In the fine summer months the ‘pastour’, in his brown cape, and his black long-bearded ram lead hither flocks, whose flowing wool sweeps the turf.  Nothing is heard in these rugged places but the sound of the large bells which the sheep carry, and whose irregular tinklings produce unexpected harmonies, casual gamuts, which astonish the traveller and delight the savage and silent shepherd.  But when the long month of September comes, a shroud of snow spreads itself from the peak of the mountains down to their base, respecting only this deeply excavated path, a few gorges open by torrents, and some rocks of granite, which stretch out their fantastical forms, like the bones of a buried world.

It is then that light troops of chamois make their appearance, with their twisted horns extending over their backs, spring from rock to rock as if driven before the wind, and take possession of their aerial desert.  Flights of ravens and crows incessantly wheel round and round in the gulfs and natural wells which they transform into dark dovecots, while the brown bear, followed by her shaggy family, who sport and tumble around her in the snow, slowly descends from their retreat invaded by the frost.  But these are neither the most savage nor the most cruel inhabitants that winter brings into these mountains; the daring smuggler raises for himself a dwelling of wood on the very boundary of nature and of politics.  There unknown treaties, secret exchanges, are made between the two Navarres, amid fogs and winds.

It was in this narrow path on the frontiers of France that, about two months after the scenes we have witnessed in Paris, two travellers, coming from Spain, stopped at midnight, fatigued and dismayed.  They heard musket-shots in the mountain.

“The scoundrels! how they have pursued us!” said one of them.  “I can go no farther; but for you I should have been taken.”

“And you will be taken still, as well as that infernal paper, if you lose your time in words; there is another volley on the rock of Saint Pierre-de-L’Aigle.  Up there, they suppose we have gone in the direction of the Limacon; but, below, they will see the contrary.  Descend; it is doubtless a patrol hunting smugglers.  Descend.”

“But how?  I can not see.”

“Never mind, descend.  Take my arm.”

“Hold me; my boots slip,” said the first traveller, stamping on the edge of the rock to make sure of the solidity of the ground before trusting himself upon it.

“Go on; go on!” said the other, pushing him.  “There’s one of the rascals passing over our heads.”

And, in fact, the shadow of a man, armed with a long gun, was reflected on the snow.  The two adventurers stood motionless.  The man passed on.  They continued their descent.

“They will take us,” said the one who was supporting the other.  “They have turned us.  Give me your confounded parchment.  I wear the dress of a smuggler, and I can pass for one seeking an asylum among them; but you would have no resource with your laced dress.”