No less was the pleasure I experienced when I caught sight of that road winding over the hill above the village.  On going to it I found that it had looked as red as rust simply because it was rust-earth made rich and beautiful in colour with iron, its red hue variegated with veins and streaks of deep purple or violet.  I was told that there were hundreds of acres of this earth all round the place—­earth so rich in iron that many a man’s mouth had watered at the sight of it; also that every effort had been made to induce the owner of Abbotsbury to allow this rich mine to be worked.  But, wonderful to relate, he had not been persuaded.

A hard fragment of the red stuff, measuring a couple of inches across and weighing about three ounces avoirdupois, rust-red in colour with purple streaks and yellow mottlings, is now lying before me.  The mineralogist would tell me that its commercial value is naught, or something infinitesimal; which is doubtless true enough, as tens of thousands of tons of the same material lie close to the surface under the green turf and golden blossoming furze at the spot where I picked up my specimen.  The lapidary would not look at it; nevertheless, it is the only article of jewellery I possess, and I value it accordingly.  And I intend to keep this native ruby by me for as long as the lords of Abbotsbury continue in their present mind.  The time may come when I shall be obliged to throw it away.  That any millionaire should hesitate for a moment to blast and blacken any part of the earth’s surface, howsoever green and refreshing to the heart it may be, when by so doing he might add to his income, seems like a fable, or a tale of fairyland.  It is as if one had accidentally discovered the existence of a little fantastic realm, a survival from a remote past, almost at one’s doors; a small independent province, untouched by progress, asking to be conquered and its antediluvian constitution taken from it.

From the summit of that commanding hill, over which the red path winds, a noble view presents itself of the Chesil Bank, or of about ten miles of it, running straight as any Roman road, to end beneath the rugged stupendous cliffs of Portland.  The ocean itself, and not conquering Rome, raised this artificial-looking wall or rampart to stay its own proud waves.  Formed of polished stones and pebbles, about two hundred yards in width, flat-topped, with steeply sloping sides, at this distance it has the appearance of a narrow yellow road or causeway between the open sea on one hand and the waters of the Fleet, a narrow lake ten miles long, on the other.