of the roadway and neighbouring houses were blazing furiously.
Thus the air became black with smoke and dust, and the light of day obscured in Northern London. And through that obscurity came those whizzing shells in an incessant hissing stream, each one, bursting in these narrow, thickly-populated streets, causing havoc indescribable, and a loss of life impossible to accurately calculate. Hundreds of people were blown to pieces in the open, but hundreds more were buried beneath the debris of their own cherished homes, now being so ruthlessly destroyed and demolished.
On every side was heard the cry: "Stop the war—stop the war!"
But it was, alas! too late—too late.
Never in the history of the civilised world were there such scenes of reckless slaughter of the innocent and peace-loving as on that never-to-be-forgotten day when Von Kronhelm carried out the orders of his Imperial master, and struck terror into the heart of London's millions.
