town whose ruined fortifications, I knew, were
to be found somewhere among the barren hills to the west of Vers. It
was some time before I could make these men understand what I was
really in search of, and when they understood they seemed to think I
was a little mad, until the idea struck them that I might be a dealer
in antiquities, hoping to pick up certain odds and ends that would
repay me for the trouble of walking to such a desolate and
uninteresting spot.

At length I gathered that the site of the ancient _oppidum_ was at
Murcens, a hamlet upon a hill, half a day's walk away to the west, and
that the best way to reach it was to follow the valley of the Vers. At
about seven o'clock the next morning I started, and, having been
warned that I should find no inn where I could get a meal, I took with
me some provisions.

It was a gray, dreary morning, and at that hour the weather could not
have been more November-like had I been upon the banks of the Severn
or the Trent, instead of being by one of the rivers of our ancient
southern province of Guyenne.

As I turned westward up the valley of the Vers, I passed under
detached fragments of the aqueduct built by the Romans to carry water
to Cahors. By taking advantage of the rocks which hem in the narrow
valley, they saved themselves the trouble of raising arches to the
desired height to ensure the flow. The conduit is carried along upon a
ledge hewn out of the natural wall, projecting masses of rock being
cut through with the hammer and chisel. The masonry is of undressed
stone, but so firmly cemented that it is scarcely less solid than the
rock itself.

Where an inconvenient buttress projected, a narrow passage was cut
through it for the channel, and the marks of the chisel look as fresh
as if they had been lately made. Much of this aqueduct was destroyed
in quite recent days, when the rocks were blasted to make room for the
road to Cahors. The Romans may have thought of many destructive
agencies being employed upon their work, but dynamite was certainly
not one of them. Box and hellebore, bramble and dogwood, moss and
ferns, have been striving for centuries to conceal all trace of the
conduit, and those whose foreknowledge did not lead them to look for
it might easily pass by without observing it.

The road followed the stream, now a furious torrent that a man on
horseback could hardly ford without risk of being carried away. Two or
three weeks previously a mere thread of water wound its way amongst
the stones in the centre of the channel. It is one of the many streams
which in Guyenne gradually disappear in summer, but at the return of
winter fill the long-scorched and silent valleys with the sound of
roaring waters. On either side of the gorge rose abrupt stony hills
thinly wooded, chiefly with stunted oak, or escarped craggy cliffs
pierced with yawning caverns. There was no sunshine, but the multitude
of lingering leaves lit up all the desert hills with a quiet, solemn
flame. Here and there, amidst the pale gold of the maple or the
browner, ruddier gold of the oak, glowed darkly the deep crimson fire
of a solitary cornel. In steady, unchanging contrast with these
colours was the sombre green of the box.

The stream descends in a series of cascades, and there is a mighty
roar of waters. For many yards I have for a companion a little wren,
that flies from twig to twig through the well-nigh naked hedge along
the wayside, now hidden behind a bramble's crimson-spotted leaf, now
mingled with a tracery of twigs and thorns. I can almost believe it to
be the same wren that kept up with me years ago in English lanes, and
since then has travelled with me so many miles in France, vanishing
for long periods, but reappearing as if by enchantment in some
roadside hedge, its eyes bright with recognition, and every movement
friendly. Whimsical little bird, or gentle spirit in disguise, we may
travel many a mile together yet.

My thoughts were turned from the wren by a carrier's cart, which the
people of the country would term a _diligence_. It was like a great
oblong box with one end knocked out, set on wheels. The interior was a
black hole, crammed with people and bundles. When I looked for my
little feathered friend it was gone, but we shall meet again.

Two or three miles farther up the valley, near a small village or
hamlet, I crossed a low bridge over the Vers, and by following the
road on the other side, still ascending the course of the stream, I
came to a spot where a volume of water that would soon have filled a
large reservoir flowed quietly out of a little hollow at the foot of
great rocks. It was the Fountain of Polйmie which, on account of its
abundant flow in all seasons, is supposed to have been the source from
which the Romans led their aqueduct to Divona--now called Cahors. The
water of this fountain, which derives its name from Polemius, a Roman
functionary, is of limpid purity, and its constancy proves that it
rises from a great depth. The Romans must have carried the water on
arches across the valley, and probably for a considerable distance
down it, before they made use of the natural wall of rock in the
manner described, but not a trace remains of the arches, or even of
the piers.

In order to reach the tableland of Murcens, it was necessary to cross
again the roaring torrent of the Vers, and after several vain attempts
to do so, by means of the rocks lying in its bed, I came to a bridge
which solved the difficulty. The scene was now sublimely rugged and
desolate. On each side the majestic rocks reared their ever-varying
fantastic shapes towards the sky.

I knew, from what I had been told, that Murcens lay somewhere above
the escarped cliff on my left, and at no great distance, but the
difficulty was to reach it. I had heard of a path, but I soon gave up
the attempt to find it. As there was not a human being to be seen who
could give me any counsel, I commenced climbing the hill in the
direction that I wished to take. It was anything but straightforward
walking. The lower part of the steep was strewn with loose stones like
shingle, that slipped under the feet, so that I had to proceed in
zigzag fashion, taking advantage of every bush of juniper and box and
root of hellebore as a foothold. But the vegetation grew denser as I
ascended, and I had soon plenty of box and dwarf oak to help me.

