question, for the guide spoke no English and the lieutenant's
knowledge of Portuguese was very far from conversational.

Presently the ground sloped, and the troop descended from the heights by
a road flanked with dripping pinewoods, black and melancholy, that for
a while screened them off from the remainder of the sodden world. Thence
they emerged near the head of the bridge that spanned the swollen river
and led them directly into the town of Regoa. Through the mud and clay
of the deserted, narrow, unpaved streets the dragoons squelched their
way, under a super-deluge, for the rain was now reinforced by steady
and overwhelming sheets of water descending on either side from the
gutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses.

Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind blurred windows; odd
doors were opened that a peasant family might stare in questioning
wonder--and perhaps in some concern--at the sodden pageant that was
passing. But in the streets themselves the troopers met no living thing,
all the world having scurried to shelter from the pitiless downpour.

Beyond the town they were brought by their guide to a walled garden, and
halted at a gateway. Beyond this could be seen a fair white house set
in the foreground of the vineyards that rose in terraces up the hillside
until they were lost from sight in the lowering veils of mist. Carved
on the granite lintel of that gateway, the lieutenant beheld the
inscription, "BARTHOLOMEU BEARSLEY, 1744," and knew himself at his
destination, at the gates of the son or grandson--he knew not which, nor
cared--of the original tenant of that wine farm.

Mr. Bearsley, however, was from home. The lieutenant was informed
of this by Mr. Bearsley's steward, a portly, genial, rather priestly
gentleman in smooth black broadcloth, whose name was Souza--a name
which, as I have said, has given rise to some misconceptions. Mr.
Bearsley himself had lately left for England, there to wait until the
disturbed state of Portugal should be happily repaired. He had been a
considerable sufferer from the French invasion under Soult, and none
may blame him for wishing to avoid a repetition of what already he
had undergone, especially now that it was rumoured that the Emperor in
person would lead the army gathering for conquest on the frontiers.

But had Mr. Bearsley been at home the dragoons could have received no
warmer welcome than that which was extended to them by Fernando Souza.
Greeting the