GENERAL. Sire, the English counterattack has for the moment succeeded. Infuriated by their defeat they fought so that no man could resist them. They have regained the trenches they had lost, but we hope to attack again to-morrow, when—
POTENTATE. Enough! Leave me!
(The GENERAL withdraws, and the POTENTATE leans forward with his head on his hands.)
SAGE (commiseratingly). Apparently other troops are brave besides your own, Sire!
POTENTATE (brokenly). The cowards! The cowards! Five nations against three! Alas, my poor Prussians!
SAGE. If you will look once more into the crystal, Sire, I think you will see something that will interest you.
(The POTENTATE takes the crystal again, but without confidence.)
POTENTATE (in a slow recitative). A stricken field by night. The dead lie everywhere, German and English, side by side. But all are not dead. Some are but wounded. They help one another. Prussian and Briton help one another, with painful smiles on their white faces. What? Have they forgotten their hate? My Prussians! Can you so soon forget? I mourn for you! But who are these? White figures, vague, elusive! See, they seem to come down from above. They are carrying away the souls of my Prussians! And of the accursed English! What! One Paradise for both! Impossible! And who is that watching? He who with a smile so loving, and yet so stern ... Ah!... My God ... no!... not I....
(The POTENTATE rises with a strangled cry, and sinks into his chair a nerveless wreck. The SAGE watches coolly, with a cynical smile.)
SAGE. So, Sire, you must find room for the English in that kingdom of yours and God's! Perchance it is more catholic than we had thought!