cably similar, persists the same flame, that
flame which impelled one toward adventures and the life of the muscles,
the other toward mystic dreams, toward mortification and annihilation of
flesh. But she has become as frail as he is robust; her breast doubtless
is no more, nor her hips; the black vestment wherein her body remains
hidden falls straight like a furrow enclosing nothing carnal.

And now, for the first time, they are face to face, Gracieuse and
Ramuntcho; their eyes have met and gazed on one another. She does not
lower her head before him; but it is as from an infinite distance that
she looks at him, it is as from behind white mists that none may scale,
as from the other side of an abyss, as from the other side of death;
very soft, nevertheless, her glance indicates that she is as if she
were absent, gone to tranquil and inaccessible other places.--And it is
Ramuntcho at last who, still more tamed, lowers his ardent eyes before
her virgin eyes.

They continue to babble, the Sisters; they would like to retain them
both at Amezqueta for the night: the weather, they say, is so black,
and a storm threatens.--M. the Cure, who went out to take communion to
a patient in the mountain, will come back; he has known Arrochkoa at
Etchezar when a vicar there; he would be glad to give him a room in the
parish house--and one to his friend also, of course--

But no, Arrochkoa refuses, after a questioning glance at Ramuntcho.
It is impossible to stay in the village; they will even go at once,
or after a few moments of conversation, for they are expected on the
Spanish frontier.--Gracieuse who, at first, in her mortal disturbance
of mind, had not dared to talk, begins to question her brother. Now in
Basque, then in French, she asks for news of those whom she has forever
abandoned:

"And mother? All alone now in the house, even at night?"

"Oh, no," says Arrochkoa, "Catherine watches over her and sleeps at the
house."

"And how is your child, Arrochkoa, has he been christened? What is his
name? Lawrence, doubtless, like his grandfather."

Etchezar, their village, is separated from Amezqueta by some sixty
kilometres, in a land without more means of communication than in the
past centuries:

"Oh, in spite of the distance," says the little nun, "I get news of
you sometimes. Last month, people here had met on the market place of
Hasparren, women of our village; that is how I learned--many things.--At
Easter I had hoped