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the Latin wooed the Kelt in the days of a prehistoric past. It is as individual as the laugh that marks the Teuton, and what a miracle it works! Two of the ugliest men I have ever seen-my travelling companions in the Peninsula -(they are at the opposite ends of the social scale, and one is a king)-were instantaneously transformed into the most captivating of persons when a smile lit up their uncomely countenances. The charm worked by the guffaw, so typically German, is not exactly the work of a well-meaning Fairy.

Just at the point where Buarcos merges into the breezy little seaport town of Figueira da Foz, a gentle eminence rising in the angle formed by their junction overlooks the sweep of the Atlantic. Its turquoise mirror is bounded on the south by the quaint old fortress of S. Caterina, guardian once, though now dismantled, of the broad, navigable Mondego; on the north by the bold slate cliffs of the Cape for which the river stood sponsor. To-day the promontory is but a purple shadow plunging into depths of sparkling peacock-blue. On the brow of the slopes which thus overlook both Buarcos and Figueira the Praça de Touros sits enthroned, its walls-honey-golden in the sun, richly umber in the shadesharply defined against a sky of purest cobalt.

Everyone knows that the bull-ringarchitecturally considered—is a survival of the arena of ancient Rome, and is built practically on the same lines as the Coliseum that saw the struggle of the gladiator and the martyrdom of saint and virgin. The bull-ring of Figueira differs only in size from more important specimens of its kind. It can accommodate 3000 spectators, on circular tiers of seats, each tier rising above and behind each other, and all commanding uninterrupted view of the

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places varies in inverse proportion to their exposure to the sun, the shady seats costing 1000 reis (i.e. 48.) each, while those that afford no shelter from the rays that beat down so pitilessly throughout the long afternoon of a Southern summer may be had for 300 or 400 reis. A special podium is the privilege of the local big-wigs, the band occupies a similar one, and the shady half of the highest tier is divided also into boxes, each containing six places. The lowest circle of seats is raised well above the arena, and is further protected from the possible attacks of an infuriated bull by an intervening couloir topped on the near side by a stout iron railing. Should the bull, as sometimes happens, succeed in jumping over the first barrier, he finds himself in this narrow, curv ing passage, unable to turn or to gain impetus for a fresh leap. Four great gates open into the arena, one is reserved for the Cavalleiros, who, in their superb dresses-many of them of great antiquity, some even heir-looms-are mounted on really fine horses (very different these from the doomed hacks of a Spanish Tourado) make a brave show as they ride round the ring, bowing their cortesas, and their steeds sidling along so as to continually face the spectators. By the second portal the Bandarilheiros, or capinhos—a word derived from the scarlet capes with whose flourishes they seek to inflame the fury of the bull, aides-de-camp of the toureiro proper-make their appearance, while the third and fourth, the one for his entrance and the other for his exit, are sacred to the hero of the day.

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Ten bulls are required for one Tourado and they take it in turn to contribute their share of the entertainment. Brought in some days previously from the country in a practically wild condition, they pass the interval in solitary confinement, each in its own small den

at the back of the arena. This cell is furnished with a portcullis door which gives access to the narrowest of narrow passages. When the great day comes the portcullis is drawn up-no man dare venture in this circumscribed space to approach the savage creatureand the bull, maddened by imprisonment after the free life of the Campanha, dashes along the only outlet open to him, and emerges in the ring. Bull fights have been too often described for me to hope to find anything fresh to say on the subject. I will limit myself to pointing out the essential difference between the Portuguese Corrida and that of Spain. Here horses take little but a ceremonial and decorative part in the performance, and seldom, if ever, are allowed to suffer injury. If the Cavalleiro loses the fine three-cornered hat decked out with plumes that covers his powdered hair, absence of pigtail, by the way, distinguishes the Portuguese bull-fighter from his Spanish confrère), or if he allows his foot to slip from the stirrup, the vox populi demands that he alight from his horse and continue the combat on foot, as a penalty for losing the calm demeanor that should mark the perfect cavalier. The horns of the bull being tipped, his powers of inflicting mortal injury are greatly discounted, and he himself is spared to become an old campaigner. Having fought the good fight, he is decoyed off the scene by cows trained for the purpose. From these he is easily again separated by a series of quickly-succeeding portcullises, and in this manner he is enticed out into a green paddock and left to calm down at his leisure.

Many bulls are celebrated for their belligerent talent, and travel about from town to town in order to display it. An old stager may easily be known by the tranquil, almost blasé, air with which he trots into the ring-the frenzied excitement of the débutant alto

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Even after the duel that has resulted in the victory of the toureiro there is often plenty of fight left in the bull, as the moços de forcada-(the interior attendants of the ring, so called from the forked goads they carry)-find, who sometimes, a short breathing space having been accorded the wearied animal, obtain permission to essay their skill on him.

