The up-hill road had many sharp stones. But the boy's hardened bare feet heeded them not. Carlos jumped from the cart to run by his master's side. Jose gave the dog a loving pat: "Ah, Carlos, brother Antonio does not come yet."
The dog was the only one who knew Jose's secret. He looked up with eyes which seemed full of sympathy, and put his nose into the boy's hand.
Along the wayside were rows and rows of oaks, chestnuts, planes, and most of all, white poplars. The poplars were covered to the top by trailing vines, loaded with purple grapes. On the hillsides were scattered little cottages, whitewashed or painted pale blue, pink, or buff, with red-tiled roofs. Every cottage which Jose passed had its shady porch built with trellis covering, and heavy bunches of grapes hung over the heads of women spinning at the open doorways, surrounded by quiet, bare-foot children.
In the distance stood green pine-covered hills. Farther away rose vast mountains, peak upon peak, purple now in the shadows of the October afternoon.
It is a beautiful, mountainous country, this Minho region around Guimarães, the old capital city. Minho is Portugal's richest province. And here, it is said, faces are brighter and manners gentler than anywhere else in Portugal.
Up-hill the road wound always. Jose met many other boys, barefooted like himself, but usually older, driving oxen or pannier-loaded donkeys. The boys were dressed, as he was, in loose white linen shirt and blue cotton trousers which came just to the knees, a scarlet sash wound three times around the waist, a long, knitted black cap, and a jacket of brown homespun slung upon one shoulder. Sometimes the cap was red or green, but oftenest black; and it ended in a tassel which hung down the back.
Many a bare-foot girl, too, trudged along the road, dressed in peasant costume, and driving a donkey with a short stick.
With a last wistful look in the direction of the village, Jose turned the oxen from the main road into the rough wooded lane which led to his father's home. The ox-cart creaked and rumbled over the uneven ground. Like all such carts in Portugal, it was made of four or five boards laid flat and resting upon two supports. It had two wheels of solid wood, without spokes, and with iron tires, fixed fast to an axle which turned with the wheels. Long as the three mile journey was to Jose, it was easier to walk than to ride in the jolting car.
Jose felt very tired. Although it was almost sunset time, he stopped the oxen and threw himself down near a clump of fragrant shrubs to rest before the last half mile of the hard journey. Carlos came and licked his master's face, then darted off after a red-legged partridge.