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' Château?" 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.
"Well, that's queer she should speak of _him_, isn't it, Brian? How did you come to think of Herter?" Father Beckett wanted to know.
"No. But--you'd better tell her, Brian. I guess you'll have to."
"There isn't much to tell, really," Brian said. "It was only that oculist chap Herter told you about--Dr. Henri Chrevreuil. He's been working at the front, as you know: lately it's been the British front; and they'd taken him in at the château for a few days' rest. We met him there and talked of his friend--your friend, Molly--Doctor Paul."
"What did he say about your eyes?" Dierdre almost gasped. (I should not have ventured to put the question suddenly, and before people. I should have been too afraid of the answer. But her nickname is "_Dare!_") "He must have said something, or Mr. Beckett wouldn't have spoken so. He _did_ look at your eyes--didn't he? He would, for Herter's sake."