s the cause of the
cross, the cause of men willing to die for brotherhood; the other is
the cause of those who are willing to kill to conquer.

And these two monuments, side by side on the Baupaume Road, stand out
as one of the Silhouettes of Sacrilege.

Then there is St. Gervais. On Good Friday afternoon a Hun shell
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
had been throwing its shells into the city all day. Suddenly one fell
so close to where I was walking that it broke the windows around me,
and I was nearly thrown to my feet. In my soul I cursed the Hun, as
all who have lived in Paris finally come to be doing as each shell
bursts. But I had more reason to curse than I knew at that moment.

The people were running into a side street, the next one toward which I
was approaching. I followed the crowd. My uniform got me past the
gendarmes in through a little court, up a pair of stairs where the
shell had penetrated the walls of a maternity hospital.

What I saw there in that room shall make me hate the Hun forever.

New-born babes had been killed, a nurse and two mothers. When I
thought of the expectant homes into which those babes had come, when I
thought of the fathers at the front who would never see again either
their wives or