“Oh, the Americas--” exclaimed Gracieuse in a joyful enthusiasm--“the Americas, what happiness! It was always my wish to go across the sea to those countries!--And we would look for your uncle Ignacio, then go to my cousin, Bidegaina, who has a farm on the Uruguay, in the prairies--” She ceased talking, the little girl who had never gone out of that village which the mountains enclose; she stopped to think of these far-off lands which haunted her young head because she had, like most Basques, nomadic ancestors--folks who are called here Americans or Indians, who pass their adventurous lives on the other side of the ocean and return to the cherished village only very late, to die. And, while she dreamed, her nose in the air, her eyes in the black of the clouds and of the summits, Ramuntcho felt his blood running faster, his heart beating quicker in the intense joy of what she had just said so spontaneously. And, inclining his head toward her, he asked, as if to jest, in a voice infinitely soft and childish: “We would go? Is that what you said: we would go, you with me? This signifies therefore that you would consent, a little later, when we become of age, to marry me?” He perceived through the darkness the gentle black light of Gracieuse's eyes, which rose toward him with an expression of astonishment and of reproach. “Then--you did not know?” “I wanted to make you say it, you see--You had never said it to me, do you know?--” He held tighter the arm of his little betrothed and their walk became slower. It is true that they had never said it, not only because it seemed to them that it was not necessary to say, but especially because they were stopped at the moment of speaking by a sort of terror--the terror of being mistaken about each other's sentiment--and now they knew, they were sure. Then they had the consciousness of having passed together the grave and solemn threshold of life. And, leaning on one another, they faltered, almost, in their slackened promenade, like two children intoxicated by youthfulness, joy and hope. “But do you think your mother will consent?” said Ramuntcho timidly, after the long, delightful silence-- “Ah, that is the trouble,” replied the little girl with a sigh of anxiety--“Arrochkoa, my brother, will be for us, it is probable. But mother?--Will mother consent?--But, it will not happen soon, in any case--You have to serve in the army.” “No, if you do not want me to! No, I need not serve! I am a Guipuzcoan, like my mother; I shall be enrolled only if I wish to be--Whatever you say, I'll do--” “My Ramuntcho, I would like better to wait for you longer and that you become naturalized, and that you become a soldier like the others. I tell you this, since you ask--”