ch seems to the men of
the other countries in Europe more distant than Mongolian or Sanskrit.
They tell stories of the night and of the frontier, stratagems newly
invented and astonishing deceptions of Spanish carbineers. Itchoua, the
chief, listens more than he talks; one hears only at long intervals his
profound voice of a church singer vibrate. Arrochkoa, the most elegant
of all, is in striking contrast with his comrades of the mountain. (His
name was Jean Detcharry, but he was known only by his surname, which the
elders of his family transmitted from father to son for centuries.) A
smuggler for his pleasure, he, without any necessity, and possessing
beautiful lands in the sunlight; the face fresh and pretty, the blonde
mustache turned up in the fashion of cats, the eye feline also, the
eye caressing and fleeting; attracted by all that succeeds, by all that
amuses, by all that shines; liking Ramuntcho for his triumphs in the
ball-game, and quite disposed to give to him the hand of his sister,
Gracieuse, even if it were only to oppose his mother, Dolores. And
Florentino, the other great friend of Ramuntcho is, on the contrary,
the humblest of the band; an athletic, reddish fellow, with wide and
low forehead, with good eyes of resignation, soft as those of beasts of
burden; without father or mother, possessing nothing in the world except
a threadbare costume and three pink cotton shirts; unique lover of a
little fifteen year old orphan, as poor as he and as primitive.

At last Itchoua deigns to talk in his turn. He relates, in a tone of
mystery and of confidence, a certain tale of the time of his youth, in
a black night, on the Spanish territory, in the gorges of Andarlaza.
Seized by two carbineers at the turn in a dark path, he had disengaged
himself by drawing his knife to stab a chest with it: half a second,
a resisting flesh, then, crack! the blade entering brusquely, a jet of
warm blood on his hand, the man fallen, and he, fleeing in the obscure
rocks--

And the voice which says these things with implacable tranquility, is
the same which for years sings piously every Sunday the liturgy in the
old sonorous church,--so much so that it seems to retain a religious and
almost sacred character--!

"When you are caught"--adds the speaker, scrutinizing them all with his
eyes, become piercing again--"When you are caught--What is the life of a
man worth in such a case? You would not hesitate, either, I suppose, if
you we