The firelight shone
full upon the old man's honest, weather-beaten face, the few scattered
locks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark blue woollen
cap, his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He had the usual
characteristics of the Basque race; a long face, hooked nose, and dark,
gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of livery, which was so old and
threadbare that it would be impossible to make out its original colour,
and his stiff, soldier-like carriage and movements proclaimed that he
had at some time in his life served in a military capacity. "The young
master is late to-night," he muttered to himself, as the daylight faded.
"What possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary rambles over
the dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in this lonely,
dismal house, that any other place is preferable."
At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old pony in the
stable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down from his place
beside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with great alacrity. In
an instant the latch was lifted, and the old servant rose, taking off
his woollen cap respectfully, as his master came into the kitchen. He
was preceded by the poor old dog, trying to jump up on him, but falling
back every time without being able to reach his face, and Beelzebub
seemed to welcome them both--showing no evidence of the antipathy
usually existing between the feline and canine races; on the contrary,
receiving Miraut with marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.
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