At the fall of night, then, they turn toward this place, which is near Spain.

They go by the same little Pyrenean routes, shady and solitary under the old oaks that are shedding their leaves, among slopes richly carpeted with moss and rusty ferns.

And now there are ravines where torrents roar, and then heights from which appear on all sides the tall, sombre peaks.
At first it was cold, a real cold, lashing the face and the chest.

But now gusts begin to pass astonishingly warm and perfumed with the scent of plants: the southern wind, rising again, bringing back suddenly the illusion of summer.

And then, it becomes for them a delicious sensation to go through the air, so brusquely changed, to go quickly under the lukewarm breaths, in the noise of their horse's bells galloping playfully in the mountains.
Zitzarry, a smugglers' village, a distant village skirting the frontier.
A dilapidated inn where, according to custom, the rooms for the men are directly above the stables, the black stalls.