Weeks have elapsed, in preparations, in anxious uncertainties¹ on the manner of acting², in abrupt³ changes of plans and ideas.  
Between times, the reply of Uncle Ignacio has reached Etchezar. If his nephew had spoken sooner, Ignacio has written, he would have been glad to receive him at his house; but, seeing how he hesitated, Ignacio had decided⁴ to take a wife, although he is already an old man, and now he has a child two months old. Therefore, there is no protection to be expected from that side; the exile, when he arrives there, may not find even a home—
 
The family house has been sold, at the notary's money questions have been settled; all the goods of Ramuntcho have been transformed into gold pieces which are in his hand—
 
And now is the day of the supreme⁵ attempt, the great day,—and already the thick foliage⁶ has returned to the trees, the clothing of the tall grass covers anew the prairies; it is May.
 
In the little wagon⁷, which the famous fast horse drags, they roll on the shady mountain paths, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, toward that village of Amezqueta. They roll quickly; they plunge⁸ into the heart of an infinite region of trees. And, as the hour goes by, all becomes more peaceful around them, and more savage¹⁰; more primitive¹¹, the hamlets; more solitary¹², the Basque land.
 
In the shade of the branches, on the borders of the paths, there are pink foxgloves, silences, ferns, almost the same flora¹³ as in Brittany; these two countries, the Basque and the Breton, resemble each other by the granite¹⁴ which is everywhere and by the habitual¹⁵ rain; by the immobility also, and by the continuity of the same religious dream.
 
Above the two young men who have started for the adventure, thicken the big, customary clouds, the sombre and low sky. The route which they follow, in these mountains ever and ever higher, is deliciously green, dug in the shade, between walls of ferns.
 
Immobility of several centuries, immobility in beings and in things,—one has more and more the consciousness of it as one penetrates¹⁷ farther into this country of forests and of silence. Under this obscure veil of the sky, where are lost the summits of the grand Pyrenees, appear and run by, isolated¹⁸ houses, centenary farms, hamlets more and more rare,—and they go always under the same vault¹⁹ of oaks, of ageless chestnut²⁰ trees, which twist even at the side of the path their roots like mossy serpents. They resemble one another, those hamlets separated from one another by so much forest, by so many branches, and inhabited by an antique race, disdainful of all that disturbs, of all that changes: the humble²¹ church, most often without a belfry, with a simple campanila on its gray facade²², and the square, with its wall painted for that traditional ball-game wherein, from father to son, the men exercise their hard muscles. Everywhere reigned²³ the healthy peace of rustic²⁴ life, the traditions of which in the Basque land are more immutable²⁵ than elsewhere.
 
The few woolen²⁶ caps which the two bold young men meet on their rapid passage, incline all in a bow, from general politeness first, and from acquaintance above all, for they are, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, the two celebrated²⁷ pelota players of the country;—Ramuntcho, it is true, had been forgotten by many people, but Arrochkoa, everybody, from Bayonne to San Sebastian, knows his face with healthy colors and the turned up ends of his catlike mustache.
 
Dividing the journey into two stages, they have slept last night at Mendichoco. And at present they are rolling quickly, the two young men, so preoccupied²⁸ doubtless that they hardly care to regulate the pace of their vigorous beast.
 
Itchoua, however, is not with them. At the last moment, a fear has
come to Ramuntcho of this accomplice³⁰, whom he felt to be capable of
everything, even of murder; in a sudden terror, he has refused the aid
of that man, who clutched the bridle³¹ of the horse to prevent it from
starting; and feverishly³², Ramuntcho has thrown gold into his hands, to
pay for his advice, to buy the liberty to act alone, the assurance,
at least, of not committing a crime: piece by piece, to break his
engagement, he has given to Itchoua a half of the agreed price. Then,
when the horse is driven at a gallop³³, when the implacable figure has
vanished behind a group of trees, Ramuntcho has felt his conscience
lighter—
 
 “You will leave my carriage at Aranotz, at Burugoity, the inn-keeper's,
who understands,” said Arrochkoa, “for, you understand, as soon as you
have accomplished³⁴ your end I will leave you.—We have business with the
people of Buruzabal, horses to lead into Spain to-night, not far from
Amezqueta, and I promised to be there before ten o'clock—”
 
What will they do? They do not know, the two allied³⁵ friends; this will depend on the turn that things take; they have different projects, all bold and skilful³⁶, according to the cases which might present themselves. Two places have been reserved, one for Ramuntcho and the other for her, on board a big emigrant³⁷ vessel³⁸ on which the baggage is embarked³⁹ and which will start tomorrow night from Bordeaux carrying hundreds of Basques to America. At this small station of Aranotz, where the carriage will leave both of them, Ramuntcho and Gracieuse, they will take the train for Bayonne, at three o'clock in the morning, and, at Bayonne afterward⁴⁰, the Irun express to Bordeaux. It will be a hasty flight, which will not give to the little fugitive⁴¹ the time to think, to regain⁴² her senses in her terror,—doubtless also in her intoxication⁴³ deliciously mortal—
 
