e a giant in his death struggle, for a last look over his
shield of shattered walls. This was what German malice had made of
Coucy, pride of France, architectural masterpiece of feudal times!

"This is as far as I dare go!" our lieutenant said, with a brusque
gesture which bade the chauffeur stop. But before the car turned, he
gave us a moment to take in the picture of grandeur and unforgivable
cruelty. Yes, unforgivable! for you know, Padre, there was no military
motive in the destruction. The only object was to deprive France forever
of the noblest of her castles, which has helped in the making of her
history since a bishop of Rheims began to build it in 920.

"Roi ne suis
Ne prince, ne duc, ne comte aussy.
Je suys le Sire de Coucy."

The beautiful old boast in beautiful old French sang in my head as I
gazed through tears at the new ruin of ancient grandeur.

Some of those haughty Sires de Coucy may have deserved to have their
stronghold destroyed, for they seem--most of them--to have been as bad
as they were vain. I remember there was one, in the days of Louis XII,
who punished three little boys for killing a few rabbits in his park, by
ordering the children to be hanged on the spot; and St. Louis was so
angry on hearing of the crime that he wished to hang the Sire de Coucy
on the same tree. There were others I've read of, just as wicked and
high-handed: but their castle was not to blame for its master's crimes!
Besides, the last of the proud Enguerrands and Thomases and Raouls,
Seigneurs of the line, was son-in-law to Edward III of England; so all
their sins were expiated long ago.

"The Boches were jealous of our Coucy," said the Frenchman, with a sigh.
"They have nothing to compare with it on their side of the Rhine. If
they could have packed up the chateau and carted it across the frontier
they would--if it had taken three years. As they couldn't do that, they
did what Cardinal Mazarin wasn't able to do with his picked engineers;
they blew it up with high explosives. But all they could steal they
stole: carvings and historic furniture. You know there was a room the
guardian used to show before the war--the room where Cesar de Bourbon
was born, the son of Henri Quatre of Navarre and Gabrielle d'Estrees?
That room the Boches emptied when they first came in August, 1914. Not a
piece of rich tapestry, not a suit of armour, not even a chair, or a
table, or lamp did they leave. Everything was sent to G