Dolores had reappeared alone in her home, mute, with
a desolate and evil air. None knew what influence
had been exercised over the little girl with the golden
hair, nor how the luminous doors of life had been closed
before her, how she had permitted herself to be walled
in that tomb; but, as soon as the period of novitiate
had been accomplished, without seeing even her brother,
she had taken her vows there, while Ramuntcho, in a
far-off colonial war, ever distant from the post-offices
of France, among the forests of a Southern island,
won the stripes of a sergeant and a military medal.
Franchita had been almost afraid that he would never
return, her son.—But at last, he was coming
back. Between her fingers, thin and warm, she
held the letter which said: “I start day
after to-morrow and I will be with you Saturday night.”
But what would he do, at his return, what would he
make of his life, so sadly changed? In his letters,
he had obstinately refrained from writing of this.
Anyway, everything had turned against her. The
farmers, her tenants, had left Etchezar, leaving the
barn empty, the house more lonely, and naturally her
modest income was much diminished. Moreover, in
an imprudent investment, she had lost a part of the
money which the stranger had given for her son.
Truly, she was too unskilful a mother, compromising
in every way the happiness of her beloved Ramuntcho,—or
rather, she was a mother upon whom justice from above
fell heavily to-day, because of her past error.—And
all this had vanquished her, all this had hastened
and aggravated the malady which the physician, called
too late, did not succeed in checking.
Now, therefore, waiting for the return of her son,
she was stretched on her bed, burning with fever.
He was returning, Ramuntcho, after his three years
of absence, discharged from the army in that city
of the North where his regiment was in garrison.
He was returning with his heart in disarray, with his
heart in a tumult and in distress.
His twenty-two year old face had darkened under the
ardent sun; his mustache, now very long, gave him
an air of proud nobility. And, on the lapel of
the civilian coat which he had just bought, appeared
the glorious ribbon of his medal.
At Bordeaux, where he had arrived after a night of
travel, he had taken a place, with some emotion, in
that train of Irun which descends in a direct line
toward the South, through the monotony of the interminable
moors. Near the right door he had installed himself
in order to see sooner the Bay of Biscay open and
the highlands of Spain sketch themselves.
Then, near Bayonne, he had been startled at the sight
of the first Basque caps, at the tall gates, the first
Basque houses among the pines and the oaks.
