powdered with the slate dust of the rocky road he travels. With a long
goad he urges on the panting beasts, yoked to the rudest of all
vehicles--the bullock cart of Portugal. Its low wheels, made of solid
wooden blocks, are fastened to the axle-tree, which turns with them,
and at every step squeaks out complaining notes under the burden of a
cask of the muddy and little prized wine of the province, which is
seeking a market at Elvas.

The carter is now overtaken by a peasant girl, who, with basket on her
arm, has been gathering chesnuts and _bolotas_ in the wood. They are
no strangers to each other, and she exchanges her brisk, elastic step,
for a pace better suited to that of the toiling oxen. The beauty of
this dusky belle consists of a smiling mouth, bright black eyes, and
youth and health. Though fond of gaudy colors, she is not over
dressed. A light handkerchief rather binds her raven hair than covers
her head. Her bright blue petticoat, scanty in length, and her
orange-colored spencer, open in front, both well worn, and showing
here and there a rent, but half conceal the graces of her form, and a
pair of nimble feet, scorning the trammels of leather, pick their way
skillfully along the stony path. That she does not contemn ornament,
is shown by her one small golden ear-ring, long since divorced from
its mate, and the devout faith which glows in her bosom is symbolized
by the little silver image of our lady, slung from her neck by a
silken cord, spun by her own silk worms, and twisted by her own hands.
In short, she is neither beautiful, nor noble, nor rich; yet her
company seems instantly to smooth the road and lighten the toils of
travel to her swain. He helps himself, unasked, out of her basket, and
urges her to partake of the stores of his leathern wallet--hard goat's
cheese--and the crumbling loaf of _broa_, or maize bread. Soon in deep
and sweet conference, in their crabbed, but expressive tongue, he