Empty now, all this land, where Gracieuse is no more, empty and sad as a beloved home where the great Reaper has passed!--And yet Ramuntcho, in the depths of his being, dares to think that, in some small convent over there, under the veil of a nun, the cherished black eyes still exist and that he will be able at least to see them; that taking the veil is not quite like dying, and that perhaps the last word of his destiny has not been said irrevocably.--For, when he reflects, what can have changed thus the soul of Gracieuse, formerly so uniquely devoted to him?--Oh, terrible, foreign pressure, surely--And then, when they come face to face again, who knows?--When they talk, with his eyes in her eyes?--But what can he expect that is reasonable and possible?--In his native land has a nun ever broken her eternal vows to follow one to whom she was engaged? And besides, where would they go to live together afterward, when folks would get out of their way, would fly from them as renegades?--To America perhaps, and even there!--And how could he take her from these white houses of the dead where the sisters live, eternally watched?--Oh, no, all this is a chimera which may not be realized--All is at an end, all is finished hopelessly--! Then, the sadness which comes to him from Gracieuse is forgotten for a moment, and he feels nothing except an outburst of his heart toward his mother, toward his mother who remains to him, who is there, very near, a little upset, doubtless, by the joyful trouble of waiting for him. And now, on the left of his route, is a humble hamlet, half hidden in the beeches and the oaks, with its ancient chapel,--and with its wall for the pelota game, under very old trees, at the crossing of two paths. At once, in Ramuntcho's youthful head, the course of thoughts changes again: that little wall with rounded top, covered with wash of kalsomine and ochre, awakens tumultuously in him thoughts of life, of force and of joy; with a childish ardor he says to himself that to-morrow he will be able to return to that game of the Basques, which is an intoxication of movement and of rapid skill; he thinks of the grand matches on Sundays after vespers, of the glory of the fine struggles with the champions of Spain, of all this deprivation of his years of exile. But it is a very short instant, and mortal despair comes back to him: his triumphs on the squares, Gracieuse shall not see them; then, what is the use!--Without her, all things, even these, fall back discolored, useless and vain, do not even exist--