the steps processionally, and growing in perfect
rows just where step meets step. They have come to Arras with the
wind and the rain; which enter the aisles together whenever they
will, and go wherever man went; they have such a reverent air, the
young limes on the three flights of steps, that you would say they
did not know that Arras Cathedral was fallen on evil days, that they
did not know they looked on ruin and vast disaster, but thought that
these great walls open to stars and sun were the natural and fitting
place for the worship of little weeds.

Behind them the shattered houses of Arras seemed to cluster about the
cathedral as, one might fancy easily, hurt and frightened children,
so wistful are their gaping windows and old, grey empty gables, so
melancholy and puzzled. They are more like a little old people come
upon trouble, gazing at their great elder companion and not knowing
what to do.

But the facts of Arras are sadder than a poet's most tragic fancies.
In the western front of Arras Cathedral stand eight pillars rising
from the ground; above them stood four more. Of the four upper
pillars the two on the left are gone, swept away by shells from the
north: and a shell has passed through the neck of one of the two that
is left, just as a bullet might go through a daffodil's stem.

The left-hand corner of that western wall has been caught from the
north, by some tremendous shell which has torn the whole corner down
in a mound of stone: and still the walls have stood.

I went in through the western doorway. All along the nave lay a long
heap of white stones, with grass and weeds on the top, and a little
trodden path over the grass and weeds. This is all that remained of
the roof of Arras Cathedral and of any chairs or pews there may have
been in the nave, or anything that may have hung above them. It was
all down but one slender arch that crossed the nave just at the
transept; it stood out against the sky, and all who saw it wondered
how it stood.

In the southern aisle panes of green glass, in twisted frame of lead,
here and there lingered, like lonely leaves on an apple-tree-after a
hailstorm in spring. The aisles still had their roofs over them which
those stout old walls held up in spite of all.

Where the nave joins the transept the ruin is most enormous. Perhaps
there was more to bring down there, so the Germans brought it down:
there may have been a tower there, for all I know, or a spire.

I