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.