ia, in the house
of an ancient Italian family, in certain second-hand bookstores, in
out-of-the-way towns he found treasures as precious as pearls and
diamonds raked out of the muck-heap.

When death took away his only son and left his little grandchildren
dependent upon himself the old book-lover looked forward serenely into
the future. He knew that every year his treasures were growing more and
more valuable. Living in his home in Louvain he received from time to
time visits from experts, who came in from all the cities of the world
to see his treasures, and if possible, to buy some rare book.

Then, in August, 1914, came the great catastrophe, as came the explosion
of Vesuvius that buried Pompeii under hot ashes and flaming fire.

One morning the old scholar was startled by the noise and confusion in
the street. Looking down from his window he saw German soldiers, German
horsemen, German cannon. He beheld women and children lined up on the
sidewalk. He saw German soldiers assault old men. He saw them carrying
the furniture, rugs and carpets out of the houses. He saw the flames
coming out of the roofs of houses a block away.

A moment later an old university professor pounded upon his door and
called out that they must flee for their lives. There was only time to
pick out one satchel and fill it with his precious manuscripts and
costly missals. Then the two old scholars fled into the street with the
grandchildren. Fortunately a Belgian driving a two-wheeled coal cart was
passing by. Into the cart climbed the little grandchildren. Carefully
the satchel filled with its treasures was also lifted into place.

At that moment a German shell exploded beside the cart. When the old
book-lover recovered consciousness the cart was gone, the grandchildren
were dead and of all his art treasures there was left only one little
book upon which some scholar of the twelfth century had toiled with
loving hands.

Carried forward among the refugees several hours later, Belgian soldiers
lifted the old man into a train that was carrying the wounded down to
Havre. In his hand the collector held the precious book. Excitement and
sorrow had broken his heart. His mind also wandered. He was no longer
able to understand the cosmic terror and blackness. A noble officer,
himself wounded, put his coat under the old man's head and made a
pillow and bade him forget the German beast, the bomb shells, the
blazing city. But all these foul deeds and