‘The hand-cart being overloaded, we had to carry some of the things ourselves; and we must have looked a strange sight, carrying books and clothes, stuffed in white pillow-cases--even Mr. Walker had one, which he hoisted on his shoulder. We did not trouble about this, but silently made our way back, through the deserted streets. We left the town by a different way from that by which we had entered it, as a sinister boom from the station warned us of the presence of the enemy. Our road took us this time through the Grand’ Place. The whole back part of the hospital was destroyed; and although the walls of the façade were still standing, one could see, through the empty windows, that the interior was almost entirely demolished. The Cloth Hall, also, had not been spared, one corner being severely damaged, and the greater number of the statues maimed and mutilated. If it could have remained so, there might have been some consolation; but now everyone knows the ruthless barbarity which has prompted the Huns of the twentieth century to utterly destroy this wonderful monument of medieval architecture, of which Ypres had been so justly proud during hundreds of years. It appears that the belfry, the chimes of which were only surpassed by those of Bruges and Antwerp, was struck just twenty-four hours after we had passed it on our exit from the town. St. Martin’s, too, had also been struck. We would, nevertheless, have entered, but Mr. Walker was afraid to let us prolong our stay, as the shells were already flying over us. Our thoughts naturally turned to the much revered and esteemed M. le Doyen, who, victim of his heroic courage, had remained at his post to the last, tending the wounded, and even helping to extinguish the fires which the incendiary bombs caused in so many places; till at last, seeing the interior of his beloved church already in flames, he had fallen, struck down by a cerebral congestion, and had been carried to the Dean of Poperinghe in the ambulance car. (Since, we have heard that he is better, D. G., one of our old pupils having seen him in the church at Poperinghe.) ‘On emerging from the town, a little incident occurred. ‘We came up with a British cavalry regiment. They were coming from the trenches. They looked at us and shouted: “Who are you, Sisters, and where do you come from?” Dame Columban answered: “We are English nuns from the Benedictine Convent of the Rue St. Jacques.” This was too much for Dame Patrick, who called out: “We are no such thing. We are _Irish_ Benedictines!” “Irish!” shouted half a dozen of them, “and so are we,” and they all began singing, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” and, thus escorted, we took a long, last look at the dear old town. Needless to say, it was an Irish regiment--every man wore the harp and shamrock on his collar and cap.