ladies from foreign lands, and crowds of country people from the
neighboring cantons, were assembled in the town. Each marksman wore the
number of hits he had made twisted in a garland round his hat. Here were
music and singing of all descriptions: hand-organs, trumpets, shouting, and
noise. The houses and bridges were adorned with verses and inscriptions.
Flags and banners were waving. Shot after shot was fired, which was the
best music to Rudy’s ears. And amidst all this excitement he quite forgot
Babette, on whose account only he had come. The shooters were thronging
round the target, and Rudy was soon amongst them. But when he took his
turn to fire, he proved himself the best shot, for he always struck the bull’s-
eye.
“Who may that young stranger be?” was the inquiry on all sides. “He
speaks French as it is spoken in the Swiss cantons.”
“And makes himself understood very well when he speaks German,” said
some.
“He lived here, when a child, with his grandfather, in a house on the road
to Grindelwald,” remarked one of the sportsmen.
And full of life was this young stranger; his eyes sparkled, his glance was
steady, and his arm sure, therefore he always hit the mark. Good fortune
gives courage, and Rudy was always courageous. He soon had a circle of
friends gathered round him. Every one noticed him, and did him homage.
Babette had quite vanished from his thoughts, when he was struck on the
shoulder by a heavy hand, and a deep voice said to him in French, “You are
from the canton Valais.”
Rudy turned round, and beheld a man with a ruddy, pleasant face, and a
stout figure. It was the rich miller from Bex. His broad, portly person, hid
the slender, lovely Babette; but she came forward and glanced at him with
her bright, dark eyes. The rich miller was very much flattered at the thought
that the young man, who was acknowledged to be the best shot, and was so
praised by every one, should be from his own canton. Now was Rudy really
fortunate: he had travelled all this way to this place, and those he had
