POTENTATE (_brokenly_). The cowards! The cowards! Five nations against
three! Alas, my poor Prussians!

SAGE. If you will look once more into the crystal, Sire, I think you
will see something that will interest you.

(_The_ POTENTATE _takes the crystal again, but without
confidence._)

POTENTATE (_in a slow recitative_). A stricken field by night. The
dead lie everywhere, German and English, side by side. But all are not
dead. Some are but wounded. They help one another. Prussian and Briton
help one another, with painful smiles on their white faces. What? Have
they forgotten their hate? My Prussians! Can you so soon forget? I
mourn for you! But who are these? White figures, vague, elusive! See,
they seem to come down from above. They are carrying away the souls
of my Prussians! And of the accursed English! What! One Paradise for
both! Impossible! And who is that watching? He who with a smile so
loving, and yet so stern ... Ah!... My God ... no!... not I....

(_The_ POTENTATE _rises with a strangled cry, and sinks into
his chair a nerveless wreck. The_ SAGE _watches coolly, with a
cynical smile._)

SAGE. So, Sire, you must find room for the English in that kingdom of
yours and God's! Perchance it is more catholic than we had thought!

(_The_ POTENTATE _groans._)