Midnight, a winter night, black as Hades, with great wind and whipping rain.

By the side of the Bidassoa, in the midst of a confused extent of ground with treacherous soil that evokes ideas of chaos, in slime that their feet penetrate, men are carrying boxes on their shoulders and, walking in the water to their knees, come to throw them into a long thing, blacker than night, which must be a bark--a suspicious bark without a light, tied near the bank.
It is again Itchoua's band, which this time will work by the river.

They have slept for a few moments, all dressed, in the house of a receiver who lives near the water, and, at the needed hour, Itchoua, who never closes but one eye, has shaken his men; then, they have gone out with hushed tread, into the darkness, under the cold shower propitious to smuggling.
On the road now, with the oars, to Spain whose fires may be seen at a distance, confused by the rain.

The weather is let loose; the shirts of the men are already wet, and, under the caps pulled over their eyes, the wind slashes the ears.

Nevertheless, thanks to the vigor of their arms, they were going quickly and well, when suddenly appeared in the obscurity something like a monster gliding on the waters.