And now, the work of those thousand busy years has crumbled in a few
monstrous months, like the sand-houses of children when the tide comes
in! What Father Beckett saw of Ypres after three years' bombardment, was
not much more than that shown in Brian's picture, dated 900! A blackened
wall or two and a heap of rubble where stood the _Halle des
Drapiers_--pride of Ypres since the thirteenth century--its belfry, its
statues, its carvings, its paintings, all vanished like the contours and
colours of a sunset cloud. The cathedral is a skeleton. Hardly a pointed
gable is left to tell where the quaint and prosperous houses once
grouped cosily together. Ypres the town is a mourner draped in black
with the stains of fire which killed its beauty and joy. But there is a
glory that can never be killed, a glory above mere beauty, as a living
soul is above the dead body whence it has risen. That glory is Ypres.
She is a ghost, but she is an inspiration, a name of names, a jewel
worth dying for--"worth giving a man's eyes for," Brian says!
"Has your brother told you about the man we met at the Visitors'
Chateau?" asked Father Beckett, when between the two men--and my
reminiscences--the story of the tour was finished with those last words
of Brian's.
"No, I haven't told her yet," Brian answered for me.
My nerves jumped. I scarcely knew what I expected to hear. "Not Doctor
Paul Herter?" I exclaimed--and was surprised to hear on my own lips the
name so constantly in my mind.
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