Their object is to leap-facing the bull-on to his head between the horns, and success is generally recognized by a shower of copper coins flung into the arena. Some moços there are that accomplish this feat with a backward leap, and frenzied is the acclamation that greets one of these, as he alights on the brow of the snorting, pawing creature; but it is said that such temerity is generally born of the "Dutch courage" otherwise so alien to the character of the Portuguese.

Though the absence of extreme cruelty and the more equal footing of man and beast differentiate the bull-fight of Portugal from that of her sister country, there is nevertheless a strong element of danger to the Toureiro and of suffering to the bull. The latter receives many a painful prod, if he appears reluctant to rise to the occasion, and the wounds thus caused are subsequently treated with salt and vinegar in a manner that causes exquisite pain. The bull, if not exactly "butchered," is undoubtedly "tortured to make a public holiday," and the Portuguese cannot be altogether absolved from the charge

of inhumanity. But who is the average man, whatever his nationality and whatever form his passion for chase and combat may take, that shall throw the first stone at him?

The sun was sinking fast as I returned to the Condados. Chica had gone to her rest, and I had been permitted the unwonted luxury of a solitary walk. The octopus aloes were throwing long, fantastic shadows athwart the road, and the contours of the hard-baked banks that border it glowed like red-hot copper in the level beams. The air had that light, yet dewy quality, that union of freshness and velvety balm, suggestive of champagne allied to green curaçoa, which, except in Corsica, I have never found elsewhere but in Portugal. As I hastened homeward-night falls quickly in these latitudes-I met the Padre. He is great at sports, ruddy and stalwart, and tall, as a mighty huntsman before the Lord ought to be. The spoils of his gun are frequently laid at Donna Emilia's shrine-rabbits, wild ducks and hares making their bow at odd moments, with his Reverence's complimontas. He does not present them himself--that would be improper, seeing that my aunt is a widow and only eighty-three. I once ventured on a joke a very poor, timid, little halffledged joke-on the attentions thus paid her by her clerical admirer, considering them, as I said, almost as pointed as the cauliflowers cast at Mrs. Nickleby's feet. The silver-haired old lady drew herself up with a gesture of inimitable dignity; and the soft pink in her pretty cheeks positively deepened as: "You know, my dear," she said, with all the severity of which a shocked dove might be supposed to be capable, "you know how much I enjoy a little joke; but there are limits, and you must never say such a thing again, even in fun. Only think, if any one who understands English were to hear you! You don't

know what construction might not be put upon your words!" After which warning it certainly was indiscreet on my part to stop the Senhor Vicario when he and I met on the King's highway. Donna Emilia and I had feasted lately off a couple of partridges which, having fallen to his gun, had made their way to our table, and the memory of the savory meats rising up before me as our benefactor strode round the corner, I stopped to return thanks for our good dinner. The champagne and the green Chartreuse must certainly have gone to my head! How was it else possible that I could so forget myself? I ought to have remembered that I was alone, in a land against whose social conventions I was already sinning sufficiently by indulgence in unescorted promenade, and that it was, in the highest degree, unseemly for unchaperoned woman to extend the hand of friendship to a man be he ten times the Padre and the Keeper of our Consciences. But if I did not remember it, he did. I could not conceive what ailed the decent man, and was somewhat affronted by his evident desire to cut short the pretty things I was painfully constructing out of my very elementary Portuguese. "It is clear," I thought, "that fat and forty, with her spectacles and her gray hair hath no charms to soothe this savage breast." Not till my return to the Condados did I realize that I had hopelessly compromised myself. Had I even been accompanied by one of my own sex, my behaviour would have been improper, but alone, unattended, in a country whose jealousy of its women is one of the most marked characteristics inherited from Moorish ancestry, to stop a man in public places, to endeavor to lure him into conversation and meet and part with a handshake, was to lose the small remnant of reputation my extraordinary passion for independence had left me. Unluckily, the scene, so

distressing to all who know how to value feminine modesty and decorum, was enacted immediately under the windows of the Cuartel, or barracks, and, as soldier sweethearts are at as high a premium in the Peninsula as elsewhere, the shocking news would probably reach the ears of all the misThe Cornhill Magazine.

tresses of Figueira by nightfall. Mercifully, j'ai le bon dos, and Donna Emilia finds comfort in the knowledge that her friends and neighbors will only tap their foreheads significantly, and remark that, after all "todes os Ingleses sao pouco mais ou menos doidos!" (all the English are more or less mad). Constance Leigh Clare.

AS IT HAPPENED.
BOOK II.

THE CHANCES OF THE ROAD

CHAPTER VI.

MOTHER LEA'S COTTAGE AND GOOD

RESOLUTIONS.

