forks of the roads. There is the old monastery, battered and in ruins,
that stood out like a gaunt ghost of the vandal Hun. There was the
little God's acre along the road which we passed every day. There were
always the observation-balloons against the evening sky. There were
always the fleet-winged birds of the air outlined against the evening.
There were always the marching men and the ambulance trains. But
standing out above them all, etched with the acid of regret and anger
and horror, stood that lonely tower. Night after night we approached
it with a beautiful sunset off to the west where the Germans lay buried
in their trenches. Coming back from the German lines we would see this
church-tower outlined against the crimson sky like a finger pointing
God-ward, and declaring to all the world that the God above would
avenge this silent, accusing Silhouette of Sacrilege.

There has been a good deal of discussion over a certain book entitled
"I Accuse." I never saw that finger pointing into the sky as we drove
through this village that it did not cry out to the heavens and across
the short miles to the German Huns, looking down, as it did, at its
feet where the ruined homes lay, the village that it had mothered and
fathered, the village that had worshipped within its simple walls, the
village that had brought its joys and sorrows there, the village that
had buried the dead within its shadows, the village that had brought
its young there to be married and its aged to be buried; there it
stood, night after night, against the crimson sky sometimes, against
the golden sky at other times; against the rose, against the blue,
against the purple sunsets; and ever it thundered: "I accuse! I
accuse! I accuse!"

Then there is that Silhouette of Sacrilege up on the Baupaume Road.
This is called "the saddest road in Christendom," because more men have