its intensely modern aspect, must have been entirely rebuilt. The ancient sarcophagus of the founder of the original chapel, Bartholomew Joannes, a famous military name of the reign of King Diniz, was lying outside in the aisle when I first visited the Sé; a high-backed, elbow chair, that looked like a relic of early episcopal days, stood near the entrance in a state of neglect that showed no respect for its antiquity. On occasions of high festival, however, when the star-lights of the candles on the throne of the high altar cast their soft illumination over a crowd of kneeling worshippers, melancholy vanishes, and the historic fame resumes the aura of dignity and solemnity that is the prerogative of its immemorial traditions.
The street without mounts by the north side of the Sé. The handsome side porch is Manueline, the massive walls have small grated windows, and in the transept a splendid rose window. Across the narrow street frowns the gloomy building known as the Aljube, once a possession of a bishop of the historic family of the Castros, used as a prison for ecclesiastics and now serving as a prison for women. A few steps further and a large, irregular building, buff-coloured and with heavily-barred windows in every wing and story, stands out to the right higher up the hill. Though the chief prison of to-day, it is really an old palace of which the picturesque name, Limeiro—Lemon Tree—is still retained.
In the days when it was a fidalgo residence it was the scene of a tragedy leading to great events, when D. João I (then Grand Master of Aviz possessing no legitimate right to the royal succession beyond the people's good will) stabbed the Conde de Ourem, who was supporting the claim of the Castilian King to the throne of Portugal after D. Fernando's death. The regency was in the hands of D. Leonore, the dowager Queen, who favoured the
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