_The Lady's Pictorial._ 'It is difficult to speak of the crime which has blotted the already foul page of Germany's infamy in constrained language. The whole civilized world stands aghast at the callous brutality and deceit of the German officials in Brussels who have done to death a noble Englishwoman; and words are impotent things in which to express the horror, the disgust, the fury, that this brave woman's murder has excited. Nor is it possible to deal in other than conventional phrases with her splendid self-sacrifice. She has died for her country, but she has also won the martyr's crown. Her love for her country was boundless. To serve it she ran a risk the gravity of which she fully recognized, and she freely admitted that in so doing she had offended against military laws. We all know--it is written for all time on the pages of history--how she paid the penalty. There is no need to retell the shameful story, to extol further her splendid heroism, to waste breath in execrating the savages whose name is now besmirched beyond all cleansing; whose blood-thirst has been slaked at the heart of a helpless woman. But it is worth while--it cannot be too often repeated--to cry aloud that Edith Cavell died that her countrywomen may live. Who dared to ask what is one woman among the tens of thousands of men who have perished for their country in view of all that this heroic nurse's slaughter means to England? Dying in her country's service, sacrificed to the savagery of the most treacherous, bestial, merciless enemy against which civilized peoples have ever had to fight, a victim to their lust of hate, she has left to Englishwomen an example and a message which must surely stir them to follow her, if need be, to death.' _The British Weekly._ 'The Saxon name Edith, which is linked with the most ancient glories of English history, has acquired a new lustre through the sufferings of Edith Cavell. In every church on Sunday preachers sounded the praise of the loving, gentle woman who was shot by the Germans in Brussels in the dark of a mid-October night a few hours before the fleet of Zeppelins started on their flight towards London. Her only crime was that she furthered the escape from Belgium of her countrymen and their Allies. The shield clasped for their sake in her delicate hand was like the buckler of Arthur in Spenser's poem, "All of diamond perfect pure and cleene," and coming ages will see that it was hewn out of the adamant rock. Amid the panoply of the martyrs her diamond shield will burn.' _The Catholic Times._