Sigmair was shot at the age of thirty-six, honored for his valor, but
still more for his filial piety.

We were now standing on the very spot, before the humble, whitewashed
chapel. Above the entrance, which was closed, a rude fresco, much
injured by weather, commemorated the deed. Some soldiers in very
high-waisted regimentals were taking aim at Peter Sigmair, who knelt
blindfolded, wearing the full peasant costume, which, more ordinary
in those days, is still used for marriages, and is consequently
represented even now on mortuary tablets as indicative of the heavenly
wedding-garment.

After seeing the now desolate, forsaken chapel, we bent our steps into
the village to visit the Wirth-haus. A friendly, quiet peasant-woman
met us in the dark passage, and showed us into a clean, comfortable
wainscoted room, the _zechstube_. We ordered some wine for the good of
the house, which was brought by an equally quiet peasant-man. Setting
it on the table, he hovered about the room in an uncertain way, but
confided to us eventually that he was the landlord. The woman then
came and introduced herself as his sister, and they both stood
silently before us in a house as silent as themselves, the great
festival at the neighboring hamlet having probably thinned their
custom. It was evident that they had plenty of leisure to answer any
questions, and we had soon learned from them that the old Tharer-wirth
was their grandfather.

"You must know," said the sister, "I have read in big printed letters
that Onkel Peter's little children, holding up their little hands,
prayed the cruel general with tears to spare their father. It is a
pity that what is put in print can never be altered, because he had no