We dismounted and tied our
horses. Wandering along its paths, we came across little
summer-houses, statues, fountains and then, without any hindrance,
found ourselves in the nave of a fine cathedral which was roofed only
by the sky. Two years of the Huns had made it as much a ruin as
Tintern Abbey. Here, too, the flowers had intruded. They grew between
graves in the pavement and scrambled up the walls, wherever they could
find a foothold. At the far end of this stretch of destruction stood
the high altar, totally untouched by the hurricane of shell-fire. The
saints were perched in their niches, composed and stately. The Christ
looked down from His cross, as he had done for centuries, sweeping the
length of splendid architecture with sad eyes. It seemed a miracle
that the altar had been spared, when everything else had fallen. A
reason is given for its escape. Every Sabbath since the start of the
war, no matter how severe the bombardment, service has been held
there. The thin-faced women, rat-faced children and ancient men have
crept out from their cellars and gathered about the priest; the lamp
has been lit, the Host uplifted. The Hun is aware of this; with malice
aforethought he lands shells into the cathedral every Sunday in an
effort to smash the altar. So far he has failed. One finds in this a
symbol--that in the heart of the maelstrom of horror, which this war
has created, there is a quiet place where the lamp of gentleness and
honour is kept burning.
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