In a picturesque little chalet high up in the mountains, covered with
snow and edelweiss (which is a flower that grows in the Alps, and you
are not allowed to pick it), dwelt William Tell, his wife Hedwig, and
his two sons, Walter and William. Such a remarkable man was Tell that I
think I must devote a whole chapter to him and his exploits. There was
really nothing he could not do. He was the best shot with the cross-bow
in the whole of Switzerland. He had the courage of a lion, the
sure-footedness of a wild goat, the agility of a squirrel, and a
beautiful beard. If you wanted someone to hurry across desolate
ice-fields, and leap from crag to crag after a chamois, Tell was the
man for your money. If you wanted a man to say rude things to the
Governor, it was to Tell that you applied first. Once when he was
hunting in the wild ravine of Schachenthal, where men were hardly
ever to be seen, he met the Governor face to face. There was no way
of getting past. On one side the rocky wall rose sheer up, while below
the river roared. Directly Gessler caught sight of Tell striding along
with his cross-bow, his cheeks grew pale and his knees tottered, and he
sat down on a rock feeling very unwell indeed.

"Aha!" said Tell. "Oho! so it's you, is it? _I_ know you. And a
nice sort of person you are, with your taxes on bread and sheep, aren't
you! You'll come to a bad end one of these days, that's what will
happen to you. Oh, you old reprobate! Pooh!" And he had passed on with
a look of scorn, leaving Gessler to think over what he had said. And
Gessler ever since had had a grudge against him, and was only waiting
for a chance of paying him out.

"Mark my words," said Tell's wife, Hedwig, when her husband told her
about it after supper that night--"mark my words, he will never