Cartaret picked up the scanty threads of the Basques' known chronicle. He learned that these Celtiberi had preserved an independence which outlasted the Western Empire, gave no more than a nominal allegiance to Leovigild, to Wamba and to Charlemagne, cast their fortunes with the Moors at Roncesvalles and, in the eleventh century, formed a free confederation of three separate republics under a ruler of their own blood and choice, whose tenure was dependent upon constitutional guarantees and whose power was wholly executive. Even the yoke of Spain, hated as it was, had failed materially to affect this form of government and could be justly regarded as little save a name. The three provinces--the Vascongadas as they were called: the sea-coast Viscaza and Guipuzcoa and the inland Alava--retained their ancient identity. Somewhere among their swift rivers and well-nigh inaccessible mountains must be the house of her whom he sought. Because of the name that she had given him, Cartaret headed now for Vitoria. Twice he had to change his train, each time for a worse. From Bayonne he crossed the Spanish border at Hendaya, whence the railway, after running west along the rocky coast of the Bay of Biscay, turned southward toward the heights about Tolosa. All afternoon the scenery was varied and romantic. The hard-clay soil, cultivated with painful care by young giants and graceful amazons, gave place to pine-forests, to tree-cloaked hills, to mountains dark with mystery. Twilight fell, then night. Cartaret could now see nothing of the landscape through which he was jolted, but, from the puffing of the engine, the slow advance, the frightful swinging about curves, it was clear to him that he was being hauled, in a series of half-circles, up long and steep ascents. "What station is this?" he asked a French-speaking guard that passed his window at a stop where the air was cool and sweet with the odor of pine. The lantern showed only a good-natured face in a world of darkness. "Ormaiztegua, monsieur," said the guard. "What?" said Cartaret. "Say it slow, please, and say it plainly: I am a stranger and of tender years." The guard repeated that outlandish name. "And now which way do we go?" Cartaret inquired. "North again to Zumarraga." "North again?" repeated Cartaret. "Look here: I'm in a hurry. Isn't there any more direct route to Vitoria?" "Evidently monsieur does not know the Pyrenees." From Zumarraga, the train bent yet again southward, out of Guipuzcoa across the Navarra line. "Aren't we late?" asked Cartaret. "But a little," the guard reassured him: "scarcely two hours."