HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them after the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in the days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all this, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who can survive.--Now call your father. WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to his mother._) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is a pause._ WHITE _enters._) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He looks from father to mother._) Thanks, little mother. (_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and mother stand facing each other._) HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has lied about his age. He wants us to let him go. WHITE. Volunteered? HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night. WHITE (_after a pause_). And what have you told him? HILDA. That he must go. WHITE. You can say that? HILDA. It is the way he sees it. WHITE (_going to her sympathetically_). Hilda. HILDA (_looking up at him tenderly_). O Will, do you remember when he was born? (_He soothes her._) And all we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered. WHITE. War is stronger than all that. HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him? WHITE. He fears I will? HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't? WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these days? HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes. WHITE. That's never been my way. HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too. WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all wrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of war? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, I mean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than talk--talk--talk?