Finally, the King took us on a sporting expedition to Mafra, among the mountains which stretch towards Torres Vedras.  They are not high, but steep, and covered with stunted vegetation.  It was a picturesque sight this shooting party, in that mountain country, some of it very beautiful, where the eye constantly lighted on scenes that were like pictures of guerilla or partisan warfare.  Hundreds of beaters, in their brilliant costumes, wearing breeches, and with handkerchiefs tied round their heads, and cloaks flung over their shoulders, climbed up through the gorges, slipped swiftly along the mountain ledges, and drove a host of small deer, stags, wild boar, and foxes down to the sportsmen.  Even after the sun had set the firing was still going on.

But both Aumale and I were very eager to see something more of Portugal than the pleasures and official and political life of Lisbon.  So as soon as we were back from the shooting excursion we started on a whimsical expedition of our own, which we hoped to carry as far as the ancient and celebrated university town of Coimbra.  All means of communication being most primitive at that time, we travelled on horseback, escorted by a former captain on the French staff, who had been aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ragusa in 1830, who had succeeded his uncle, Hyde de Neuville, as Marquis of Bemposta in Portugal, and who had ended by becoming aide-de-camp to King Ferdinand.  We formed a regular caravan, the transport service of which had been undertaken by a native “Almocreve.”

The first day we crossed a sort of desert country, of evil repute, covered with heather as far as the eye could see—­the lowest spurs of the Sierra d’Estrella, a long mountain chain which rises in Spain, near Segovia and Avila.  Passing through a wild gorge, at a place called Mecheira, we came upon a band of evil-looking men, gun on shoulder, who seemed to be out shooting in an easy-going fashion.  Our party was both well-armed and numerous, and I fancy they looked on it as too heavy game for their rifles.  I am all the more inclined to this opinion, because we met some cavalry patrols a little further on, who had been sent out in a great hurry, some travellers having been stopped and stripped at Mecheira that very morning.  Two days’ travelling brought us to Alcobaca and Aljubarota.  My reader will notice these names beginning with Al.  The Moors have passed this way!  Aljubarota is famous for the battle there, which established the autonomy of the kingdom of Portugal in 1385.  The army commanded by the Grand Master of Avis, Don Jao, had to do with a Spanish force using firearms (the “needle-gun” of that date!), which were quite unknown to the Portuguese troops.  These last had both wind and sun and dust against them.  But buoyed up by their native bravery, and by the example of Don Jao, and of the Bishop of Braga, who rode down the ranks with helmet on head and lance in hand, they put the Spanish army to flight, and the Spanish King never stopped till he got to Seville.  As for the Grand Master of Avis, who became King of Portugal, he founded the church and convent of Batalha, which we had come to see, in memory of his victory.