trench--was
well full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun at
the end of it and fired all the way along--the grandfather called it
enfiladed--and killed every American in the whole long ditch.

_Angelique_. (_Bursts into tears again; buries her face in her skirt_.)
I--I'm sorry I cry, but the 'Mericans were so brave and fought--for
France--and it was cruel of the wicked Germans to--to shoot them.

_Jean-Baptiste_. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But the
grandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they are
now a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other nations,
so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather says they
are not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans. The world
will not believe their word again. They speak not the truth. Once they
nearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is looked to by all
nations that never again shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly,
and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked. That is what the
grandfather says.

_Angelique_. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are so
bad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished.

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Sternly_.) It is the truth. One is always punished.
As long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But
as long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name of
America, one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They left
their dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France from
the wicked Germans.

_Angelique_. (_Lip trembles_.) I'm sorry--they died.

_Jean-Baptiste_. But, _p'tite!_ That was one hundred years ago. It is
necessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It was
more glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just to
die--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. But
look! You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to the
roots--not a rock?

_Angelique_. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her hands
and knocks dirt from it.) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste?

_Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything,
don't you see, Angelique? It's just something of one of the Americans
who died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these old
battle-fields.

_Angelique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sand
and rubs it on the object. Spits