We did not know it then, but it was Louvain's bloody eclipse we saw presaged that day in the suddenly darkened heavens.

Even the lines of the sidewalks were loSt.The road was piled high with broken, fire-smudged masonry.

The building behind was a building no longer.

It was a husk of a house, open to the sky, backless and front-less, and fit only to tumble down in the next high wind.
As we stood before the empty railroad station, in what I veritably believe to be the forlornest spot there is on this earth, a woman in a shawl came whining to sell us postal cards, on which were views of the desolation that was all about us.
"Please buy some pictures," she said in French.

"My husband is dead." "When did he die ?" one of us asked.
She blinked, as though trying to remember.
"That night," she said as though there had never been but one night.
"They killed him then--that night." "Who killed him ?" "They did." She pointed in the direction of the square fronting the station.