A gown, a mantilla of Gracieuse are all ready, at the bottom of the carriage, to replace the veil and the black uniform: things which she wore formerly⁴⁴, before her vows⁴⁵, and which Arrochkoa found in his mother's closets. And Ramuntcho thinks that it will be perhaps real, in a moment, that she will be perhaps there, at his side, very near, on that narrow seat, enveloped⁴⁶ with him in the same travelling blanket, flying in the midst of night, to belong to him, at once and forever;—and in thinking of this too much, he feels again a shudder⁴⁷ and a dizziness—
 
“I tell you that she will follow you,” repeats his friend, striking him rudely on the leg in protective encouragement, as soon as he sees Ramuntcho sombre and lost in a dream. “I tell you that she will follow you, I am sure! If she hesitates, well, leave the rest to me!”
 
If she hesitates, then they will be violent, they are resolved, oh, not very violent, only enough to unlace the hands of the old nuns⁴⁹ retaining her.—And then, they will carry her into the small wagon, where infallibly the enlacing contact and the tenderness of her former friend will soon turn her young head.
 
How will it all happen? They do not yet know, relying a great deal on their spirit of decision which has already dragged them out of dangerous passes. But what they know is that they will not weaken. And they go ahead, exciting each other; one would say that they are united now unto death, firm and decided like two bandits at the hour when the capital game is to be played.
 
The land of thick branches which they traverse, under the oppression of very high mountains which they do not see, is all in ravines, profound and torn up, in precipices⁵⁰, where torrents⁵¹ roar under the green night of the foliage. The oaks, the beeches⁵², the chestnut trees become more and more enormous, living through centuries off a sap ever fresh and magnificent. A powerful verdure is strewn over that disturbed geology; for ages it covers and classifies it under the freshness of its immovable mantle⁵³. And this nebulous sky, almost obscure, which is familiar to the Basque country, adds to the impression which they have of a sort of universal meditation⁵⁴ wherein the things are plunged⁵⁵; a strange penumbra⁵⁶ descends⁵⁸ from everywhere, descends from the trees at first, descends from the thick, gray veils above the branches, descends from the great Pyrenees hidden behind the clouds.
 
And, in the midst of this immense peace and of this green night, they pass, Ramuntcho and Arrochkoa, like two young disturbers going to break charms in the depths of forests. At all cross roads old, granite crosses rise, like alarm signals to warn them; old crosses with this inscription⁵⁹, sublimely⁶⁰ simple, which is here something like the device of an entire race: “O crux⁶¹, ave, spes unica!”
 
Soon the night will come. Now they are silent, because the hour is going, because the moment approaches, because all these crosses on the road are beginning to intimidate⁶² them—
 
And the day falls, under that sad veil which covers the sky. The valleys become more savage, the country more deserted⁶⁴. And, at the corners of roads, the old crosses appear, ever with their similar inscriptions⁶⁵: “O crux, ave, spes unica!”
 
Amezqueta, at the last twilight⁶⁶. They stop their carriage at an outskirt of the village, before the cider mill. Arrochkoa is impatient to go into the house of the sisters, vexed⁶⁷ at arriving so late; he fears that the door may not be opened to them. Ramuntcho, silent, lets him act.
 
It is above, on the hill; it is that isolated house which a cross surmounts⁶⁸ and which one sees in relief in white on the darker mass of the mountain. They recommend that as soon as the horse is rested the wagon be brought to them, at a turn, to wait for them. Then, both go into the avenue of trees which leads to that convent and where the thickness of the May foliage makes the obscurity almost nocturnal. Without saying anything to each other, without making a noise with their sandals, they ascend⁶⁹ in a supple⁷⁰ and easy manner; around them the profound fields are impregnated by the immense melancholy⁷¹ of the night.
 
Arrochkoa knocks with his finger on the door of the peaceful house:
 
“I would like to see my sister, if you please,” he says to an old nun⁴⁸ who opens the door, astonished—
 
Before he has finished talking, a cry of joy comes from the dark corridor, and a nun, whom one divines is young in spite of the envelopment⁷² of her dissembling costume, comes and takes his hand. She has recognized him by his voice,—but has she divined the other who stays behind and does not talk?—
 
The Mother Superior has come also, and, in the darkness of the stairway, she makes them go up to the parlor⁷³ of the little country convent; then she brings the cane-seat chairs and everyone sits down, Arrochkoa near his sister, Ramuntcho opposite,—and they face each other at last, the two lovers, and a silence, full of the beating of arteries⁷⁴, full of leaps of hearts, full of fever, descends upon them—
 
Truly, in this place, one knows not what peace almost sweet, and a little sepulchral⁷⁵ also, envelopes the terrible interview; in the depth of the chests, the hearts beat with great blows, but the words of love or of violence, the words die before passing the lips.—And this peace, more and more establishes itself; it seems as if a white shroud⁷⁶ little by little is covering everything, in order to calm and to extinguish.
 
