between the towns of Sion and St. Maurice, like an elbow and becomes
so narrow at Maurice, that there only remains sufficient room for the
river bed and a cart way. Here an old tower stands like a sentry
before the Canton Valais; it ends at this point and overlooks the
bridge, which has a wall towards the custom-house. Now begins the
Canton called Pays de Vaud and the nearest town is Bex, where
everything becomes luxuriant and fruitful--one is in a garden of
walnut and chestnut trees and here and there, cypress and pomegranate
blossoms peep out--it is as warm as the South; one imagines one's self
transplanted into Italy.

Rudy reached Bex, accomplished his business and looked about him, but
he did not see a single miller's boy, not to speak of Babette. It
appeared as though they were not to meet.

It was evening, the air was heavy with the wild thyme and blooming
linden, a glistening veil lay over the forest-clad mountains, there
was a stillness over everything, but not the quiet of sleep. It seemed
as though all nature retained her breath, as if she felt disposed to
allow her image to be imprinted upon the firmament.

Here and there, there were poles standing on the green fields, between
the trees; they held the telegraph wire, which has been conducted
through this peaceful valley. An object leant against one of these
poles, so immoveable, that one might have taken it for a withered
trunk of a tree; but it was Rudy. He slept not and still less was he
dead; but as the most important events of this earth, as well as
affairs of vital moment for individuals pass over the wires, without
their giving out a tone or a tremulous movement, even so flashed
through Rudy, thoughts--powerful, overwhelming, speaking of the