aking to one another in whispers, at others every creaking
bed would be drawn into the argument.

One topic that never lost its interest was: Who made wars? Who hounded
the people into them, and kept them there, tearing at one another's
throats? They never settled it.

"God knows I didn't want it, speaking personally," said a German prisoner
one day, with a laugh. "I had been working at a printing business
sixteen hours a day for seven years. It was just beginning to pay me,
and now my wife writes me that she has had to shut the place up and sell
the machinery to keep them all from starving."

"But couldn't you have done anything to stop it?" demanded a Frenchman,
lying next to him. "All your millions of Socialists, what were they up
to? What went wrong with the Internationale, the Universal Brotherhood
of Labour, and all that Tra-la-la?"

The German laughed again. "Oh, they know their business," he answered.
"You have your glass of beer and go to bed, and when you wake up in the
morning you find that war has been declared; and you keep your mouth
shut--unless you want to be shot for a traitor. Not that it would have
made much difference," he added. "I admit that. The ground had been too
well prepared. England was envious of our trade. King Edward had been
plotting our destruction. Our papers were full of translations from
yours, talking about '_La Revanche_!' We were told that you had been
lending money to Russia to enable her to build railways, and that when
they were complete France and Russia would fall upon us suddenly. 'The
Fatherland in danger!' It may be lies or it may not; what is one to do?
What would you have done--even if you could have done anything?"

"He's right," said a dreamy-eyed looking man, laying down the book he had
been reading. "We should have done just the same. 'My country, right or
wrong.' After all, it is an ideal."

A dark, black-bearded man raised himself painfully upon his elbow. He
was a tailor in the Rue Parnesse, and prided himself on a decided
resemblance to Victor Hugo.

"It's a noble ideal," he said. "_La Patrie_! The great Mother. Right
or wrong, who shall dare to harm her? Yes, if it was she who rose up in
her majesty and called to us." He laughed. "What does it mean in
reality: Germania, Italia, La France, Britannia? Half a score of pompous
old muddlers with their fat wives egging them on: sons of the fools
before them; talkers who have wormed the