As they went on, scenes of horror were on every side. Stores were being gutted and their contents strewn into the streets. Hose, pierced with bayonet holes, lay over the sidewalks. Flaming camphine balls were firing every house that the wind had spared. Suddenly they were stopped by a crowd of men which blocked their pathway. In their midst was a reverend gentleman, and by his side was his wife. It was Mr. Shand, pastor of the church.
“Open that box,” a soldier said.
“Gentlemen, I have not the key,” the minister replied.
“What’s the use o’ lyin’? What you got in there?”
“It is the communion service of our church.”
“Ach, mein Gott,” another broke in. “Vat a pious shentlemen!” A coarse, loud laugh followed.
“Look here, hand us that key.” One of them took him by the collar.
“I have told you I have not the key.”
“Well, your watch, then.”
“It is in the ashes of my home.”