uprooted from its foundations and leaning at a more acute angle than will ever the celebrated tower of Pisa, past ugly heaps of brick and rubble — the ruins of once fair buildings, on and on until we pulled up suddenly before a huge something, shattered and formless, a long façade of broken arches and columns, great roof gone, mighty walls splintered, cracked and rent — all that "Kultur" has left of the ancient and once beautiful Cloth Hall.
"Roof's gone since I was here last," said the Intelligence Officer, "come this way. You'll see it better from over here." So we followed him and stood to look upon the indescribable ruin.
"There are no words to describe — that," said N. at last, gloomily.
"No," I answered. "Arras was bad enough, but this — !"
"Arras?" he repeated. "Arras is only a ruined town. Ypres is a rubbish dump. And its Cloth Hall is — a bad dream." And he turned away. Our Intelligence Officer led us over mounds of fallen masonry