And this magnificence of the tabernacle was in contrast with the simplicity of the lateral walls, simply kalsomined.
But an air of extreme old age harmonized these things, which one felt were accustomed for centuries to endure in the face of one another.
It was early still, and people were hardly arriving for this high mass.
Leaning on the railing of his tribune, Ramuntcho looked at the women entering, all like black phantoms, their heads and dress concealed under the mourning cashmere which it is usual to wear at church.

Silent and collected, they glided on the funereal pavement of mortuary slabs, where one could read still, in spite of the effacing of ages, inscriptions in Euskarian tongue, names of extinguished families and dates of past centuries.
Gracieuse, whose coming preoccupied Ramuntcho, was late.

But, to distract his mind for a moment, a "convoy" advanced slowly; a convoy, that is a parade of parents and nearest neighbors of one who had died during the week, the men still draped in the long cape which is worn at funerals, the women under the mantle and the traditional hood of full mourning.
Above, in the two immense tribunes superposed along the sides of the nave, the men came one by one to take their places, grave and with rosaries in their hands: farmers, laborers, cowboys, poachers or smugglers, all pious and ready to kneel when the sacred bell rang.

Each one of them, before taking his seat, hooked behind him, to a nail on the wall, his woolen cap, and little by little, on the white background of the kalsomine, came into line rows of innumerable Basque headgear.
Below, the little girls of the school entered at last, in good order, escorted by the Sisters of Saint Mary of the Rosary.

And, among these nuns, wrapped in black, Ramuntcho recognized Gracieuse.