American.  Utopian?  Perhaps our civilization is better than Utopian.  The race has grown with a bound since we all went through hell together.  How far the civilization of 1914 stood above that of 1614!  The difference between galley-slaves and able-bodied seamen, of your and our navy!  Greater yet than the change in that three hundred years is the change in the last one hundred.  I look at it with a soldier’s somewhat direct view.  Humanity went helpless and alone into a fiery furnace and came through holding on to God’s hand.  We have clung closely to that powerful grasp since.

Englishman.  Certainly the race has emerged from an epoch of intellect to an epoch of spirituality—­which comprehends and extends intellect.  There have never been inventions such as those of our era.  And the inventors have been, as it were, men inspired.  Something beyond themselves has worked through them for the world.  A force like that was known only sporadically before our time.

American. (Looks into old ditch.) It would be strange to the lads who charged through horror across this flowery field to hear our talk and to know that to them and their deeds we owe the happiness and the greatness of the world we now live in.

Englishman.  Their short, Homeric episode of life admitted few generalizations, I fancy.  To be ready and strong and brave—­there was scant time for more than that in those strenuous days.  Yet under that simple formula lay a sea of patriotism and self-sacrifice, from which sprang their soldiers’ force.  “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”  It was their love—­love of country, of humanity, of freedom—­which silenced in the end the great engine of evil—­Prussianism.  The motive power of life is proved, through those dead soldiers, to be not hate, as the Prussians taught, but love.

American.  Do you see something shining among the flowers at the bottom of the ditch?

Englishman.  Why, yes.  Is it—­a leaf which catches the light?

American. (Stepping down.) I’ll see. (He picks up a metal identification disk worn by a soldier.  Angelique has rubbed it so that the letters may mostly be read.) This is rather wonderful. (He reads aloud.) “R.V.H.  Randolph—­Blank_th_ Regiment—­U.S.”  I can’t make out the rest.

Englishman. (Takes the disk.) Extraordinary!  The name and regiment are plain.  The identification disk, evidently, of a soldier who died in the trench here.  Your own man, General.

American. (Much stirred.) And—­my own regiment.  Two years ago I was the colonel of “The Charging Blank_th_.”

HER COUNTRY TOO