WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind of a government they have.
HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart—that's something.
WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his country but hate and hate—while we fight for him. That's the fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must, because everybody ought to be willing to die for what he believes.
HILDA. You are my son, too! For I would willingly have died if it could have kept us out of this war.
WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't respect me if I didn't go through.
HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But—but—(She breaks a bit, then controls herself.) You are quite sure you're doing what's right?
WALLACE (tenderly). Would I have been willing to hurt you like this?
HILDA (holding him close to her). My boy; my boy!
WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother.
HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: it's only the moments that hurt.