The robbers were driven off; we spent a fortnight in a near-by monastery, that our wounds might heal, and again started for Basel.
During the last week in March we approached Basel.

Max had saved the merchant's life; we had protected the caravan from robbery; and good Franz was grateful.

Notwithstanding our sure reward, Max was gloomy.

The future had lost its rosiness; his wound did not readily heal; Basel was half a hundred leagues off our road to Burgundy.

Why did we ever come to Switzerland?
Everything was wrong.