The Garden of Swords by Max Pemberton

Beatrix had quitted the abbe's house, indeed; yet her purpose was not clear to her; nor did she know, as she crept up the stone stairs, and stood once more in the streets of the city, whither her distress should carry her, or to what end. She must prevent her husband committing this crime, she thought. She must save the men from themselves. God alone could help her to do that.

She was very weak of her illness still, and she shivered as she drew her cloak about her and stood gazing up at the wondrous world of stars above and at the gaunt shapes of the mediaeval houses, which had leaned upon the abbe's church for three centuries, and yet could conjure up the romance and colour of forgotten ages. There had been rain all day; but the air of evening was sweet and fresh upon her face; and the very solitude about her gave a charm to the sense of freedom which was beyond all her experience. Not until she had walked a little way and stood where she could overlook the Place Kleber, and the ground where her home had been, did her mind recur to the dangers of the city, and to the stories which they had told her in the haven of the cellars. But, suddenly, out of the night the truth came. The northern quarters of Strasburg were no more. A terrible desert of rubble and ashes and fire confronted her. Distant buildings caught the quivering iridescence, and were incarnadined with the play of crimson light. Shells of houses vomited flame and smoke, and brilliant sparks burning brightly in the clear night air. An unceasing crash of artillery was the horrible music of the hour. She could see the golden paths of the destroyer as the trail of falling stars bearing a message of doom. The picture was grand beyond any her eyes had looked upon. She stood spell-bound, unconscious of her peril.