forgot
_which_ tree.

During a lull in the bombardment, he returned, and until two o'clock in
the morning dug frantically for his buried treasure. The soldier who
guarded the house told me the difference in the way the soldiers dig a
trench and the way our absent host dug for his lost money was greatly
marked. I found the leaden box cast aside in the dog-kennel. It was the
exact size of a suitcase. As none of us knows when he may not have to
bury a quarter of a million dollars hurriedly, it is a fact worth
remembering. Any ordinary suitcase will do. The soldier and I examined
the leaden box carefully. But the owner had not overlooked anything.

When we reached the ruins of the cathedral, we did not need darkness
and falling rain to depress us further, or to make the scene more
desolate. One lacking in all reverence would have been shocked. The
wanton waste, the senseless brutality in such destruction would have
moved a statue. Walls as thick as the ramparts of a fort had been blown
into powdered chalk. There were great breaches in them through which you
could drive an omnibus. In one place the stone roof and supporting
arches had fallen, and upon the floor, where for two hundred years the
people of Arras had knelt in prayer, was a mighty barricade of stone
blocks, twisted candelabra, broken praying-chairs, torn vestments,
shattered glass. Exposed to the elements, the chapels were open to the
sky. The rain fell on sacred emblems of the Holy Family, the saints, and
apostles. Upon the altars the dust of the crushed walls lay inches deep.

The destruction is too great for present repair. They can fill the
excavations in the streets and board up the shattered show-windows, but
the cathedral is too vast, the destruction of it too nearly complete.
The sacrilege must stand. Until the war is over, until Arras is free
from shells, the ruins must remain uncared for and uncovered. And the
cathedral, by those who once came to it for help and guidance, will be
deserted.

But not entirely deserted. The pigeons that built their nests under the
eaves have descended to the empty chapels, and in swift, graceful
circles sweep under the ruined arches. Above the dripping of the rain,
and the surly booming of the cannon, their contented cooing was the only
sound of comfort. It seemed to hold out a promise for the better days of
peace.

CHAPTER III

THE ZIGZAG FRONT OF CHAMPAGNE

PA