Nothing was visible to Roland's right and to M. de Barjols' left,
except the mountain's swift incline and gigantic peak. But on the
other side, that is to say, to M. de Barjols' right and Roland's
left, it was a far different thing.

The horizon stretched illimitable. In the foreground, the plain,
its ruddy soil pierced on all sides by rocks, like a Titan graveyard
with its bones protruding through the earth. Then, sharply outlined
in the setting sun, was Avignon with its girdle of walls and its
vast palace, like a crouching lion, seeming to hold the panting
city in its claws. Beyond Avignon, a luminous sweep, like a river
of molten gold, defined the Rhone. Beyond the Rhone, a deep-hued
azure vista, stretched the chain of hills which separate Avignon
from Nimes and d'Uzes. And far off, the sun, at which one of
these two men was probably looking for the last time, sank slowly
and majestically in an ocean of gold and purple.

For the rest these two men presented a singular contrast. One,
with his black hair, swarthy skin, slender limbs and sombre eyes,
was the type of the Southern race which counts among its ancestors
Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Spaniards. The other, with his rosy
skin, large blue eyes, and hands dimpled like a woman's, was
the type of that race of temperate zones which reckons Gauls,
Germans and Normans among its forebears.

Had one wished to magnify the situation it were easy to believe
this something greater than single combat between two men. One
might have thought it was a duel of a people against another
people, race against race, the South against the North.