A second had all the details of Anton’s death and was profusely illustrated.  The story started with Anton going years ago into the mountains to try out his voice in order to develop it for his histrionic task.  There was a brief account of how he had followed in the path of the Prince of Peace, and of the tremendous effect he had upon his audiences.

Then came the war, which tore him from his humble home.  The battle raged, the Bavarians charged the French lines, and the spot-light of the story was played upon a soldier from Oberammergau who lay wounded in “No-Man’s Land.”  Another charging wave swept by this soldier, and as he looked up he saw the face of the man he had respected and loved more than all other men, the face of Anton Lang, the Christus of Oberammergau.  The soldier covered his eyes with his hands, for never had Anton Lang looked as he did then.  The eyes which had always been so beautiful, so compassionate, had murder in them now.

The scene shifted.  A French sergeant and private crouched by their machine-gun ready to repel the charge, the mutual relationship being apparently somewhat that of a plumber and his assistant.  They sprayed the oncoming Bavarians with a shower of steel and piled the dead high outside the French trenches.  The charge had failed, and the sergeant began to act strangely.  At length he broke the silence.  “Did you see that last boche, Jean?” he asked.  “Did you see that face?” Jean confessed that he did not.  “You are fortunate, Jean,” said the sergeant.  “Never have I seen such a face before.  I felt as if there was something supernatural about it.  I felt that it was wrong to kill that man.  I hated to do it, Jean.—­But then the butcher was coming at us with a knife two feet long.”

I finished reading and looked up at the questioning eyes of Frau Lang and at the wonderful, indescribable blue eyes of the “butcher” across the table, who, I may add, is fifty-two years of age, and has not had a day’s military training in his life.

“And look,” said Frau Lang, “these men are not even Oberammergauers.”

She pointed to one of the illustrations which depicted a small group of rather vicious-looking Prussians, with rifles ready peering over the rim of a trench.  The picture was labelled “Four apostles now serving at the Front.”

“And see,” continued the perplexed woman, “there is Johann Zwinck, the Judas in the play.  It says that he is at the front.  Why, he is sixty-nine years old, and is still the village painter.  Only yesterday I heard him complain that the war was making it difficult for him to get sufficient oil to mix his paint.”

I was at a loss for words.  “When one compares such terrible untruths with our German White Book,” declared Frau Lang, “it is indeed difficult for the American people to understand the true situation.”