“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, ferocious and mute.--And how he would frighten the quiet nuns if they knew what storm brings him here--! The same silence returns, heavy and disquieting, 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 penetrate 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 austere headdress. The door remains open, the window remains open; the house, the things retain their air of absolute confidence, of absolute security, against violations 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 arbor. In arranging these things they have a youthful gaiety, a babble almost childish--and all this is strangely opposed to the ardent violence which is here, hushed, thrown back into the depth of minds, as under the blows of some mace covered with white--