The village was just a humble collection of narrow streets paved with round, worn cobble stones; a few shops and a long, one-storied inn; a group of cottages and two or three larger houses, and a little white granite church. Along the street through which Jose Almaida passed with the oxen, the market-day produce was spread out under the trees. There were great piles of maize-cobs, potatoes, chestnuts and beans; baskets full of grapes, figs and apples; strings of garlic and onions; heaps of giant early yellow gourds, scarlet pimentos and deep red tomatoes; panniers of fish, fresh and salted, and red earthenware household dishes, crocks and water-jars. Jose had exchanged the grapes, onions and tomatoes, which he had brought from the home farm, for a small amount of tea and of hard, brown salted codfish,--now the only luxuries of the Almaida family. In the rough ox-cart, Carlos, his dog, a thick-nosed pointer, white with brown spots, mounted guard over these provisions. The market-place was no new sight to Jose. He did not stop in passing along the street, except at the village fountain to fill a jar with water for an old woman. Around the fountain good-natured looking groups of women were talking over village affairs,--women in peasant dress of dark, full short skirts, bright-colored waists, and gay red, blue or orange kerchiefs over their shoulders and hanging from under their round pork-pie black hats. Each woman carried a boat-shaped basket or a water-jar upon her head. Little Jose was a familiar figure on the market-day. For five months past, he had done the family marketing, sometimes with his oldest sister Joanna as companion, but often, as to-day, alone. At each greeting, he bowed and pulled off his long black knitted stocking-cap. To-day, early in October, the market-place had confused him. He had heard groups of men saying that the king had gone away from the country, never to return, and that there would be great changes in Portugal. Jose had three miles to travel before dark. There was no time to lose, so he urged on the oxen. But every now and then, out on the main road, he turned to look back toward the village, shading his eyes with his hand. Not seeing what he sought, he urged on the oxen again with the goad, which was twice as long as himself. The road was steep. The oxen plodded on with low-bowed heads. They were small and intelligent-looking oxen with strong shoulders and wide-branched horns. Above their heavy yoke rose the _canga_, or head-board, the pride of the Portuguese farmer. This was a piece of hard wood, about eighteen inches high and five feet wide, and handsomely carved in open work. It was the same kind of head-board used by the Romans two thousand years ago, when they held control of Portugal.