pierced the side of this beautiful cathedral as the spear-thrust
pierced the side of the Master so long ago. On the very hour that
Jesus was crucified back on that other and first Good Friday the Hun
threw his bolt of death into the nave of this church, and crucified
seventy-five people kneeling in memory of their Saviour's death.

I was in that church an hour after this terrible sacrilege happened.
Never can one forget the scene. I dare not describe it here in its
awful details.

The entire arches of stone that held up the roof had fallen in from the
concussion of the gases of the shell. Three feet of solid stones
covered the floor. Men and women were being carried out. Silk hats,
canes, shoes, hats, baby clothes, an expensive fur, lay buried in the
stone and dirt.

As I stood horrified, looking on this scene of death and destruction,
the phrase came into my heart:

"And the veil of the temple was rent in twain."


And this scene, too, shall remain as one of the Silhouettes of
Sacrilege.

But perhaps the worst Silhouette of Sacrilege that the film of one's
memory has brought away from France is that of a certain afternoon in
Paris.

I happened to be walking along the Boulevard to my hotel. The big gun