The hospice is situated in a deep basin of mountains open only on the Luchon side.  Directly in front of it, high above us, is located the pass referred to,—­the Port de Venasque:  the notch in the chain from which the Maladetta is so strikingly revealed.  It is itself another noted excursion from Luchon.  A great sweep of rocky ridges rises to it, not perpendicular but sharply inclined.  There is a savage black pinnacle shooting up on the left, remarkable for its uncompromising cone of rock, its rejection of all the refinements of turf and arbor and even of snow.  This is the Pic de la Pique.  On the right starts up another summit, sharp also, though less precipitous; and the short ridge between the two has in it the notch, itself not to be seen from below, which constitutes this pass, the gateway into Spain,—­the Port de Venasque.

This is one of the most used of all these mountain portals; hundreds of persons cross it annually, herdsmen, mule-drivers, merchants with their small caravans of horses, Spanish visitors coming to Luchon, French tourists seeking the view of the Maladetta,—­and most often of all, despite surveillance, the shadowy contrabandista, whose vigilance is greater than the vigilance of the law and the custom-house.  We can plainly trace the path as it zigzags upward over the snow and debris, and can outline its general course until it vanishes into the break in the ridge.  The line of the ridge itself is just now cut out clearly against the sky, but soft puffs and ponpons of cloud are loitering near it with evident intentions.

[Illustration:  PIC DE LA PIQUE, AND PATH TO THE PORT DE VENASQUE.]

But our present quest is the Entecade.  This mountain stands farther to the left in the circle of the basin; its own flanks hide its summit from the hollow, so we go forth not knowing whether into the blue or the grey.  Impedimenta are abandoned, sticks are grasped, and the guide leads to the assault.

The path turns to the rear of the hospice and crawls up a green slope, commanding finely the black sugar-loaf of the Pic de la Pique opposite.  As we advance, the mist has finally closed in upon the crest of the Venasque pass at its right; the ridge is completely hidden, and we turn and look ahead, somewhat solicitous for our own prospects.  Before us, up the mountain, long streamers of hostile vapors are swinging over the downs, trailing to the ground and at times brushing down to our own level; but the wind keeps hunting them off, and so far their tenure is hopefully precarious.  There is scarcely a tree above the hospice; we have left the line even of pines.

An hour passes.  We come to a table-land stretching lengthily forward, covered with the greenish yellow of pastures, and alive with cattle browsing on a sparse turf.  The way winds on among the herds; we form in close marching order, with the guide in front and spiked staffs ready for use; for these neighbors are a trifle wild and not used to strangers.  They feed on unconcernedly, jangling their bells, but one or two of the bulls cast inquiring glances upon us, and we prudently retire to our pockets the bright red sashes bought in Cauterets until we have passed the zone of porterhouse.