beautiful; the sky retains a rare limpidity;
through the air passes that special scent of falling seasons, scent of
woods despoiled, of dead leaves that the sun overheats on the soil. Now,
after the absolute calm of the morning, rises a wind of autumn, a chill
of November, announcing clearly, but with a melancholy almost charming,
that the winter is near--a southern winter, it is true, a softened
winter, hardly interrupting the life of the country. The gardens and all
the old walls are still ornamented with roses--!

At first they talk of indifferent things while drinking their cider, of
Ramuntcho's travels, of what happened in the country during his absence,
of the marriages which occurred or were broken. And, to those two rebels
who have fled from the church, all the sounds of the mass come during
their talk, the sounds of the small bells and the sounds of the organ,
the ancient songs that fill the high, sonorous nave--

At last, Arrochkoa returns to the burning subject:

"Oh, if you had been here it would not have occurred!--And even now, if
she saw you--"

Ramuntcho looks at him then, trembling at what he imagines he
understands:

"Even now?--What do you mean?"

"Oh, women--with them, does one ever know?--She cared a great deal for
you and it was hard for her.--In these days there is no law to keep her
there!--How little would I care if she broke her vows--"

Ramuntcho turns his head, lowers his eyes, says nothing, strikes the
soil with his foot. And, in the silence, the impious thing which he had
hardly dared to formulate to himself, seems to him little by little less
chimerical, attainable, almost easy.--No, it is not impossible to regain
her. And, if need be, doubtless, Arrochkoa, her own brother, would lend
a hand. Oh, what a temptation and what a new disturbance in his mind--!

Drily he asks, "Where is she?--Far from here?"

"Far enough, yes. Over there, toward Navarre, five or six hours of
a carriage drive. They have changed her convent twice. She lives at
Amezqueta now, beyond the oak forests of Oyanzabal; the road is through
Mendichoco; you know, we must have gone through it together one night
with Itchoua."

The high mass is ended.--Groups pass: women, pretty girls, elegant in
demeanor, among whom Gracieuse is no more: many Basque caps lowered on
sunburnt foreheads. And all these faces turn to look at the two cider
drinkers at their window. The wind, that blows stronger, makes dance
around their