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!--" They send for cider and they drink together, while the old men tell again the exploits and the tricks of former times, all the ancient tales of nights in the mountains; they speak a variety of Basque different from that of Etchezar, the village where the language is preserved more clearly articulated, more incisive, more pure, perhaps.

Ramuntcho and Arrochkoa are surprised by this accent of the high land, which softens the words and which chants them; those white-haired story tellers seem to them almost strangers, whose talk is a series of monotonous stanzas, repeated infinitely as in the antique songs expressive of sorrow.

And, as soon as they cease talking, the slight sounds in the sleep of the country come from peaceful and fresh darkness.