Explore "Mothers of Men" by William Henry Warner on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The night was warm for October, and a late moon was just rising. The garden seemed so peaceful, only the distant muttering of the guns constantly reminded one that not far away the Red Dragon lay in wait, its maw insatiable.
Must all the youth, the beauty of France, be offered up, before this monster was satisfied? Would this home with its pleasant orchards, its fertile gardens, be trampled under ruthless heels, laid waste as so many others had? And when it was all over, and nothing remained but smoking ruins and wasted fields, deep scars on the country's breast that time itself could scarcely heal, when all the youth and flower had become only a memory to be cherished in the bitter hearts of a saddened people, what then? What would have been accomplished? Could any price that might be paid to the victor, be great enough to compensate for this?