Midnight, a winter night, black as Hades, with great wind and whipping rain. By the side of the Bidassoa, in the midst of a confused extent of ground with treacherous¹ soil that evokes² ideas of chaos³, in slime that their feet penetrate⁴, men are carrying boxes on their shoulders and, walking in the water to their knees, come to throw them into a long thing, blacker than night, which must be a bark—a suspicious bark without a light, tied near the bank.
 
It is again Itchoua's band, which this time will work by the river. They have slept for a few moments, all dressed, in the house of a receiver who lives near the water, and, at the needed hour, Itchoua, who never closes but one eye, has shaken his men; then, they have gone out with hushed tread, into the darkness, under the cold shower propitious⁵ to smuggling⁶.
 
On the road now, with the oars⁸, to Spain whose fires may be seen at a distance, confused by the rain. The weather is let loose; the shirts of the men are already wet, and, under the caps pulled over their eyes, the wind slashes⁹ the ears. Nevertheless, thanks to the vigor¹⁰ of their arms, they were going quickly and well, when suddenly appeared in the obscurity something like a monster gliding¹¹ on the waters. Bad business! It is the patrol boat which promenades¹² every night. Spain's customs officers. In haste, they must change their direction, use artifice¹³, lose precious time, and they are so belated already.
 
At last they have arrived without obstacle near the Spanish shore, among the large fishermen's barks which, on stormy nights, sleep there on their chains, in front of the “Marine” of Fontarabia. This is the perilous¹⁴ instant. Happily, the rain is faithful to them and falls still in torrents¹⁵. Lowered in their skiff to be less visible, having ceased to talk, pushing the bottom with their oars in order to make less noise, they approach softly, softly, with pauses as soon as something has seemed to budge¹⁶, in the midst of so much diffuse¹⁷ black, of shadows without outlines.
 
Now they are crouched¹⁸ against one of these large, empty barks and almost touching¹⁹ the earth. And this is the place agreed upon, it is there that the comrades of the other country should be to receive them and to carry their boxes to the receiving house—There is nobody there, however!—Where are they?—The first moments are passed in a sort of paroxysm of expectation and of watching, which doubles the power of hearing and of seeing. With eyes dilated²⁰, and ears extended, they watch, under the monotonous²¹ dripping of the rain—But where are the Spanish comrades? Doubtless the hour has passed, because of this accursed custom house patrol which has disarranged the voyage, and, believing that the undertaking²² has failed this time, they have gone back—
 
Several minutes flow, in the same immobility and the same silence. They distinguish, around them, the large, inert²³ barks, similar to floating bodies of beasts, and then, above the waters, a mass of obscurities denser²⁴ than the obscurities of the sky and which are the houses, the mountains of the shore—They wait, without a movement, without a word. They seem to be ghosts of boatmen near a dead city.
 
Little by little the tension of their senses weakens, a lassitude comes to them with the need of sleep—and they would sleep there, under this winter rain, if the place were not so dangerous.
 
Itchoua then consults in a low voice, in Basque language, the two eldest²⁵, and they decide to do a bold thing. Since the others are not coming, well! so much the worse, they will go alone, carry to the house over there, the smuggled²⁶ 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 bent²⁷ under the heavy loads, the rustling²⁸, hardly perceptible, of their march is lost at once on the quay²⁹ which is so deserted³⁰ and so black, in the midst of the monotonous dripping of the rain. And Ramuntcho, who has remained alone, crouches³¹ at the bottom of the skiff to be less visible becomes immovable again, under the incessant³² sprinkling of the rain, which falls now regular and tranquil³³.
 
They are late, the comrades—and by degrees, in this inactivity and this silence, an irresistible³⁴ numbness³⁵ 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 undertakings³⁶: 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 anguish³⁷—What will he do?—What complicates³⁸ 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 cordon³⁹ 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 fleeting⁴⁰ 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 perspiring⁴¹, he br............