We
turned a corner, and came upon the church. The work on the
church was well up to the reported Teutonic average. Of its roof only
the rafters were left. The windows were all smashed, and their lead
fantastically twisted. The west door was entirely gone; a rough grille
of strips of wood served in its stead. Through this grille one could
see the nave and altar, in a miraculous and horrible confusion. It
was as if house-breakers had spent days in doing their best to
produce a professional effect. The oak pews were almost
unharmed. Immediately behind the grille lay a great bronze bell,
about three feet high, covered with beautifully incised inscriptions; it
was unhurt.
Apparently nothing had been accomplished, in ten months, towards
the restoration of the church. But something was contemplated,
perhaps already started. A polished steel saw lay on one of the
pews, but there was no workman attached to it.
While I was writing some notes in the porch three little boys came
up and diligently stared at me.
"What dost thou want?" I said sharply to the tallest.
"Nothing," he replied.
Then three widows came up, one young, one young and beautiful,
one middle-aged.
We got back into the carriage.
"The village seems very deserted," I said to the driver.
"What would you?" he answered. "Many went. They had no home.
Few have returned."
All around were houses of which nothing remained but the stone
walls.
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