I do not belong here; my only son has been killed and my house is burnt.
Nothing is left me but my hatred of the Germans, and I bequeath that to France.' And she gazed past me into vacancy.

She spoke quite without passion, but was terribly sad.
"This terrible hatred! Generations will go to their graves before the flood of hatred is abated.

Would a settlement, a peace of understanding, be possible with this spirit of the nations?
Will it not end by one of them being felled to earth and annihilated?
"_St.Privat._ "We passed through St.Privat on our way to Metz.

Monuments that tell the tale of 1870 stand along the road.

Everywhere the soil is historic, soaked in blood.