ess. At the fall of night, then, they turn toward this place, which
is near Spain. They go by the same little Pyrenean routes, shady and
solitary under the old oaks that are shedding their leaves, among slopes
richly carpeted with moss and rusty ferns. And now there are ravines
where torrents roar, and then heights from which appear on all sides the
tall, sombre peaks.

At first it was cold, a real cold, lashing the face and the chest. But
now gusts begin to pass astonishingly warm and perfumed with the scent
of plants: the southern wind, rising again, bringing back suddenly the
illusion of summer. And then, it becomes for them a delicious sensation
to go through the air, so brusquely changed, to go quickly under
the lukewarm breaths, in the noise of their horse's bells galloping
playfully in the mountains.

Zitzarry, a smugglers' village, a distant village skirting the frontier.
A dilapidated inn where, according to custom, the rooms for the men
are directly above the stables, the black stalls. They are well-known
travelers there, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, and while men are lighting
the fire for them they sit near an antique, mullioned window, which
overlooks the square of the ball-game and the church; they see the
tranquil, little life of the day ending in this place so separated from
the world.

On this solemn square, the children practice the national game; grave
and ardent, already strong, they throw their pelota against the wall,
while, in a singing voice and with the needful intonation, one of
them counts and announces the points, in the mysterious tongue of the
ancestors. Around them, the tall houses, old and white, with warped
walls, with projecting rafters, contemplate through their green or red
windows those little players, so lithe, who run in the twilight like
young cats. And the carts drawn by oxen return from the fields, with
the noise of bells, bringing loads of wood, loads of gorse or of dead
ferns--The night falls, falls with its peace and its sad cold. Then,
the angelus rings--and there is, in the entire village, a tranquil,
prayerful meditation--

Then Ramuntcho, silent, worries about his destiny, feels as if he were
a prisoner here, with his same aspirations always, toward something
unknown, he knows not what, which troubles him at the approach of night.
And his heart also fills up, because he is alone and without support in
the world, because Gracieuse is in a situation different from his and
m