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.