THE WOODS AND GARDENS OF PORTUGAL 



889 



these paths of pilgrimage at Busaco 

 must still be thronged by the white- 

 robed phantoms of those who made them. 



From Busaco our road to Coimbra 

 lay downward for a mile or two, through 

 a beautiful country of pines and gor- 

 geous stretches of purple heather in full 

 bloom, and here and there long trellised 

 vineyards, with the red bronze of the 

 vine leaves adding a splash of color to 

 the scene. 



Patient ox teams toil along, led by 

 small boys in black nightcaps, gravely 

 courteous to the stranger, and black-eyed 

 solemn children play soberly by the way- 

 side and take no heed. Soon we pass 

 through the big, poor-looking village of 

 Pampilhosa, and leave the pines and 

 heather behind us, for here down in the 

 valley olives, cork trees, ilex, and vines 

 abound, with figs, pears, and apples, in 

 orchards nestled round the white cot- 

 tages. Aloe hedges, with the big, fleshy 

 lancet leaves of silver-gray, show that 

 we are in a sub-tropical land, and patches 

 of succulent sugar-cane for cattle fodder 

 grow brilliantly green against the maize 

 and millet fields, whilst all along the way- 

 side the light-leafed poplars rear their 

 straight shafts, heavily burdened by 

 masses of purple grapes and flaming vine 

 leaves, the only sign of autumn, though 

 October is now upon us. 



As we near Coimbra, though it is not 

 much past noon, we met many groups 

 of handsome country women, with, as 

 usual, heavy burdens upon their heads, 

 returning home from the weekly market 

 in the city. Barefooted they go inva- 

 riably, with their fine, broad shoulders, 

 full bosoms, classical faces, and broad, 

 low brows, their gay kerchiefs on head 

 and bosom, and their fine eyes gazing 

 straight forth with modest dignity, and 

 mentally I deny assent to the boast of 

 Guimaraes that its maids and matrons 

 reign supreme in buxom grace, for those 

 of Coimbra need bow the head to none 

 on earth. 



Coimbra is crowded with memories of 

 the heroic times, of combats with the 

 Moors, and of deeds of violence and 

 blood perpetrated within its walls, and 



in its quaint crowded streets are corners 

 that can hardly have changed since the 

 Afi^onsos and Sanchos here held their 

 court. 



THE TRAGEDY OE INES 



The heat was oppressive on the morn- 

 ing after my arrival at Coimbra, but a 

 pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Isabel 

 the Queen, and to the shrine of love near 

 to it, could not be foregone. Crossing 

 the bridge, I first wended my way to a 

 beautiful villa almost on the banks of the 

 river, in whose grounds there stands the 

 gothic ruin of a palace, and adjoining it, 

 gushing from a rock shaded by dark 

 cedars, a copious spring leaps joyously 

 along a stone channel of some twenty 

 feet long into a stone tank covered with 

 water lilies. 



It is a lovely, tranquil spot, where no 

 sound reaches but the rustling of leaves 

 and the gurgling of crystal water, and 

 yet here, tradition says, was enacted in 

 the long ago one of those tragedies that 

 inspire poets, painters, and dramatists 

 for all time. It was in 1355, and Ines 

 de Castro, the lovely mistress of the 

 Prince Dom Pedro, had so infatuated 

 him that he refused to marry another at 

 his father's bidding. The king, Alfonso 

 IV, incensed at the recalcitrancy of his 

 heir, caused Ines to be done to death here 

 beside the "Fountain of Love" by three 

 courtiers. 



The son, Dom Pedro, rose in rebel- 

 lion, and saw his father no more ; but 

 when, two years afterwards, the king 

 died and Pedro succeeded him, he 

 worked his ghastly revenge upon those 

 who had persecuted his beloved. Ines 

 had been buried at Santa Clara, the con- 

 vent near to which this estate belonged, 

 and now her body was disinterred, 

 dressed in royal robes, crowned with a 

 diadem and adorned with jewels, and 

 placed, a crumbling corpse, thus arrayed, 

 upon a throne in the monastery-church 

 of Alcobaca, whilst all the courtiers, 

 upon their knees, kissed the dead hand 

 of her whom they had insulted and con- 

 temned in life. 



''The fountain of love in the garden of 