There is nothing very peculiar⁷⁷, however, in this humble parlor: four walls absolutely bare under a coat of whitewash⁷⁸; a wooden ceiling; a floor where one slips, so carefully waxed it is; on a table, a plaster Virgin⁷⁹, already indistinct, among all the similar white things of the background where the twilight of May is dying. And a window without curtains, open on the grand Pyrenean horizons invaded by night.—But, from this voluntary poverty, from this white simplicity⁸⁰, is exhaled⁸¹ a notion of definitive⁸² impersonality⁸⁴, of renunciation forever; and the irremediability of accomplished things begins to manifest itself to the mind of Ramuntcho, while bringing to him a sort of peace, of sudden and involuntary resignation.
 
The two smugglers, immovable on their chairs, appear as silhouettes⁸⁶, of wide shoulders on all this white of the walls, and of their lost features one hardly sees the black more intense of the mustache and the eyes. The two nuns, whose outlines are unified⁸⁷ by the veil, seem already to be two spectres all black—
 
“Wait, Sister Mary Angelique,” says the Mother Superior to the transformed young girl who was formerly named Gracieuse, “wait sister till I light the lamp in order that you may at least see your brother's face!”
 
She goes out, leaving them together, and, again, silence falls on this rare instant, perhaps unique, impossible to regain, when they are alone—
 
She comes back with a little lamp which makes the eyes of the smugglers shine,—and with a gay voice, a kind air, asks, looking at Ramuntcho:
 
“And this one? A second brother, I suppose?—”
 
“Oh, no,” says Arrochkoa in a singular tone. “He is only my friend.”
 
In truth, he is not their brother, that Ramuntcho who stays there, ferocious⁸⁸ and mute.—And how he would frighten the quiet nuns if they knew what storm brings him here—!
 
The same silence returns, heavy and disquieting⁸⁹, on these beings who, it seems, should talk simply of simple things; and the old Mother Superior remarks it, is astonished by it.—But the quick eyes of Ramuntcho become immovable, veil themselves as if they are fascinated by some invisible tamer. Under the harsh envelope, still beating, of his chest, the calmness, the imposed calmness continues to penetrate¹⁶ and to extend. On him, doubtless, are acting the mysterious, white powers which are here in the air; religious heredities which were asleep in the depths of his being fill him now with unexpected respect and submissiveness; the antique symbols dominate him: the crosses met in the evening along the road and that plaster Virgin of the color of snow, immaculate on the spotless white of the wall—
 
“Well, my children, talk of the things of Etchezar,” says the Mother Superior to Gracieuse and to her brother. “We shall leave you alone, if you wish,” she adds with a sign to Ramuntcho to follow her.
 
“Oh, no,” protests Arrochkoa, “Let him stay.—No, he is not the one—who prevents us—”
 
And the little nun, veiled in the fashion of the Middle Age, lowers her head, to maintain her eyes hidden in the shade of her austere⁹⁰ headdress.
 
The door remains⁹¹ open, the window remains open; the house, the things retain their air of absolute confidence, of absolute security, against violations⁹² and sacrilege. Now two other sisters, who are very old, set a small table, put two covers, bring to Arrochkoa and to his friend a little supper, a loaf of bread, cheese, cake, grapes from the arbor⁹³. In arranging these things they have a youthful gaiety, a babble⁹⁴ almost childish—and all this is strangely opposed to the ardent⁹⁵ violence which is here, hushed, thrown back into the depth of minds, as under the blows of some mace⁹⁶ covered with white—
 
And, in spite of themselves, they are seated at the table, the two smugglers, opposite each other, yielding to insistence⁹⁷ and eating absent-mindedly the frugal⁹⁸ things, on a cloth as white as the walls. Their broad shoulders, accustomed to loads, lean on the backs of the little chairs and make their frail⁹⁹ wood crack. Around them come and go the Sisters, ever with their discreet¹⁰⁰ talk and their puerile¹⁰¹ laugh, which escape, somewhat softened¹⁰², from under their veils. Alone, she remains mute and motionless, Sister Mary Angelique: standing¹⁰³ near her brother who is seated, she places her hand on his powerful shoulder; so lithe¹⁰⁴ beside him that she looks like a saint of a primitive church picture. Ramuntcho, sombre, observes them both; he had not been able to see yet the face of Gracieuse, so severely¹⁰⁵ her headdress framed it. They resemble each other still, the brother and the sister; in their very long eyes, which have acquired expressions more than ever different remains something inexplicably¹⁰⁶ similar, persists the same flame, that flame which impelled¹⁰⁷ one toward adventures and the life of the muscles, the other toward mystic............