ver, Gracieuse has been taken away from
you and is in prison--" The rents in his heart, every accident in the
path renewed and changed them. And, in the depth of his being, as a
constant basis for his reflections, this other anxiety endured: his
mother, his mother very ill, in mortal danger, perhaps--!

He met people who stopped him, with a kind and welcoming air, who talked
to him in the dear Basque tongue--ever alert and sonorous despite its
incalculable antiquity; old Basque caps, old white heads, liked to talk
of the ball-game to this fine player returned to his cradle. And then,
at once, after the first words of greeting, smiles went out, in spite of
this clear sun in this blue sky, and all were disturbed by the thought
of Gracieuse in a veil and of Franchita dying.

A violent flush of blood went up to his face when he caught sight of
Dolores, at a distance, going into her home. Very decrepit, that one,
and wearing a prostrate air! She had recognized him, for she turned
quickly her obstinate and hard head, covered by a mourning mantilla.
With a sentiment of pity at seeing her so undone, he reflected that she
had struck herself with the same blow, and that she would be alone now
in her old age and at her death--

On the square, he met Marcos Iragola who informed him that he was
married, like Florentino--and with the little friend of his childhood,
he also.

"I did not have to serve in the army," Iragola explained, "because we
are Guipuzcoans, immigrants in France; so I could marry her earlier!"

He, twenty-one years old; she eighteen; without lands and without a
penny, Marcos and Pilar, but joyfully associated all the same, like
two sparrows building their nest. And the very young husband added
laughingly:

"What would you? Father said: 'As long as you do not marry I warn you
that I shall give you a little brother every year.' And he would have
done it! There are already fourteen of us, all living--"

Oh, how simple and natural they are! How wise and humbly
happy!--Ramuntcho quitted him with some haste, with a heart more bruised
for having spoken to him, but wishing very sincerely that he should be
happy in his improvident, birdlike, little home.

Here and there, folks were seated in front of their doors, in that sort
of atrium of branches which precedes all the houses of this country.
And their vaults of plane-trees, cut in the Basque fashion, which in the
summer are so impenetrable all open worked in this