noon
`` Ite missa est ! '' The high mass is finished and the antique church is emptying . Outside , in the yard , among the tombs , the assistants scatter . And all the joy of a sunny noon greets them , as they come out of the sombre nave where each , according to his naive faculties , had caught more or less a glimpse of the great mystery and of the inevitable death . Wearing all the uniform national cap , the men come down the exterior stairway ; the women , slower to be captivated by the lure of the blue sky , retaining still under the mourning veil a little of the dream of the church , come out of the lower porticoes in black troops ; around a grave freshly closed , some stop and weep . The southern wind , which is the great magician of the Basque country , blows softly . The autumn of yesterday has gone and it is forgotten .