ens, the vicar is fettered two or three
times by his black cassock, and the adverse camp, at first distanced,
little by little catches up, then, in presence of this game so
valiantly disputed, clamor redoubles and caps fly in the air, thrown by
enthusiastic hands.

Now the points are equal on both sides; the crier announces thirty for
each one of the rival camps and he sings the old refrain which is of
tradition immemorial in such cases: "Let bets come forward! Give drink
to the judges and to the players." It is the signal for an instant of
rest, while wine shall be brought into the arena at the cost of the
village. The players sit down, and Ramuntcho takes a place beside
Gracieuse, who throws on his shoulders, wet with perspiration, the
waistcoat which she was keeping for him, Then he asks of his little
friend to undo the thongs which hold the glove of wood, wicker and
leather on his reddened arm. And he rests in the pride of his success,
seeing only smiles of greeting on the faces of the girls at whom he
looks. But he sees also, on the side opposed to the players' wall, on
the side of the approaching darkness, the archaic assemblage of Basque
houses, the little square of the village with its kalsomined porches and
its old plane-trees, then the old, massive belfry of the church, and,
higher than everything, dominating everything, crushing everything, the
abrupt mass of the Gizune from which comes so much shade, from which
descends on this distant village so hasty an impression of night--Truly
it encloses too much, that mountain, it imprisons, it impresses--And
Ramuntcho, in his juvenile triumph, is troubled by the sentiment of
this, by this furtive and vague attraction of other places so often
mingled with his troubles and with his joys--

The game continues and his thoughts are lost in the physical
intoxication of beginning the struggle again. From instant to instant,
clack! the snap of the pelotas, their sharp noise against the glove
which throws them or the wall which receives them, their same noise
giving the notion of all the strength displayed--Clack! it will snap
till the hour of twilight, the pelota, animated furiously by arms
powerful and young. At times the players, with a terrible shock, stop it
in its flight, with a shock that would break other muscles than theirs.
Most often, sure of themselves, they let it quietly touch the soil,
almost die: it seems as if they would never catch it: and clack! it goes
o