She glittered with jewels from head to foot, her shoes were fastened with diamond buckles, aigrettes of diamonds were in her hair--“a splendor still the more astonishing as it is so very common,” he said. Nay, she even scattered perfume through her nosegays. On great fête days she tiptoed to church, enveloped all but one eye in a silk-lace shawl. Beneath it glinted a flower-embroidered dress of rarest stuff, fluttering a multitude of ribbons; under a petticoat of heavy brocade, miniature golden feet peeped out, or slippers of peach-colored velvet. The lady of Lima was famed for her wit, entrancing the visitor as she sipped her Paraguay tea from a silver-mounted gourd. Little is left of former splendor. The statues, the five rows of orange trees, the sweet smells are gone. At the end of the long Alameda, bordered with wind-blown trees and wrecks of marble benches, is a fountain under palms and Norfolk Island pines. Across a shady space and above a high, yellow plaster wall, is the monastery tower, where hangs a clear-toned bell. Rugged hills rise abruptly. This is the home of the Barefoot Friars. A labyrinth of paths leads to their orchards and gardens and cells. Going every morning in pairs to the markets to beg for food, they own nothing. They live entirely on alms. Just before two o’clock each day, the lame, halt, and blind begin to gather from all the town wards, each carrying a receptacle. One poor woman with three or four babies seats herself upon the plaster shelf skirting the wall, setting down her pottery jar by the brook to wait. The bell strikes two long, clear tones. The whole space is filled. The great monastery gate is flung open, and two brown-clad monks, sleeves rolled up, bring out between them a steaming copper cauldron. The famished multitude fall to their knees, many with difficulty, and a prayer is intoned. Then the procession begins: men, women, and children in various stages of decrepitude. Beggars with old tin cans totter forward as to the Mecca of a long, hard journey. Decent-looking women, very haughty, conceal their pails under black _mantas_. Each receives two ladlefuls of meat, soup, and vegetables. The kettle is filled again and refilled, till all are served. After the little groups of people have finished their _cazuela_, the heavy door clashes together. Beyond the turn of the wall, far down the avenue of palms, the Mendicant Friars emerge, four by four, and swing off across country for their daily walk. CHAPTER IX CONVENTS OPEN AND CLOSED