and
there were small wooden houses. He could see the edges of the
glaciers, looking like green glass against the soiled snow, and the
deep chasms beneath the loftiest glacier. The church bells were
ringing, as if to welcome him to his home with their sweet tones.
His heart beat quickly, and for a moment he seemed to have
foregotten Babette, so full were his thoughts of old recollections. He
was, in imagination, once more wandering on the road where, when a
little boy, he, with other children, came to sell their curiously
carved toy houses. Yonder, behind the fir-trees, still stood his
grandfather's house, his mother's father, but strangers dwelt in it
now. Children came running to him, as he had once done, and wished