This last order had at first, owing to the paralysation of their energies, with which terror and misery had affected all men, been but negligently obeyed; and the streets were yet, in some places, actually blocked up with the dead, particularly in front of the churches, where they lay piled in heaps, mangled in every shocking way; some burned to cinders or scorched by the flames, and others torn almost to pieces by the savage dogs and vermin. Such sights were, indeed, dreadful to behold, but the eyes of those who had ventured into this arena of devastation and confusion had already become familiarised with them. Some of the noblest in the land had, with philanthropic boldness, wandered amid the ruins, to bear succour to those who might yet providentially remain alive beneath them; and among the first of those charitable persons, who set so bright an example to their fellow-men, was Don John of Braganca, a cousin of the King's, and brother of the Duke of Lafoens, well-known about that time, in France and England, as the Duke of Braganca. It was reported that, in his presence, a young damsel was dug out of a cellar, in perfect health, on the sixth day, and it was fully believed by the pious that she was, as she affirmed, saved from destruction by clasping a figure of Saint Anthony, which was found in her embrace. But to return to the day we first spoke of. From all the yet existing churches, mournful processions issued, headed by priests or friars, and accompanied by parties of seculars carrying biers, who perambulated the streets, and bore the bodies of the wretched victims, either to the water's edge, from whence they were conveyed to the centre of the Tagus, and sunk with weights; or else to large receptacles prepared in the neighbourhood of the city, when quick-lime was thrown in on them. But, though these toiled all day, little progress appeared yet to have been made in the sad work, so great was the number of the dead.