POTENTATE.  A sign!  My God, a sign!  Pardon, General, I was thinking of a conversation that I have just had with Dr. Clericus.  Come now, show me where these trenches are.

    (The GENERAL produces a map, over which they pore
    together.)

POTENTATE.  Excellent, excellent!  A most valuable capture.  Our losses were ...?

GENERAL.  Slight, Sire.

POTENTATE.  Better and better.  I cannot afford to lose my good Prussians, my heroic, my invincible Prussians.  To what do you attribute the success?

GENERAL.  The success was due in a large measure to the perfection of the apparatus suggested a week ago by your Majesty’s scientific adviser.

POTENTATE (blanching a little).  Ah, then it was not a charge, eh?

GENERAL.  The charge followed, Sire; but the work was already done.  The defenders of the trench were already dead or dying before our heroes reached it.

POTENTATE (sinking back in his chair with his finger to his lips, and a slight frown).  Thank you, General, your news is of the best.  I will detain you no longer. (The GENERAL bows.) Stay!  Has a counterattack been launched yet?

GENERAL.  Not yet, Sire.  No doubt one will be attempted to-night.  Our men are prepared.

POTENTATE.  Good.  Bring me fresh news as soon as it arrives.  Good-night, General, good-night.

    (Exit GENERAL.)

    (The POTENTATE sits musing for a considerable time.  A
    slight cough is heard, and he raises his head.)

POTENTATE (slowly).  Enter!

    (Enter a tall figure in a long black academic gown and black
    clothes.)

POTENTATE (with an attempt at gaiety).  Come in, my dear Sage, come in.  You are welcome. (A little anxiously) You have the crystal?  Good.  How is the Master?  Still busy devising new means of victory?

THE SAGE.  My master’s poor skill is always at your service, Sire.  You have only to command.

POTENTATE.  I know it.  Now let me have the crystal.  I would see if possible the scene of to-day’s victory in Flanders.

    (The SAGE hands him the crystal with a low bow.  The
    POTENTATE seizes it eagerly, and gazes into it.  A pause.)

POTENTATE (raising his head suddenly).  Horrible, horrible!

SAGE.  Sire?

POTENTATE.  This last invention of your master’s is inhuman!

SAGE.  War is inhuman, Sire.  Where a speedy end is desired, is it not kindest to be cruel?

    (The POTENTATE gazes again into the crystal, but starts
    up immediately with a gasp of horror.)

POTENTATE.  Again the same vision!  Always after my victories the vision of the Crucified, with the stern reproachful eyes!  Am I not the Lord’s appointed instrument?  What means it?  Tell your master that I will have no more of his inventions.  They are too diabolical!  They imperil my cause!