Note 1 — Chapter XII · WÄLSCH-TIROL. VAL SUGANA.—GIUDICARIA.—FOLKLORE.

Among the wild and beautiful legends of this part of the valley is a variant of one familiar in every land. A young swain, the maiden of whose choice was called to an early grave, went wandering through the chestnut groves calling for his beloved, till he grew weary with crying, and laid him down in a cave to rest. A sweet sleep visited him, and he found himself in it at home as of old in the Valle del Orco,1 with his Filomena on his arm; he led her to the village church, and the silver-haired pastor gave the marriage blessing, while all the village prayed around. He brought Filomena home to his old house, alle Settepergole,2 his dear old father and mother welcomed her, and she brought sunshine into the cottage; and when they were called away the old walls were yet not without life and joy, for it resounded to the voice of the prattling little ones. The little ones grew up into stalwart lads and lasses, who earned homesteads of their own, and erewhile brought another tribe of prattling little ones to his knee; while Filomena smiled a bright sunshine over all, and they were so happy they prayed it might never end: but one day it seemed that the sunshine of Filomena’s smile was not felt, for she was no longer there; then all grew pale and cold, and with a sudden chill he woke. It was grey morning as he rose from the cave; the cattle were lowing as they were led out to pasture; he looked out towards the chestnut groves, and watched in their waving foliage the strange effect which had been the charm of his childhood, looking like rippled ocean pouring abroad its flood.3 But when he reached the village the sights and sounds were no more so familiar: the old church tower was capped with a steeple, of which he never saw the like; the folk he met by the way were all strangers, and stared at him as at one who comes from far. He wandered up and down all the day, and everything was yet strange. At evening the men came back from the fields, and again they gazed at him estranged: once he made bold to ask them for ‘Zansusa,’ the companion of his boyhood, but they shrugged their shoulders with a ‘Chè Zansusa?’ and passed on. He asked again for ‘Piero,’ almost as dear a friend, and they pointed to a ‘Piero’ with not one feature like his Peter. Once again he asked for ‘Franceschi,’ and they pointed to a grave, where his name was written indeed—‘Franceschi,’ who but the day before had walked with him in full life and health, to hang a fresh wreath on Filomena’s cross! Ah! there was Filomena’s cross, but how changed was that too! the bright gilding, on which his savings had been so willingly lavished, was tarnished and weather-worn, and not a leaf of his garland remained round it. He wandered no further, nor sought to fathom the mystery more; he knelt on the only spot of earth that had any charm for him. As his knees touched the hallowed soil consoling thoughts of her undying affection overflowed him. ‘Here we are united again,’ he said; ‘in a little while we shall be united for ever.’ ‘At last have I found thee! these fifty years I have sought thee in vain!’ The moonbeam kissed his forehead as he looked up, and the moonbeam bore her who had spoken. A fair form she wore, but still it was not the form of Filomena. ‘Who are you, and wherefore sought you me?’ he asked. ‘I am Death,’ replied the pale maiden, ‘and for fifty years I have sought thee to lead thee to Filomena.’ She beckoned as she spoke, and willingly he followed her whither the moonbeam led.