Just after noon, at this season of the year, seems to be the most appropriate time to visit this scene of horror, the very narration of which makes the blood run cold. Just after noon, because in the few hours left ere the shades of night creep in, the rose and purple glow of the late autumn sunlight falls aslant, like a huge aureole, on the altars containing the ashes of these dead, who will not have died in vain, if Tokio is really and truly made safe for future generations.
An ascetic-looking priest, with a markedly intellectual face that bears the scars of more than physical suffering, attends to the altar with a, devition that is touching, while, when he can be induced to talk of the tragedy, his voice vibrates with a tenderness that is in keeping with the now sacred ground of the former Army Olothing Factory.
I asked him what possible explanation he could give relative to this awful horror. His reply, though in different words, was, in essence, well covered by that uttered to me by. a French Cat-hohe priest, a refugee with me on the President Wilson, from whom begged an answer to the same question: Magna opera Domini; exquisite in omnes voluntates
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.