We slept that night at the Convent of Lluch, a lonely place in a hollow of the mountain. A forlorn-looking and cadaverous young man, in a long garment of neutral tint, and with a greasy black angular cap on his head, opened the door when we rang for admittance. His reception of us was rather peculiar. After yawning and scratching himself, he turned his back and went into the building, looking very like Noah going into the ark, as popularly delineated in the familiar toy in vogue amongst British infants. He, however, returned in a moment, with a candle which shed a watery gleam on the bare walls, and ushered us into the convent, where we were entertained in a rather frugal manner. After discussing, at the extreme end of a very long table, in a very long room, and in a very short time, a repast of sour wine, like very inferior African port, with black bread and hard eggs, tasting as if they had been boiled in lamp-oil, we retired to rest in a bare, whitewashed cell, where we slept upon a couple of mattresses, covered over with striped woollen mule rugs. We observed in our chamber, hanging on a nail, a very depressing picture of some saint or other with a catherine-wheel apparently exploding from the back of a very bald head. The Convent of Lluch, or Luke, is celebrated as a place where the Virgin, at some former period, descended from Heaven. She came only once, we were told, and considering all things, we really cannot wonder at her having found one visit quite sufficient. After our fatiguing climb amongst the mountains, we were glad to find ourselves again in the sunny city of Palma, with its old carved gateways, its yellow, flat-roofed houses, dusty roads, acacia avenues, picturesque population, and Damascus-like scenes. It was pleasant to retire from the blaze of the midday sun into the cool shade of old Gothic cloisters, with their beautiful pillars and arches. We wandered with delight in the bright green garden in the midst, or strayed at will into half-ruined courtyards, with grand old Moorish arches, offering a dim and silent retreat. Everything in the city has an Oriental character. The numerous actual remains of Saracenic architecture, the splendid mansions built by mediæval knights or merchants, the yellow walls on which the aloe grows, and the arched windows here and there perched in picturesque irregularity, or looking down into gardens filled with palms, cacti, and feathery shrubs, all remind one of the East.