we were fetched to go over the university, the honours of which were done us by the “grand master” in a blue and gold gown, assisted by two professors who spoke French admirably well.  Aumale, being much more lettered and academic than myself, kept the conversational ball rolling brilliantly.  The huge institution, in which professors and students alike seemed to me to know their work thoroughly, is admirably organised, and is venerated throughout the whole country on account of its great antiquity.  To the Portuguese mind it is the fountain-head of all knowledge; and we were told, in the most artless manner, that if our universities in France were good it was because they were managed by professors from Coimbra!  From the university we went on to see an ancient mosque which had been turned into a cathedral, but which still preserved its thoroughly Moorish character.  In Spain and Portugal alike the Moors have left indelible traces of their passage, both in the buildings, in the language, and in the types of the two races.  Our stay at Coimbra ended with an expedition to the “Quinta das Lagrimas” (the Villa of Tears).  In the shadow of the gigantic cedars which shelter this villa, standing in a lovely spot on the banks of the Mondego, the romantic story of the loves of the Infant of Portugal, Don Pedro, and of Inez de Castro, as sung by Camoens, and ending in that murder of Inez, to the punishment of which the whole life of Don Pedro “the Avenger” was devoted, unfolded itself.  The proprietors for the time being of the villa gave me some of Inez de Castro’s hair, which they had collected when her tomb was violated during the Napoleonic wars.  It is fair hair.

We returned to Lisbon by a different route, over terrible roads, scarcely more than tracks, across a land of moors and pine-woods, picturesque enough, but wild and lonely, where we came in broad daylight on huge wolves, prowling round the flocks of goats, which the goatherds still call, as in the most primitive times, by blowing on conch shells.  Two days’ march brought us within sight of the little town of Thomar, and at nightfall we reached our halting place—­a horrible “hospedaria,” in the kitchen of which we took refuge, chilled, and aching with fatigue.  Aumale dandled the children in the chimney-corner, thereby winning their fond affections, while I set to work to make love to the mistress of the establishment, a stout and not altogether illiterate lady—­for she could swear in any language.

Thomar!  Were you ever at Thomar?  Did you ever even hear of it?  Yet how many a journey has been made, how much trouble has been taken, to see what is much less worth seeing!  The object of my admiration there is a convent, sacked, alas! and plundered—­well-nigh utterly destroyed, but still the most singularly remarkable building conceivable.  The nucleus of the convent is formed by a round mosque, with coloured pillars, and a “mirhab,” which I still see in my mind’s eye, full of long-robed