Now they open, to the beautiful April morning, the shutters¹ of their narrow windows, pierced like portholes in the thickness of the very old wall.
 
And suddenly, it is a flood of light that dazzles their eyes. Outside, the spring is resplendent. Never had they seen, before this, summits so high and so near. But along the slopes full of leaves, along the mountains decked with trees, the sun descends² to radiate in this valley on the whiteness of the village, on the kalsomine of the ancient houses with green shutters.
 
Both awakened³ with veins⁴ full of youth and hearts full of joy. They have formed the project this morning to go into the country, to the house of Madame Dargaignaratz's cousins, and see the two little girls, who must have arrived the night before in the carriage, Gracieuse and Pantchika.—After a glance at the ball-game square, where they shall return to practice in the afternoon, they go on their way through small paths, magnificently green, hidden in the depths of the valleys, skirting the cool torrents⁵. The foxglove flowers start everywhere like long, pink rockets above the light and infinite mass of ferns.
 
It is at a long distance, it seems, that house of the Olhagarray cousins, and they stop from time to time to ask the way from shepherds, or they knock at the doors of solitary⁷ houses, here and there, under the cover of branches. They had never seen Basque houses so old nor so primitive⁸, under the shade of chestnut⁹ trees so tall.
 
The ravines through which they advance are strangely enclosed. Higher than all these woods of oaks and of beeches¹⁰, which seem as if suspended above, appear ferocious¹¹, denuded¹² summits, a zone abrupt¹³ and bald, sombre brown, making points in the violent blue of the sky. But here, underneath¹⁴, is the sheltered and mossy region, green and deep, which the sun never burns and where April has hidden its luxury, freshly superb.
 
And they also, the two who are passing through these paths of foxglove and of fern, participate in this splendor¹⁵ of spring.
 
Little by little, in their enjoyment¹⁶ at being there, and under the influence of this ageless place, the old instincts to hunt and to destroy are lighted in the depths of their minds. Arrochkoa, excited, leaps from right to left, from left to right, breaks, uproots¹⁷ grasses and flowers; troubles about everything that moves in the green foliage¹⁸, about the lizards¹⁹ that might be caught, about the birds that might be taken out of their nests, and about the beautiful trout²⁰ swimming in the water; he jumps, he leaps; he wishes he had fishing lines, sticks, guns; truly he reveals his savagery²¹ in the bloom of his robust²² eighteen years.—Ramuntcho calms himself quickly; after breaking a few branches, plucking a few flowers, he begins to meditate²³; and he thinks—
 
Here they are stopped now at a cross-road where no human habitation is visible. Around them are gorges²⁴ full of shade wherein grand oaks grow thickly, and above, everywhere, a piling up of mountains, of a reddish color burned by the sun. There is nowhere an indication of the new times; there is an absolute silence, something like the peace of the primitive epochs. Lifting their heads toward the brown peaks, they perceive at a long distance persons walking on invisible paths, pushing before them donkeys of smugglers: as small as insects at such a distance, are these silent passers-by on the flank of the gigantic mountain; Basques of other times, almost confused, as one looks at them from this place, with this reddish earth from which they came—and where they are to return, after having lived like their ancestors without a suspicion of the things of our times, of the events of other places—
 
They take off their caps, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, to wipe their foreheads; it is so warm in these gorges and they have run so much, jumped so much, that their entire bodies are in a perspiration²⁶. They are enjoying themselves, but they would like to come, nevertheless, near the two little, blonde girls who are waiting for them. But of whom shall they ask their way now, since there is no one?
 
“Ave Maria,” cries at them from the thickness of the branches an old, rough voice.
 
And the salutation is prolonged by a string of words spoken in a rapid decrescendo, quick; quick; a Basque prayer rattled²⁷ breathlessly, begun very loudly, then dying at the finish. And an old beggar comes out of the fern, all earthy,............