s are not
coming, well! so much the worse, they will go alone, carry to the house
over there, the smuggled boxes. It is risking terribly, but the idea is
in their heads and nothing can stop them.

"You," says Itchoua to Ramuntcho, in his manner which admits of no
discussion, "you shall be the one to watch the bark, since you have
never been in the path that we are taking; you shall tie it to the
bottom, but not too solidly, do you hear? We must be ready to run if the
carbineers arrive."

So they go, all the others, their shoulders bent under the heavy loads,
the rustling, hardly perceptible, of their march is lost at once on the
quay which is so deserted and so black, in the midst of the monotonous
dripping of the rain. And Ramuntcho, who has remained alone, crouches
at the bottom of the skiff to be less visible becomes immovable again,
under the incessant sprinkling of the rain, which falls now regular and
tranquil.

They are late, the comrades--and by degrees, in this inactivity and this
silence, an irresistible numbness comes to him, almost a sleep.

But now a long form, more sombre than all that is sombre, passes by him,
passes very quickly,--always in this same absolute silence which is the
characteristic of these nocturnal undertakings: one of the large Spanish
barks!--Yet, thinks he, since all are at anchor, since this one has no
sails nor oars--then, what?--It is I, myself, who am passing!--and he
has understood: his skiff was too lightly tied, and the current, which
is very rapid here, is dragging him:--and he is very far away, going
toward the mouth of the Bidassoa, toward the breakers, toward the sea--

An anxiety has taken hold of him, almost an anguish--What will he
do?--What complicates everything is that he must act without a cry of
appeal, without a word, for, all along this coast, which seems to be the
land of emptiness and of darkness, there are carbineers, placed in
an interminable cordon and watching Spain every night as if it were a
forbidden land--He tries with one of the long oars to push the bottom
in order to return backward;--but there is no more bottom; he feels only
the inconsistency of the fleeting and black water, he is already in the
profound pass--Then, let him row, in spite of everything, and so much
for the worse--!

With great trouble, his forehead perspiring, he brings back alone
against the current the heavy bark, worried, at every stroke of the oar,
by the small, disclosing g