“What will they give us for supper?” “I wonder where we are going?” “This isn’t so fine as the Unter dem Linden.” “When we get to Paris I must see the Venus of Milo.” “My head aches.” “Our baby has a tooth!” “Will it ever be supper-time!” And so on and on and on, as the long grey-green river flowed through the city of Brussels. And these were the men that in a little while would murder and rob and burn and rape, and murder and rob and burn! Many of them had done so already--these tired men with their aimless, unwarlike thoughts, their commonplace soldier thoughts, of home and food and aching feet and of postcards Marie sent last year and the hour for mother’s coffee! What power transformed them into devils? What demon dehumanized them till they forgot their weariness? Was it the raucous cry of the war-trumpet? Was it the devil behind the devil who blew the trumpet? Was it the evil spirit of a nation, or merely the spirit of war? It was all of these things. Perhaps when they began their marching they thought of glory and hate and life and death and honor; but they had been marching long and their thoughts had become simple as the thoughts of weary old men. What was it all about? What power was driving them on? Some of these men killed unresisting civilians, struck down helpless children, maltreated nuns and other virgins, drove old men and women before them as a shield against the fire of the opposing forces. What roused the devil in them? Your friend is right in saying that the war-trumpet is an instrument that can rouse the demon that sleeps in the human breast. He says that the demonic forces outside can make their entry into our world and our personalities riding on the tones of the trumpet-horn. He is right. He says that it brings the element of fire into the soul. Profoundly true! Fire, the element of destruction, that purifies by destroying what cannot resist it. Fire in the soul and fire in the nerves and fire at the end of the rifle--and death by fire to all that gets in its way! I have listened for days to the ear-splitting noise by which Germany seeks to put hell into the hearts of her soldiers. My ears rang with it yesterday. Why do you start? Have you not yet accustomed yourself to the thought that I can go back and forth, from the hell of Europe to the purgatory of New York? Yes, the Germans in New York are in purgatory, for they know that their cause is lost. Purgatory is for purgation. Let us hope that it may accomplish its purpose in their hearts. And I do not say this to be unkind, but rather as a blessing. I love the Germans, and all other races. So also do you--in your heart of hearts. Yes, it was I who, through an easy instrument, directed you to the German doctor. I wanted you to see how good a German can be. There are many such in that hell-racked nation.