_Boom!_ went the cannon, and _Crash!_ the statue of a great poet fell from the portal of the library. The Lord Mayor shuddered. "It is an idea," he agreed. "There is a faint hope. Something must be done, and that quickly. How shall we begin, Sir Librarian?" The Librarian turned to the shelves behind him and took down at random a book bound in red-and-gold. "Here, let us begin with this," he said. "It may not be the best of all our Chronicles, but if the warlike King can be induced to read it through, it may serve to hold his wrath for a space." "Who will go with the volume into the enemy's camp?" asked the Lord Mayor dubiously. "We must send our best reader," said the Librarian. "Red Rex must hear the tale read aloud, the better to hold his unaccustomed attention." "Surely, you are the best reader, Sir Librarian," urged the Lord Mayor generously. "How we all admire your style and diction!" _Crash!_ The rainbow window above their heads was shivered into a thousand pieces. The Lord Mayor turned pale. "We must make haste!" he urged, pushing the Librarian gently by the elbow. "Nay," said the Librarian coolly, releasing himself. "There is one who reads far better than I. It is a young boy, the son of a poor widow living on the High Street. Harold is his name, and he reads as sweetly as a nightingale sings. Let us send for him at the same time when our messenger goes to King Victor." "Let it be done immediately!" commanded the Lord Mayor. This happened on a Saturday, when the boys were not at school. But on account of the bombardment of the city, the Lord Mayor had already given orders that every child should remain in his own home that morning. So Harold was with his mother when the messenger from the Lord Mayor knocked on the door of the little cottage in the High Street, and Robert and Richard did not know anything about it. "Come with me!" said the messenger to Harold. "You are needed for important service." "Oh, where is he going?" cried the poor, trembling mother, holding back her boy by the shoulders. "He is to come directly to the library," said the messenger. "The Librarian has a task for him." "Ah! The Librarian!" The mother sighed with relief, and let her hands fall from the shoulders of Harold. "To that good man of peace I can trust my son, even amid this wicked bombardment." When Harold came to the library with the messenger, they found the beautiful portal of the building quite destroyed, and the windows lying in pitiful shattered fragments. They entered under a rain of missiles, and discovered the Leading Citizens gathered in a pale group in the center of the hall, under a heavy oak table. "My boy!" said the Librarian, with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. "We have sent for you, believing that you only can save our beautiful library, our books, our city, our people, from immediate destruction. Will you risk your life for all these, Harold?"