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