manner which is the whole charm of Roman roads wherever the hunter finds
them. You may lay a ruler along this old forgotten track, all the way
past Domqueur, Novelle (which is called Novelle-en-Chaussee, that is
Novelle on the paved road), on past Estree (where from the height you
overlook the battlefield of Crecy), and that ruler so lying on your map
points right at Boulogne Harbour, thirty odd miles away--and in all
those thirty odd remaining miles I could not find another yard of it.
But what an interest! What a hobby to develop! There is nothing like it
in all the kinds of hunting that have ever been invented for filling up
the whole of the mind. True, you will get no sauce of danger, but, on
the other hand, you will hunt for weeks and weeks, and you will come
back year after year and go on with your hunting, and sometimes you
actually find--which is more than can be said for hunting some animals
in the Weald.

How was it lost, this great main road of Europe, this marching road of
the legions, linking up Gaul and Britain, the way that Hadrian went, and
the way down which the usurper Constantine III must have come during
that short adventure of his which lends such a romance to the end of the
Empire? One cannot conceive why it should have disappeared. It is a
sunken way down the hillside across the light railway which serves
Crecy, it gets vaguer and vaguer, for all the world like those ridges
upon the chalk that mark the Roman roads in England, and then it is
gone. It leaves you pointing, I say, at that distant harbour, thirty odd
miles off, but over all those miles it has vanished. The ghost of the
legends cannot march along it any more. In one place you find a few
yards of it about three miles south and east of Montreuil. It may be
that the little lane leading into Estree shows where it crossed the
valley of the Cauche, but it is all guesswork, and therefore very proper
to the huntsman.