the strength and agility of a Tyrol hunter,--an angel in the
guise of a hunter, as the chronicles of the time prefer to say.

The Martinswand is a grand mountain, being one of the spurs of
the greater Sonnstein, and rises precipitously, looming, massive
and lofty, like a very fortress for giants, where it stands right
across that road which, if you follow it long enough, takes you
through Zell to Landeck,--old, picturesque, poetic Landeck, where
Frederick of the Empty Pockets rhymed his sorrows in ballads to
his people,--and so on by Bludenz into Switzerland itself, by as
noble a highway as any traveller can ever desire to traverse on a
summer's day. It is within a mile of the little burg of Zell,
where the people, in the time of their emperor's peril, came out
with torches and bells, and the Host lifted up by their priest,
and all prayed on their knees underneath the steep, gaunt pile of
limestone, that is the same today as it was then, whilst Kaiser
Max is dust; it soars up on one side of this road, very steep and
very majestic, having bare stone at its base, and being all along
its summit crowned with pine woods; and on the other side of the
road are a little stone church, quaint and low, and gray with
age, and a stone farmhouse, and cattle-sheds, and timber-sheds,
all of wood that is darkly brown from time; and beyond these are
some of the most beautiful meadows in the world, full of tall
grass and countless flowers, with pools and little estuaries made
by the brimming Inn River that flows by them; and beyond the
river are the glaciers of the Sonnstein and the Selrain and the
wild Arlberg region, and the golden glow of sunset in the west,
most often seen from here through the veil of falling rain.

At this farmhouse, with Martinswand towering above it, and Zell