d. We saw her foreshortened; then end on; then foreshortened again
as her other side swung into view. At that moment--just before the
whole length of her lay flat before our eyes she fired. At first I
scarcely realized that she had fired. There was a small cloud of white
smoke hanging over her near the bow. That was all for the moment. Then
came the horrible sound of the great projectile racing through the
air. Then it was past.

Some women in the crowd, a few, shrieked aloud. Some girls ran wildly
towards the town, driven, I suppose, to seek shelter of some kind.
Most of the crowd stood silent. Then from some young men who stood
together there came a kind of moaning sound. It gathered volume. It,
as it were, took shape. Voice after voice took it up. The whole
crowd--many hundreds of men and women--sang together the hymn they had
all been singing for months past, "O God, our help in ages past." I do
not know how far back towards the town the singing spread, but it
would not surprise me to hear that ten thousand voices joined in it.

Bland had his glasses raised. He was still gazing at the battleship.

"A strange answer," I said, "to make to the first shell of a
bombardment."

"Yes," said Bland. "It reminds me of a profane rhyme which I used to
hear:

"'There was a young lady of Zion
Who sang Sunday-school songs to a lion.'

"But hers, I should say, was the more sensible proceeding of the two."

I was not sure. It is just conceivable--it seemed to me at that
moment even likely--that a hymn, sung as that one was, may be the most
effective answer to a big gun. There are only certain things which
guns can do. When they have destroyed life and ruined buildings their
power is spent. But the singing of hymns may, and sometimes does,
render men for a time at least, indifferent to the loss of their lives
and the ruin of their houses. Against men in the frame of mind which
hymn-singing induces the biggest guns are powerless. The original
singers fall, perhaps, but the spirit of their singing survives. For
each voice silenced by the bursting shells ten voices take up the
song.

The battleship, after firing the gun, swung round and once more slowly
steamed across the lough. I waited, tense with excitement, for her to
turn again. At the next turn, I felt sure, another shell would come. I
was wrong. She turned, more slowly than ever as it seemed. No white
smoke issued from her. Again she steamed northwards. Again,