'The profound truth is that she honoured her country in dying for that which is the finest in the human soul--the conscience of a grandeur of which the greater part of us dreams, and which only a few of the elect have a chance of realizing. This was the lot of Miss Cavell; driven to a wall by a detachment of riflemen, she was walking without a complaint, without a regret, being already no longer of this earth, when a physical faintness made her falter. To me it only makes her appear greater, since, combination of strength and weakness, she thus showed herself woman, purely woman, to the end. "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"--"My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?"--said Another on His cross, in a moment of weakness and distress by which the splendour of His sacrifice was increased. 'Edith Cavell did not speak a word; she fell. Thereupon an officer, a representative gentleman of "Germany above everything," a delegate of the Emperor, and, through the Emperor, of "the old German God," carrying out his despicable task of butcher, calmly drew near, placed his revolver at the temple of his victim, pressed the trigger, and then, with his hand red with blood, signed to his "men," if such I may call them, that the work of Germania was done. We shall not forget the name of Miss Cavell, but we do not know, we never shall know, the name of the other. He calls himself a German--that is enough. Every other German would have claimed the honour of carrying out the same task. Since the day of Joan of Arc, to whose memory I know that the British will one day wish to erect a statue, Great Britain has owed us this return. She has given it nobly. 'Now the Eumenides are let loose--Miss Edith Cavell, murdered by a coward, will live among the men of all ages and of all countries with a life which, for a time of which one cannot foresee the end, will bring shame and torment on the people on whom her blood lies; and that the lesson may be lasting, I should like to see in Rome, Brussels, Nish, Paris, London, and Petrograd, as an indestructible memorial of a community of sentiment, a statue of this noble woman and of the German officer. It would be sufficient to take as a model the excellent drawing published by Abel Faivre in the _Echo de Paris_, in which that fine artist has indicated in a few strokes of sublime grandeur the nobility of the blessed victim, and, without forcing anything, the features of the assassin.