uniquely devoted to him?--Oh,
terrible, foreign pressure, surely--And then, when they come face to
face again, who knows?--When they talk, with his eyes in her eyes?--But
what can he expect that is reasonable and possible?--In his native land
has a nun ever broken her eternal vows to follow one to whom she was
engaged? And besides, where would they go to live together afterward,
when folks would get out of their way, would fly from them as
renegades?--To America perhaps, and even there!--And how could he
take her from these white houses of the dead where the sisters live,
eternally watched?--Oh, no, all this is a chimera which may not be
realized--All is at an end, all is finished hopelessly--!

Then, the sadness which comes to him from Gracieuse is forgotten for a
moment, and he feels nothing except an outburst of his heart toward his
mother, toward his mother who remains to him, who is there, very near, a
little upset, doubtless, by the joyful trouble of waiting for him.

And now, on the left of his route, is a humble hamlet, half hidden in
the beeches and the oaks, with its ancient chapel,--and with its wall
for the pelota game, under very old trees, at the crossing of two paths.
At once, in Ramuntcho's youthful head, the course of thoughts changes
again: that little wall with rounded top, covered with wash of kalsomine
and ochre, awakens tumultuously in him thoughts of life, of force and of
joy; with a childish ardor he says to himself that to-morrow he will be
able to return to that game of the Basques, which is an intoxication of
movement and of rapid skill; he thinks of the grand matches on Sundays
after vespers, of the glory of the fine struggles with the champions of
Spain, of all this deprivation of his years of exile. But it is a very
short instant, and mortal despair comes back to him: his triumphs on the
squares, Gracieuse shall not see them; then, what is the use!--Without
her, all things, even these, fall back discolored, useless and vain, do
not even exist--

Etchezar!--Etchezar, is revealed suddenly at a turn of the road!--It
is in a red light, something like a fantasmagoria image, illuminated
purposely in a special manner in the midst of grand backgrounds of shade
and of night. It is the hour of the setting sun. Around the isolated
village, which the old, heavy belfry, surmounts, a last sheaf of rays
traces a halo of the color of copper and gold, while clouds--and a
gigantic obscurity emanating from