We arrived at La Grand Place—once the scene of a busy market, and stood beside the ruins of the famous Guild Hall. Its roof had fallen in; the walls were shattered; piles of stones and mortar had tumbled into the street. The clock tower alone, as if in defiance of the German gunners, stood erect and the clock remained untouched. A dead horse lying close by upon the pavement reminded us that we were now within easy reach of the enemy's fire.
We turned and walked across to the Cathedral of St. Martin; a short time since the pride of that beautiful city. Alas! it too was lost. We clambered over the ruins and got upon the window ledge to look within. The priceless panes were gone; the marble floor, except in patches here and there, was buried deep and the great supporting columns of the dome had toppled over; one lay across the nave, its round flat stones still clinging obliquely together and lying like rouleaux of coin side by side. The sacrilegious shells had burst into the chapel of the Holy Sacrament, had desecrated the altar and piled huge heaps of masonry upon the floor. The crucifix had disappeared, but the statues of the saints, by some strange miracle, remained intact.
From the torn paintings upon the walls the faces seemed to have turned appealingly toward the open roof, their gaze fixed as in a last pitiful prayer to heaven. They were lost—those wondrous works of Art which once with magic charm had held the world enthralled. Never again would humanity come to bow in humble admiration at that shrine of beauty, nor gather inspiration from the hallowed walls. And as we looked upon the wreck about us, now but the memories of an irrestorable past, our bitter thoughts travelled across the lines of trenches to that strange race to whom no neighbour's hall or home is sacred and to whom the work of centuries, the irreplaceable monuments of master minds, are naught.
As we looked again upon those time-honoured, tottering walls the great jagged holes seemed to cry out to us for revenge, and a sudden just but implacable anger against the perpetrators of these hideous world-crimes stormed within our hearts and choked our utterance.
With a sigh we turned from the contemplation of this scene of wanton destruction and started our walk through the desolate streets. Crossing the Menin road, we entered that little graveyard where so many of our brave men lay buried. The houses round about lay crumbled, but this sacred spot, by accident or design, had been spared. As we passed bareheaded down the path between rows of closely crowded graves, the new-made wooden crosses seemed to lift their white arms to us in mute appeal. Here and there the cap of some once gallant French or Belgian officer hung upon his cross—a crown of glory that no mortal hand dare touch. Some of these caps had rested there for months, rotted by rain, torn by the wind, faded by the sun—but dyed with a glory which time could never dim, and emblazoned with the halo of self-sacrifice. And as we stood there upon the threshold of the battlefield we saw the conflict in a clearer light—behind us faith and patriotism; in front patience and heroism, and at our feet self-sacrifice and deathless love.
A great wreath of purple leaves lay upon the grave of a young prince, clinging lovingly to the new-made mound. He rested there side by side with his humbler fellows—they had fought and died together. We sometimes forget that a prince is human; he seems so far above us—he lives in a different sphere and appears to be cast in a different mould. But when we stand beside his grave, we realise at last that he was but a mortal like ourselves; that he has lived his life like us—the same desires, the same ambitions and the same need for love. Only one word was entwined, in white letters, with the purple leaves; only one word, but it bridged two countries and two souls—heaven and earth were joined—for the small white flowers clinging together spelled the magic name of "Mother." We may fall unnoticed in the thick of battle, we may be buried with a host of comrades in a nameless grave, but a mother's heart will seek us out, no matter where we lie, and wrap our lonely souls about with the mantle of her undying love.
"You have seen both ends of a battle now—the hospital and the graveyard," Jack exclaimed, as we left the cemetery; "come with me and I will show you what it is like to be in the middle."
"Can't we take a little walk along this road, and see the first line trenches?" Reggy enquired. We were crossing the Menin road again at the moment.
Jack laughed. "Not if you wish to come further with us. If you step out of this shelter in daylight there won't be any Reggy to brighten our trip. No one goes out there in daylight—that is, if he wishes to attain old age."
"But it seems so quiet here," Reggy protested. "Apart from broken-down buildings, I can't see a sign of a war—there isn't a soul in sight but ourselves."