The winter sunrise made Royal Ruby of the small diamond panes in the tiny lattice; a splash of color fell across the face of the patient. He frowned in sleep and sneezed faintly, opening his eyes thereafter and blinking with that large incertitude which is conceded to a soul which has been for some days upon furlough. Who was he? Where was he? Upon his right a little cone of dust was spinning in the up-draught to the chimney; the back-log glowed dully through its coat of ash which still retained the shape of last night's billet. He was himself, right enough, and this was the old life again (he had had his dreams-drear dreams, and had awaited a worse awakening). where was he? These web-draped ceiling beams recalled something seemed half-familiar. The mantle-shelf drew his eye, a crock, a gray-beard, its broken mouth stopped with a screw of paper, filled him with comfort: he not only knew himself, but his whereabouts, and heard within an aching head the broken pieces of his consciousness getting into contact and rearranging their contiguities, not without twinges.

But

It was all right, then, so far. That crock gave reassurance. He might re

lax the brain tension. The last impulse given to nerves warning them of the need for flight or fight, eased off. He felt the bed beneath him was his own for another hour, and dozed.

Later he aroused again. Was it ten minutes after, or upon another day? He knew not, but the sense of comfort remained. But curiosity was now awake: these arms of his, what hampered them? Fetters? No, bandages. They had let him blood, then; but what had happened? He recalled nothing, neither scuffling nor sickness. This was the house of friends, a familiar house, though its name still eluded him; but the crock was still there.

A slight movement beside him drew a slow-rolling eye. A man, an elderly man, a stranger, sat in the oaken settle, where, by the look of things, he had sate all night, for he was unshaven and weary-eyed: a grim, elderly fellow, thought Repton. (Oh, he was sure of himself by this time, and was "Repton" right enough, as well as several other names and nicknames. He had discarded them all, had had his doubts of himself, and had sailed dark seas under strange colors during that furlough.) Yes, a plain, elderly person. but with something of the gentleman about him too; though what a gentleman, save a Gentleman of the Road, should be doing at Mother Lea's, was

beyond him. That particular thread of wonder snapped, another tingled weakly. "Tod!" he muttered, and was extraordinarily surprised at the sound of his own voice.

The stranger turned alertly, but silently, and took in the position. "The boy is all right, sir; he brought you here. Yes, and the horse is seen to; so, off to sleep again!"

"I thank you," murmured the patient, and slept, but had given the half of himself away with those three words.

"A man of condition," ruminated Justin. "Come, there's the more to be nade of him."

At his next arousing the sick man was clear in his wits, and had made a long march towards convalescence. His nurse, who in the meantime had washed and shaved himself, made shift to do as much for his patient, who, thus obliged, grew three years younger at a jump, as your dark man does upon emerging from the lather. There is no half-way house for our self-respect; 'tis either beard or clean scrape for us. The amateur barber surveyed his work with pardonable pride. His trove was improving under his hands; no prodigal this with the scents of the swine about him; no sallow, pimpled jail-escape, but a taking youngster, a pretty fellow, with wellformed, unspoilt features, broad, low forehead faintly depressed above the springing of the nose as if by recent trouble, but with that peculiar supraorbital development which the Greeks gave to their statues of Hermes-a straight, fine nose, with the flexible nostrils of the artist, each with its well-turned wing, and the small firm mouth that men admire and women love, with an inheritance of race upon its short upper lip. The face ended well below; the rounded chin came forward boldly, but not aggressively; the jaw was square, but just failed of pugnacity; 'twas the face for a friend; you

would have trusted that boy at sight. Justin did, despite his story, known and unknown.

"I've dropped into the middle of a sad tale, I doubt," thought he, surveying his work as he wiped his razor. "There were mistakes on both sides went to the ravelling of such a skein as this. Is it just possible that I am sent to unravel it? 'Fore God, I'll stick to the lad and do what a man may to set him on his feet again. What else was John Company's big grant made to me for, eh? Say that I should be getting forward with my own affairs; 'tis but a brace of needles in a bottle of hay that I'm after, and I am all as likely to put my hand upon 'em at this end of the rick as the other. Heaven help me!" "Twas the man's daily, nay, his hourly prayer.

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Another day's company-keeping of this chance-met pair drew on; the patient slept much and obeyed silently when aroused. Mother Lea and her son Tod pottered in and out expectant: their weather-burned, expressionless masks betrayed little, their behavior much. The nurse effaced himself, his charge ruminated, a spiritual crisis in progress. Before the afternoon waned he turned his face upon the bolster and spoke.

"May I ask, my dear sir, to whom I am indebted for all this?"

Justin, in the window-seat, turned from the light and, laying down the pocket Testament in which he was reading, gave his name and rank; no

more.

"Ye are reading in a good old book, sir; may I beg you to read to me? I am obliged to you. The tenth of Luke's Gospel, then, if you will, and near the end. 'A certain man,' ye know."

The Major read, his patient listened; and when he spoke next it was after a long pause which the reader had mistaken for sleep. "A good story, sir; I

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