At about two o'clock we were once more in the saddle, and pursued
our way in company through a country exactly resembling that which
we had previously been traversing, rugged and broken, with here and
there a clump of pines. The afternoon was exceedingly fine, and
the bright rays of the sun relieved the desolation of the scene.
Having advanced about two leagues, we caught sight of a large
edifice towering majestically in the distance, which I learnt was a
royal palace standing at the farther extremity of Vendas Novas, the
village in which we were to pass the night; it was considerably
more than a league from us, yet, seen through the clear transparent
atmosphere of Portugal it appeared much nearer.

Before reaching it we passed by a stone cross, on the pedestal of
which was an inscription commemorating a horrible murder of a
native of Lisbon, which had occurred on that spot; it looked
ancient, and was covered with moss, and the greater part of the
inscription was illegible, at least it was to me, who could not
bestow much time on its deciphering. Having arrived at Vendas
Novas, and bespoken supper, my new friend and myself strolled forth
to view the palace; it was built by the late king of Portugal, and
presents little that is remarkable in its exterior; it is a long
edifice with wings, and is only two stories high, though it can be
seen afar off, from being situated on elevated ground; it has
fifteen windows in the upper, and twelve in the lower story, with a
paltry-looking door, something like that of a barn, to which you
ascend by one single step; the interior corresponds with the
exterior, offering nothing which can gratify curiosity, if we
except the kitchens, which are indeed magnificent, and so large
that food enough might be cooked in them, at one time, to serve as