Astounded, they jump down, in the midst of an obscurity which even their smugglers' eyes cannot pierce. Stars above hardly shine, so encumbered is the sky by the overhanging summits. “Where is the village?” they ask of a man who is there alone to receive them. “Three miles from here on the right.” They begin to distinguish the gray trail of a road, suddenly lost in the heart of the shade. And in the grand silence, in the humid coolness of these valleys full of darkness, they walk without talking, their gaiety somewhat darkened by the black majesty of the peaks that guard the frontier here. They come, at last, to an old, curved bridge over a torrent; then, to the sleeping village which no light indicates. And the inn, where shines a lamp, is near by, leaning on the mountain, its base in the roaring water. The young men are led into their little rooms which have an air of cleanliness in spite of their extreme oldness: very low, crushed by their enormous beams, and bearing on their whitewashed walls images of the Christ, the Virgin and the saints. Then, they go down to the supper tables, where are seated two or three old men in old time costume: white belt, black blouse, very short, with a thousand pleats. And Arrochkoa, vain of his parentage, hastens to ask them if they have not known Detcharry, who was here a brigadier of the customs eighteen years ago. One of the old men scans his face: “Ah! you are his son, I would bet! You look like him! Detcharry, do I remember Detcharry!--He took from me two hundred lots of merchandise!--That does not matter, here is my hand, even if you are his son!” And the old defrauder, who was the chief of a great band, without rancor, with effusion, presses Arrochkoa's two hands. Detcharry has remained famous at Erribiague for his stratagems, his ambuscades, his captures of contraband goods, out of which came, later, his income that Dolores and her children enjoy. And Arrochkoa assumes a proud air, while Ramuntcho lowers his head, feeling that he is of a lower condition, having no father. “Are you not in the customhouse, as your deceased father was?” continued the old man in a bantering tone. “Oh, no, not exactly.--Quite the reverse, even--” “Oh, well! I understand!--Then, shake once more--and it's a sort of revenge on Detcharry for me, to know that his son has gone into smuggling like us!--”