season, let fall
on them sheafs of light. The sun flamed, somewhat destructive and sad,
above those yellow leaves which were drying up--

And Ramuntcho, in his slow promenade, felt more and more what intimate
ties, singularly persistent, would attach him always to this region of
the earth, harsh and enclosed, even if he were there alone, abandoned,
without friends, without a wife and without a mother--

Now, the high mass rings! And the vibrations of that bell impress him
with a strange emotion that he did not expect. Formerly, its familiar
appeal was an appeal to joy and to pleasure--

He stops, he hesitates, in spite of his actual religious unbelief and
in spite of his grudge against that church which has taken his betrothed
away from him. The bell seems to invite him to-day in so special
a manner, with so peaceful and caressing a voice: "Come, come; let
yourself be rocked as your ancestors were; come, poor, desolate being,
let yourself be caught by the lure which will make your tears fall
without bitterness, and will help you to die--"

Undecided, resisting still, he walks, however, toward the church--when
Arrochkoa appears!

Arrochkoa, whose catlike mustache has lengthened a great deal and whose
feline expression is accentuated, runs to him with extended hands, with
an effusion that he did not expect, in an enthusiasm, perhaps sincere,
for that ex-sergeant who has such a grand air, who wears the ribbon of a
medal and whose adventures have made a stir in the land:

"Ah, my Ramuntcho, when did you arrive?--Oh, if I could have
prevented--What do you think of my old, hardened mother and of all those
church bigots?--Oh, I did not tell you: I have a son, since two months;
a fine little fellow! We have so many things to say, my poor friend, so
many things!--"

The bell rings, rings, fills the air more and more with its soft appeal,
very grave and somewhat imposing also.

"You are not going there, I suppose?" asks Arrochkoa, pointing to the
church.

"No, oh, no," replies Ramuntcho, sombrely decided.

"Well come then, let us go in here and taste the new cider of your
country!--"

To the smugglers' cider mill, he brings him; both, near the open window,
sit as formerly, looking outside;--and this place also, these old
benches, these casks in a line in the back, these same images on the
wall, are there to recall to Ramuntcho the delicious times of the past,
the times that are finished.

The weather is adorably