One day he took her for an excursion to Montserrat, three hours'
journey from Barcelona. They left the train at Monistrol, and started
to walk through the vineyards and pine woods towards the famous
mountain that towers up to heaven in grey rugged terraces of rock. All
round, for miles, were undulating waves of green, here and there the
brown towers of some ancient castle, or the buildings of a farmstead;
and below on the plain the glitter of the winding river. They climbed
to the wooded slopes of Olese, where they sat down to rest. Arithelli
threw herself on the short, dry grass, with her arms under her head,
and drew a long breath of pleasure and relief.
"I love all this; it makes me feel so free."
Emile sat with his back against a huge plane tree, and rolled
cigarettes, watching her under his heavy eyebrows. She looked in her
proper place here, he thought. There was something wild and
animal-like about the grace of her attitude.
"So you're out of a convent?" he said, hurling out the remark with his
usual abruptness. "_Tiens_! It's absurd!"
"But it's true.
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