Before attempting to climb the upper wall of solid limestone, I sat in
the mouth of a small cavern to eat the frugal lunch I had brought with
me, and to contemplate at my leisure the wild grandeur of the valley.
I could not have chosen a better place for feeling in one sense
dwindled, in another expanded, by the majesty of the stony solitude.
Suddenly, while I gazed, the sun breaking through the clouds made
every yellow tree brighten like melting gold, and drew a voice of joy
from all the dumb and solemn rocks.

I leave the remnants of my feast for the foxes and magpies to quarrel
over, and feel prepared to put forth a vigorous effort to reach the
_causse_. I work my way up by the clefts of the rocks, hanging on to
the tough box, and getting thoroughly asperged by the dew that has not
yet dried upon it. I have not ascended fifty feet in this manner
before I am as wet as if I had been walking in a thunderstorm. I creep
along ledges, now to the right and now to the left, and presently I am
only about twenty-five feet from the top of the rock that prevents me
from attaining my object. It is pleasanter to look up than to look
down, for, being no climber of mountain peaks, I do not enjoy the
sensation of clinging to the side of a precipice like a caterpillar to
a leaf. Now comes the real trial. The rest of the rock above me is
quite bare of vegetation. By making four or five steps upwards to the
left, then to the right, a spot can be reached where the trouble will
be over; but some of these steps need a considerable stretch of leg,
and the eye cannot measure the distance with certainty. Time is on the
wing, and the days are short. I am strongly tempted to make the essay,
but doubt holds me back. What if I, were to get half-way, and were
unable to go on or to retreat? What if I were to slip and roll down
the rocks? If I were not killed outright, who would be likely to come
to my aid in such a solitude? The ravens would have ample time to pick
my bones before those interested in my existence would know what had
happened to me. I resolve that I will not give the birds of ill omen a
chance of so rare a meal. In descending, the cold showers from the box
bushes add to my humiliation and discomfiture.

Keeping on the side of the hill, I went farther up the valley, seeking
a place where I could with better chance of success make another
attack upon the difficulties of this rocky wall. I found what I wanted
at no great distance, the only objection to the spot being the dense
growth of shrubs laden with moisture. It was almost like wading
through a stream. At length the line of high rocks was passed, and I
was upon land that, notwithstanding its steepness and the multitude of
stones with which it was strewn, had undergone some cultivation. That
wine had not long since been grown here was evident from the numerous
stumps of vines which had been killed by the phylloxera. A few
lingering flowers of hawkweed relieved the monotony of the dreary
waste. But if, while looking before me, the scene was saddening, in
looking back there was a sublime and soul-lifting picture which the
forces of Nature had been painting unmolested for ages. I can do no
more than suggest to the imagination the combined effect of those
fantastic rocks rising from the foaming torrent to the drifting,
tinted clouds; buttresses and bastions of the ancient earth laid bare
in the mysterious night of the inconceivable past, some black and
gloomy as the walls of a feudal moat, others yellow like ochre;
others, again, sun-bleached almost to whiteness, yet streaked with
ruddy veins--all flashed here and there with burning oak and maple, or
sprinkled with the purple blood of the dogwood's dying leaves.

Half an hour later I reached Murcens, only inhabited nowadays by a few
peasants in two or three scattered hovels, which are nevertheless
called farms. I had no difficulty in finding the wall of the Gaulish
town. It is broken down completely in places, but the almost circular
line is plainly marked. The site of the _oppidum_ is a little
tableland raised above the surrounding soil by a natural embankment.

The circumvallation in its best preserved places is now from seven to
ten feet high. The materials used were such as Caesar mentions as
having been employed by the Gauls in the fortification of their
_oppida_, namely, timber and rough stone. I looked for some traces of
the wooden uprights, but although there is ample proof that they
existed there down to our own time, my search was vain. Many stones
measuring several feet in length were set in a perpendicular position
to give extra stability to the wall. The ancient rampart is in places
completely overgrown with juniper. Within the wall is nothing but
level field. No trace remains of any buildings that stood there in the
far-off days when the spot was the scene of all passions and vanities,
the tragedy and comedy of human life, even as we know it now. The
peasant as he ploughs or digs turns up from time to time a bit of
worked metal, such as a coin, or a ring, but the hands which held them
may or may not be mingled with the soil that supports the buckwheat
and enables the peasant to live. The Gaulish city has no history.

I had some talk with a peasant who had been watching my movements
wonderingly. He spoke French with difficulty, but his boy--a lad of
about twelve, who had been to school--could help him over the stiles.
I got the man to speak about the ancient wall, although it was
evidently not a subject that interested him so deeply as his pigsty.
He told me that all the beams of wood had now rotted (they may have
helped to warm him on winter evenings), but that nails a foot long
were often found amongst the stones of the wall or in the soil round
about it. He had picked up several, but had taken no care of them.
When I observed that I should much like to see one, he said he thought
there was one somewhere in his house, and, calling to his wife, he
asked her in Languedocian to look for it. While she was searching he
drew my attention to a circular stone lying upon the top of his rough
garden wall. It was about a foot in diameter, and concave on one
side. 'What is it?' I asked.

'A millstone,' he replied.

True enough, it was one of the stones of an ancient handmill, such as
was used in remote antiquity, chiefly by women, for grinding corn. It
must have been as nearly as possible after the pattern of