ails of Anton's death and was profusely
illustrated. The story started with Anton going years ago into the
mountains to try out his voice in order to develop it for his
histrionic task. There was a brief account of how he had followed
in the path of the Prince of Peace, and of the tremendous effect he
had upon his audiences.

Then came the war, which tore him from his humble home. The battle
raged, the Bavarians charged the French lines, and the spot-light
of the story was played upon a soldier from Oberammergau who lay
wounded in "No-Man's Land." Another charging wave swept by this
soldier, and as he looked up he saw the face of the man he had
respected and loved more than all other men, the face of Anton
Lang, the _Christus_ of Oberammergau. The soldier covered his eyes
with his hands, for never had Anton Lang looked as he did then.
The eyes which had always been so beautiful, so compassionate, had
murder in them now.

The scene shifted. A French sergeant and private crouched by their
machine-gun ready to repel the charge, the mutual relationship
being apparently somewhat that of a plumber and his assistant.
They sprayed the oncoming Bavarians with a shower of steel and
piled the dead high outside the French trenches. The charge had
failed, and the sergeant began to act strangely. At length he
broke the silence. "Did you see that last _boche_, Jean?" he
asked. "Did you see that face?" Jean confessed that he did not.
"You are fortunate, Jean," said the sergeant. "Never have I seen
such a face before. I felt as if there was something supernatural
about it. I felt that it was wrong to kill that man. I hated to
do it, Jean.--But then the butcher was coming at us with a knife
two feet long."

I finished reading and looked up at the questioning eyes of Frau
Lang and at the wonderful, indescribable blue eyes of the "butcher"
across the table, who, I may add, is fifty-two years of age, and
has not had a day's military training in his life.

"And look," said Frau Lang, "these men are not even
Oberammergauers."

She pointed to one of the illustrations which depicted a small
group of rather vicious-looking Prussians, with rifles ready
peering over the rim of a trench. The picture was labelled "Four
apostles now serving at the Front."

"And see," continued the perplexed woman, "there is Johann Zwinck,
the Judas in the play. It says that he is at the front. Why, he
is sixty-nine years old, and is still t