Whilst descending to the valley That sweet echo still pursued me Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping: “Girofflino, Girofflette!” CAPUT XV. Rocky blocks, of size gigantic, All-misshapen and distorted, Gaze upon me like fierce monsters Turn’d to stone, from times primeval. Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ring High above me, like their double; They’re the pallid counterfeit Of those wild and stony figures. In the distance roars the streamlet, And the wind howls through the fir-trees; ’Tis a noise inexorable, And as wretched as despair. Solitude most terrible! Troops of jackdaws black are sitting On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees, Fluttering with their lame wings strangely. Close beside me goes Lascaro, Pale and silent,--I myself, too, Looking like incarnate madness, With grim death as my companion. Wild and wretched is the country; Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I On the roots of yonder stunted Tree can marks of blood discover. It o’ershadoweth a cottage, Which is modestly half-hidden In the earth; with meek entreaty Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee. They who this poor cot inhabit Are _Cagots_,[31] surviving relics Of a race that deep in darkness Lives a sad despised existence. In the hearts of the Biscayans Still is rooted fast the loathing Of Cagots, dark heritage From dark days of superstition. In Bagnères cathedral even Is a narrow grated entrance; This, the sacristan inform’d me, Was the door Cagots went in at. Once to them all other ingress To the church was interdicted, And by stealth they had to enter In God’s holy house, like felons. There, upon a lowly footstool, Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there All alone,--as though infected, Sever’d from the congregation. But the consecrated tapers Of this century flare brightly, And their lustre scares the evil Shadows of the middle ages! So outside remained Lascaro, Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage Enter’d, and my hand extended Kindly to my suff’ring brother. And I also kiss’d his infant, Who, close-clinging to the bosom Of his wife, suck’d greedily, Looking like a sickly spider. CAPUT XVI. When thou see’st yon mountain summits From a distance, they are gleaming As though deck’d with gold and purple, Proud and princely in the sunlight. But when close at hand, this splendour Vanishes, and, as in other Earthly loveliness and glory, ’Tis the play of lights deceived thee. What to thee seem’d gold and purple Is, alas! but common snow, Common snow, which, pale and wretched, Lives a weary life and lonely. Just above me heard I plainly How the hapless snow was crackling, To the heartless cold winds telling All the tale of its white sorrows.