The old wall, with its summit curved like a cupola, was cracking from dryness and from heat, under its paint of yellow ochre.

The grand Pyrenean masses, nearer here than at Etchezar, more crushing and more high, dominated from everywhere these little, human groups, moving in a deep fold of their sides.

And the sun fell straight on the heavy caps of the men, on the bare heads of the women, heating the brains, increasing enthusiasm.

The passionate crowd yelled, and the pelotas were flying, when, softly, the angelus began to ring.

Then an old man, all wrinkled, all burned, who was waiting for this signal, put his mouth to the clarion--his old clarion of a Zouave in Africa--and rang the call to rest.